Diamond Geezer

By Laurence Cowley

Set in the 1960's and based on the many events in a true life story.
Alex Cohen, out of the necessity to provide for his family, has learnt about business from a very early age.
As he becomes increasingly overstretched in his business dealings, he enters into the dark world of criminality, to fund his ever increasing desire for the high life.
He unwittingly finds himself linked to an East End gang, with the police trying to nail him for his involvement.
But Alex has an ace up his sleeve, whether or not he can play it, remains to be seen.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: May 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9781728352299

Laurence Cowley

ART TO DIE FOR Laurence Cowley was born in Cardiff, South Wales in 1946. He will readily admit that he hadn't read a book until his middle sixties and even now, no more than a dozen crime novels. So there are no outside writing influences, they have all come from within. He is currently working on two new novels, one based loosely on a true story of the decadence, and wasted wealth of a family member and with his involvement with London's East End gangsters in the late 1950's and 60's. Laurence has also just finished writing a set of children's stories. He says that everyone should attempt writing, there is a story in every one of us....'It is very therapeutic, but as a story grips you and often takes over your life, even though it becomes all consuming, it is thoroughly enjoyable and very satisfying. I believe that this book is not about the writing style or clever words, it's about the story and I hope the reader enjoys the story'.

Book preview

The author of the best seller…‘Art to Die For’

DIAMOND

GEEZER

LAURENCE COWLEY

38113.png

AuthorHouse™ UK

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403 USA

www.authorhouse.co.uk

Phone: [phone] (Domestic TFN)

[phone] (International)

©

2020 Laurence Cowley. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 04/16/2020

ISBN: 978-1-7283-5230-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-5229-9 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

WARNING

DEDICATION

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

DISCLAIMER

WHAT IS A ‘DIAMOND

GEEZER’

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

GLOSSARY OF TERMS

THE END

WARNING

This book was written in the period of the 1960’s and contains sexual content and strong language. It also contains the image of bigotry which we nowadays find unacceptable, but that was prevalent in that period.

Sexy, fast moving, indulgent, bloodthirsty, an East End crime gang and a Bristol team, that wants it all, from the same heist.

The 60’s high life of sex, debauchery, fast cars, fast women, house parties, gambling, horse racing, gangsters, robbery, political scandal, murder, massacre and bent coppers.

DEDICATION

Alexander Cohen 1931-2010

To my dear Uncle Alex, a great influence in my (crime free) life, who gave me many of the characters, cameo’s and stories in this book over the years, before his death, in 2010.

He also introduced me to many of the players in this his (partial) life story.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

TRICIA

To my lovely, lovely wife Tricia, who has ‘the patience of ‘Job’ and the ‘wisdom of Solomon’, listening to my incessant ramblings about my latest literary creation!!

MIKEY

To my nephew, Mike Shorten (www.michaelshorten.com) for taking the time out of the busy schedule at his studio’s to create the cover artwork.

TONY HYDE

With my thanks to my pal Tony, for proof reading and critical comment.

BILL LINDSAY

Again, with thanks to my pal Bill, both for his proof reading and input.

NIGEL & ANNE SAVILL

Just for giving me hearty encouragement and being great neighbours!

DISCLAIMER

‘Diamond Geezer’ is based on the many events in the (partial) true life story of my beloved Uncle, Alexander Cohen (Alex Cowley)

Many of the names in this story have been altered to protect both the innocent and the guilty.

If there is any resemblance to gangsters or notorious characters you may have read about, then this is purely intentional !

This book is also dedicated to my Uncle Sandy’s four brothers, Arthur (Arty), Phil (my Father Philip), Bob (Robert) and David (Dave, affectionately known as ‘the one-armed bandit’).

Now all deceased and with the great ‘Motor Dealer in the sky’.

WHAT IS A ‘DIAMOND

GEEZER’

A ‘Diamond Geezer’ is a Cockney informal humorous term.

Traditionally: A ‘player’, a mummer, a performer, a ‘guiser’ or ‘disguiser’, someone who dresses up for masquerade.

Modern: A ‘geezer’ is your mate. A reliable, solid, trustworthy friend.

Diamonds are of course one of the world’s most valuable stones, so to be placed in front of ‘geezer’ is to make that person, extra special.

GLOSSARY OF TERMS Page 423

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

AU%20Photo-gray.jpg

Laurence Cowley was born in Cardiff in 1946. This is his second crime novel and his perception is, that this could be a script for a ‘Guy Ritchie’ movie.

Laurence understands that his writing style, is simple and to the point. It’s more about the story, rather than a literary work of art.

Throughout his working career, Laurence has been in business on his own account, since he was 33. His business experience and ownership, extends from textile wholesaling, manufacturing and retailing, to hotel keeping and to funeral businesses. Some of this experience of life reflects in his stories.

Today he writes for pleasure, believing this to be thought provoking, mind-absorbing and therapeutic.

He is currently working on a new novel and is additionally, negotiating to have his Children’s Book’s illustrated and published.

At the age of 70, never having even run for a bus before, he ran the 2017 London Marathon, just to prove he could.

You may access Laurence on Facebook.

While on secondment to North Cumbria Police. This is a story told by DCI Jerry Blake to his colleague DS Rob Wilton whilst working on the ‘Art to Die For’ case. This case was centred around the sprawling Blackstone Manor estate, set in 300 acres of rugged Cumbrian coastline. Conveyed in the novel, ‘ART TO DIE FOR’ by this author.

Based on the many events in a True-life Story.

In front of the old boat house in this dark dank cobbled side street in London’s East End, just a few yards from the muddy banks of the River Lea. Bodies lay sprawled like fully clothed, broken and abandoned, tailor’s dummies.

Blood oozed into the gutter. Gaping wounds, inflicted from sawn off, double barrelled shotgun’s, turned living, breathing, walking, talking hoodlums, into what resembled pieces of meat, on a butcher’s block.

One dying man shuddered occasionally, as the last remnants of life drained out of him. He was coughing, as blood billowed from his mouth. Alongside him others lie motionless, on the cold concrete. His dull grey raincoat was ripped. His shoes were strewn across the boathouse floor and his hat, had blown under the wheels of the Police cars, which now surrounded the building. The body, eventually, accepted its fate and lay lifeless. His grey Fedora hat, with its silk burgundy band, had blown away and was crumpled by a passing car. Traffic on the busy highway that was the Woolwich Dock Road, buzzed by in the distance, unaware of the carnage below. One of De Lucci’s men, badly injured had managed to escape the battle, but was hit by a passing truck, it had sent him reeling. The truck felt nothing. The body lay in the hedgerow. It felt nothing. As the traffic passed, it felt nothing. Vehicles sprayed a continual torrent of putrid, foul smelling, muddy water over the dying body, the corpse in waiting.

Outside the boat store, blood coloured the rainwater pool like a splash of Angostura bitters in a Pink Gin. It should have never ended like this, nothing was planned this way. From great beginnings, how the story unfolded was without doubt a tragedy. But a gangster will always be a gangster.

There was only one winner.

The Undertaker.

35656.png

CHAPTER 1

DCI Jerry Blake begins the story.

I was working the East End as a bobby on the beat when I first encountered some of the players, in what was to become one of the most notorious cases that I have ever worked on in my career.

My career in the Met took me from a ‘bobby’ on the beat, to undercover and eventually to DCI.

I’d first met this lad Alex Cohen, Sandy to his mates, when I pulled him out of a fracas with some livestock traders up in Romford Market. This was my first beat. Several fella’s thought he, Sandy, was back-handing the stall-holders lads to sell him their left-over stock. But it emerged that he was a lot brighter than that and was buying all their stock at knockdown prices, before anyone else could get a look in. The trouble began when he’d pick the best of the stock. Day old chicks, yes, day old chicks and leave the rubbish for everyone else. When the traders couldn’t sell their left-overs, he’d give them next to nothing for the remainder, much to their and the other buyer’s annoyance. One day all hell broke loose.

Anyway, it was an interesting first meeting with Alex, or Sandy Cohen.

He was only a youngster, when I first dragged him out of trouble. He’d tell me why he had to graft so hard.

It would be 4.15 in the morning and his alarm call was his mother Marie her name, that I had met on one or two occasions, lovely Jewish lady, wiping a cold damp flannel across his face. I guess this always did the trick of waking him up, he spluttered and grumbled as his breakfast was thrust in his hand. It consisted of a slice of thinly buttered toast, ate, as he made his way through the door and out into the fresh early morning air on his way to be first to arrive, at the early morning livestock market at Romford.

It was 1940. Alex was nine years of age and the breadwinner. Since three of his four brothers, had all gone off to war, he was the only one left to look after his ageing parents, his father being registered blind and his mother being registered partially blind.

They lived in the pleasant suburb of Ilford in Essex on the leafy borders of London, in a delightful tree lined street of terraced and semi-detached houses.

The houses had been built a little more than ten years previously, some had bay windows and some had flush fronts. The owners of these lovely rows of neat, pristine houses, built of red brick with stuccoed white rendered upper-half and grey slate roofs, were some of the few people to appreciate the value of ownership. This was in the days when renting your property, was accepted as the way of life. The proud occupants of these lovely properties presented their homes accordingly and the area shone like a beacon of light in a growing London suburbia away from the overcrowded areas housing the many immigrants of the East End.

David, the eldest of the five brothers, had pleaded with his father to buy him a motorcycle for his sixteenth birthday.

Having met an absolute refusal from his father Nathan, David committed the ultimate act of defiance by doing the exact opposite of what his father told him. He bought a motorbike from a pal, an old 1915 Model P Triumph motorcycle. Kids are alike the world over. Worse still, he promptly went out onto the road and into the traffic. Without any previous experience of how to even ride a motorbike, he ran headlong into a large lorry and straight under its heavy wheels.

David made a complete recovery, apart from the fact that the result of his defiance and the consequence of the accident had left him with a completely severed left arm.

The silver lining, if you could call it a silver lining however, was that the financial compensation from the insurance company, only a year later with the help of a very sharp Jewish lawyer, (a cousin of a cousin) had been enough to pay for the new family home in the developing suburbs and put some money in the bank, for the family’s future.

Alex was out of the house by 4.30am walking the 4 miles to Romford Livestock Market, on three days of the week. The journey would take him just over the hour in time for the market to open just before 6am. He latterly bought a bike.

Alex, or Sandy, short for Alexander was known to all the traders. He was used to bidding higher than anyone else, but with good reason. For a nine-year old he always drove the hardest bargain and they would avoid him if they could.

Sandy’s shopping list was always the same. Day-old chicks.

Sandy’s tactic was to regularly outbid the other buyers by several pence per chick, but when it came to pay, he would pick over the damaged and lame birds that they had sold him in the parcel, refusing to take them. He would then pay for all but the damaged birds. This left the trader with a batch of damaged, sick looking stock. Sandy would then re visit the trader and offer to clear his remaining birds, at a substantially reduced price. The market trader was then left in a position, where he would end up virtually, giving the remaining chicks to Sandy, for nothing, just to ‘get rid’, so that the trader could go home, with an empty cart, but sadly, with a half full purse.

Of course, all of the chicks would recover with a little loving care, and would lay eggs just as well as the others. When the birds grew, he would sell them to the local butcher, who was delighted to get any fresh livestock, when he couldn’t get enough fresh meat, to sell to this growing community, in these difficult times.

The years moved on and Sandy was always on the lookout for new business ventures, or frankly anything that would turn a ‘few quid’.

As a lover of the ‘Silent Movies’, Sandy would often take himself down to the local ‘Flea pit’ and watch Charlie Chaplin, Fatty Arbuckle, Laurel and Hardy and especially the Keystone Cops.

He loved the car chases and the old American cars, the vans that exploded and collapsed and the police cars that disintegrated, as they chased through their scenes.

Fancy cars, indeed any cars, were a rare sight in the London suburbs, pre-war. Times had been hard, still were and nothing would change until Churchill had beaten that madman of a murdering bastard, Adolf Hitler, to a pulp. But then they said that Hitler, had only gone to war because the German people were starving. Sandy wasn’t that interested in politics or war, or much else, other than making enough money to keep himself and his ageing parents.

The Cohens were Jews, they knew about starvation, they knew about persecution, but more importantly, they knew about survival.

The Cohen family had been lucky in that they had been blessed with enough money to move out of the East End where, as Jews, they were much persecuted. They fought back as best they could against Moseley’s Black Shirts who plagued the streets at night with their cat calling and their beatings, their daubing of anti-Semitic slogans and comment on the walls of the Yiddish ghetto’s but thanks to David’s defiance, they were now nicely ensconced in a bright new home away from trouble.

Most of the East End of London, was built or rebuilt in early Victorian times and was no more than terrace after terrace. Most of the tenement’s and back to back housing stock, was a hundred plus year’s old. Old run-down red brick, grey slated properties and neglected streets. Groups of men would have to stay together to protect the families living in such dreadful poverty. These were the quarters where Jewish immigrants had lived since the late eighteen hundreds, having fled from mainly Eastern Europe as far away as the Pale of Russia, to escape death and the tyranny of the Russian peoples. Catherine the Great, the Czar of Russia, had created a settlement for the Jews to live in and to work in but as they flourished in their own small way, gangs of thugs from across the Russian borders would invade, to murder, pillage and rape. Those families or individuals who could and did buy their passage out of the Pale, were just a handful and were the lucky ones.

Those that did make it out of ‘The Pale’ endured further hardships, as they travelled across Europe. So many ending up on a small island in New York harbour, under the wing and watchful eye of the Statue of Liberty. Their quest was then to stay in North America or to catch a boat to Tilbury Docks and prosperity in London and the many places beyond.

As they prospered, immigrants moved out of the ghetto’s, away from the poverty that was so much of the East End. The slums sprawled with a rapidly increasing population of non-English speakers, Asians, Africans, Italians, Northern Europeans and many other tongues and cultures. The East End markets became more colourful, parts of the community were vibrant, some prospered, but behind the colour of the busy and prosperous trading in the street markets, grew resentment and a pecking order which would spill over into daily life.

Moving away from the ghetto’s and out to the suburbs, was a miracle which allowed the family some sort of semblance of ‘normal’ English life. This was a life that so many craved and aspired to, after the torment endured in their own countries, at the hands of the Nazi’s. These were painful, pitiful and difficult times in between air raid warnings, bombings, the regular threat of invasion and despite ‘Zeppelins’ and ‘Doodlebugs’ raining down on the whole of London, daily life continued. There were food shortages and diets were poor. Many people suffered starvation, illness and degradation as well as humiliation and the shame of having to beg on the streets for scraps, or go to soup kitchens to survive. Shivering, shaking, cold, miserable, distraught, hungry. They huddled together, around old oil drums, full of hot coals, sticks, paper, anything that would burn, to keep warm.

Out of this grew an underlying web of crime, especially in the East End, where one small family with a mixture of Eastern European and Italian descent, ruled their ‘manor’ with an iron fist and a knotted cosh.

35656.png

CHAPTER 2

I got to know Sandy as a hard working East End boy, classic East End, born within the sound of Bow bells, chirpy, cheeky, bright as a button, as sharp as a knife, as he had to be to survive and naturally, he should have been, given his Jewish heritage, his roots. But a lad that was always courteous and pleasant. I knew he’d do well. I watched him develop as a young man. He didn’t have a great relationship with his father, who was in his latter years when I met Sandy, he was old, blind and frail. I was maybe ten years older and as his brothers were away, he did tend to look on me as a brother. He would often tell me of his exploits, though in later years, as I progressed through the ranks of the Met, on the rarer occasions that we met up he was a lot more guarded in his dialogue. He was however, very excited to tell me of his first encounter into a relationship with a member of the opposite sex and one or two more after that!

Sandy was now just sixteen, almost three years since he had enjoyed his coming of age, his Bar mitzvah. He didn’t have a lot of time for girl-friend’s, making money was his first instinct as well as his passion.

At sixteen however, there was something stirring in his loins and his eyes turned more and more to the pretty girls that were all so tantalisingly dressed, particularly through the summer months. Pretty dresses with bright floral patterns. White, cotton blouses which showed the young, pert female form. Pretty petticoats, that when the breeze caught them, showed a glimpse of what was below. A world yet to be discovered for a frisky and curious young man.

A neighbour living next door to the Cohen’s, was a young widow, blond and trim. She had a warm smile, an engaging nature and always seemed to be very friendly, particularly towards Sandy. He had once or twice before taken eggs into Marie, from the chickens he reared in his large back garden. He didn’t know that she had recently been widowed and was desperately missing her man.

He knocked on the back door one afternoon and the young widow came to the door, wearing a loose house coat over a very thin, all in one slip. Sandy couldn’t help but notice the trim shape of her lithe body through the gossamer material. He could feel himself rising in his trousers and leant slightly forward, to try and hide the bulge.

Hi Marie, I’ve brought you some eggs, they’re fresh laid.

Handing them to Marie at arm’s length, he turned to walk the few steps home.

Sandy, how kind, don’t go yet, won’t you come in for a few minutes. Have a cup of lemon tea or perhaps something stronger.

She was aware of his nervousness as well as not helping to notice the growing bulge in his pants.

You have the same name as my mother you know, Marie. It’s a lovely name.

Why Sandy, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were flirting with me. Do you have a girlfriend, I mean someone you take out to the movies and go and kiss and cuddle in the back row with?

Sandy coloured up. There was the odd girl whom he’d taken around the back of the bicycle sheds at school for a quick fumble, but that was about all he’d managed. Most of the time he was too interested in making money to go chasing girls.

Sandy stepped into the kitchen and brushed so close to Marie he could smell her femininity, the feint, soft smell of her body mixed with the smell of perfume, applied some hours earlier. He was now consciously hard and was pleased to sit down and be able to put his hands in his lap, to cover his embarrassment.

She offered him a small glass of whisky, for which he thanked her and gulped it all down in one, emulating some of his gangster movie idols.

His head felt suddenly very light. Was it him spinning, or was it the room he thought?

Here, ….

She said, handing him a glass of water.

…..you shouldn’t drink whisky too fast and certainly not without a little water.

He was half slumped in an easy chair, with Marie stood along-side him.

Through a semi haze, he could see the shape of her nipples, pushing against the soft silky clothing she was wearing. His erection wouldn’t go away and she knew it. She reached for his left hand and slipped it inside her slip, her body was warm and silky smooth. He was shaking with excitement. He felt her ample breast, warm in his hand and the hardening nipple and its bumpy surround. He was throbbing in his trousers, as he held himself tight with his other hand to take away some of the pressure he was feeling.

He’d never noticed the bumpy surround before, when groping girls of his own age in the bike sheds. He had no idea how to control these new feelings, that he’d never experienced before. Marie ran her fingers gently through his hair, as if stroking a purring kitten. He was in some kind of heaven he’d not known in all of his young life.

Tell me honestly, do you think I’m still attractive, I’m twenty-five. My husband was killed two years ago now. They said he was a hero and a man hasn’t as much as been near me in all that time. Tell me I’m attractive Sandy, please tell me I’m attractive.

Sandy was regaining his consciousness and from the angle he was looking from, everything looked as hot as it did in some of the magazines, that he kept under his bed. His left hand felt her right breast, as her hand moved his hand slowly back and forth. It felt warm and soft with her nipples now hard and big enough to gently squeeze between his finger and thumb. She had slipped her left breast, out of her loose garment and Sandy was mesmerised by the beauty. She gently pressed it into his face, pulling the nipple across his lips and pulling away again, slowly. Sandy, wet my nipple with your tongue. But don’t bite it. Sandy couldn’t. His mouth was too dry. He ran his tongue around his mouth and wet his lips. He obliged. It felt like nothing he’d ever felt before.

From where he sat, he could clearly see her stocking tops and suspenders. There was just a hint of her thin white panties showing and the small bulge that lay beneath. He started to slide his right hand up her leg, up above the stocking tops. Slowly, hoping that he wouldn’t be stopped. She murmered.

Yes Sandy, yes Sandy, that’s right, find me.

Not knowing what he was doing, he relied on basic instincts and encouragement from Marie. He could feel that small piece of white flesh, between the stocking top and her panties. His palms felt hot and sticky, he could feel a trickle of sweat running down his back. Marie was looking down at his face to see and follow his reaction. She couldn’t remember the last time she had seen so much pleasure in a man’s face, or in this case a boy…. about to become a man.

Sandy, I think maybe we should go upstairs.

At the same time Marie was uttering these words of encouragement, in very soft inviting tones. Sandy had slipped two fingers inside Marie’s panties feeling a soft mass of curly hair, just like his own he thought, he felt a wave of heat momentarily engulf him and a pumping in his trousers. He felt wet and sticky and he suddenly removed his hands, from those wonderful secret places on Marie’s body. He blushed. His face felt as if it was on fire.

He stood up and turned for the back door.

Sandy don’t be silly, it’s okay, you don’t need to go and anyway you can’t go home like that, your mother will notice. Go to the bathroom and clean up. You can always come and see me another day. I’d like that, if you would. Would you like that Sandy?

She asked anxiously.

Sandy came out of the bathroom having tidied him-self up.

Yes, Marie, I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.

At that, Sandy slid out of her kitchen door and back home.

The following day, Sandy took eggs into see Marie.

Oh, Sandy, I’m flattered, you’ve come to see me again, so soon, so I didn’t frighten you off.

Sandy didn’t colour up this time, they both knew what he was there for.

Before I give you a drink, there’s a job I need you to do for me. One of my bedroom curtains has come off its runner and I can’t stand on the steps, they’re too high for me and I get dizzy. Do you think you could do that small thing for me?

Marie was dressed much as she had been the previous day, with a light silky almost diaphanous housecoat, wrapped loosely around her trim shape. Underneath, Sandy could see a champagne coloured slip and light brown stockings and suspenders under white panties. She was smoking a Sobranie Black Russian. She blew smoke rings through pursed red lips, as she walked.

She was a pretty, young woman. Beautifully dyed blond hair arranged in waves, down to the line of her chin. Her large brown eyes sat under dark shaded eyelids, with dark brown brushed eye lashes. She had a soft complexion and a face that was almost pear shaped, down to her pretty chin with just the hint of a dimple. He had never really noticed her before. Now he thought she was the most beautiful thing in the world, he was smitten.

He had never seen any girl more beautiful, even if she was twenty-five and almost ten years older than him. Sandy had always been taken by her, with such an engaging smile and soft gentle voice. She’s just like Marilyn Monroe, he thought. Yes, my Marilyn Monroe. She beckoned Sandy to follow him, as she slowly climbed each step. She knew what she was doing, the late afternoon sunlight danced through the windows of the neat semi-detached house, through the bedroom windows and down the stairs. The sun streamed through the house and through her clothes, creating an enchanting silhouette. Sandy was following Marie and through her flimsy attire he could see every curve of her petite, but shapely body, from her heels up along the seams of her stockings that lit up like a lantern show. He could see a clear space between the top of her legs. He was trying to imagine what lie beneath. He was getting harder and harder.

There,…

She said.

……can you see where the hooks have come out of the track? You’re a big lad, you can reach better than me, use the steps.

Sandy climbed the few steps to the top of the small wooden step ladder and started fixing the hooks back onto the rail. His hands were shaking, in anticipation of what was to come.

Marie stood watching from the bottom of the steps. As he had just about completed the job, she couldn’t resist. She stood at the bottom of the steps and started stroking his legs, slowly up and down in the most provocative manner, then his thighs, slowly moving her hands and stroking the bulge between his legs. Squeezing his buttocks, she put her lips to the top of his legs, he could feel her warm breath through his trousers. He was so hard he thought he was going to explode there and then. She slowly undid every button on his beige coloured, cavalry twill slacks, occasionally kissing the hardness after she undid each button. She slipped his trousers down to his ankles. The erection pushed out even further. She squeezed the solid length that was below his boxer shorts and kissed it again. She slipped one hand inside his pants, cupping him in her hand. His pleasure was intense, so intense to the point where he thought his knees would give out on him. She slowly slipped his shorts down to reveal a huge erection. He was certainly well blessed for a young man. She had never seen a circumcised penis before, with a lovely large clean head, the shape of a policeman’s helmet, she thought, and much softer and tastier than a stick of rock.

She took the erection in her hand, being careful not to stroke it too much. She didn’t want a recurrence of yesterday’s event. She wanted the erection all to herself. She stroked it slowly and then took the circumcised tip and licked it with her tongue, holding the shaft with her right hand. Sandy thought he was going to die and go to heaven there and then. He was still part way up the steps and Marie thought that they ought to move to the bed, which might be somewhat more comfortable and slightly less dangerous. She just couldn’t resist, she took the it in her mouth and rolled her tongue ‘round and ‘round and ‘round, holding the warm spheres that were below in her hand. He was shaking. She took the whole length in her mouth and withdrew it several times, in and out, in and out.

I think you had better come down from there before someone gets injured.

Half pulling up his trousers and his boxers to find his feet, Sandy clambered down the few steps and fell backward onto the bed.

Marie pulled off his trousers and boxers and he pulled off on his Fred Perry shirt on his own. He lay there naked on the soft cool satin cover of the eiderdown and rested his head back on the pillow, now feeling totally relaxed. She languished at the sight of his firm young body. She hadn’t seen a naked male body for at least two years since her husband had been home on leave, before being shipped off to Africa. She was desperate to feel him inside her. But she wanted more than that. She wanted it to last and last, so was the desperation, the starvation for a young healthy woman that she had felt, for endless, lonely, months and months.

Marie took off her one-piece slip revealing perfectly formed firm protruding breast’s, with nipples like bell pushes, a trim waist with a flat tummy and still wearing her white waist high panties over stockings and suspenders.

She kneeled at the side of the bed and started giving him more pleasure than he had ever given himself, more pleasure than he had ever known. More pleasure than he had ever thought possible. She took the whole of his erection in her mouth and was pulling it up and down with one hand and squeezing underneath, with the other hand. He tried to