Crank Shaft

Bridget slowly slid down his body, her tender, erect nipples just barely making contact with his clothing as she knelt in front of him. Mac looked down to see his cock slide between her firm, ivory breasts as she gripped it by the root and squeezed. Bridget stared into his eyes as she began slowly stroking him, occasionally rubbing his cockhead over her pink, hard nipples. As she sensually lowered herself even further so that she could give little kisses and licks to his shaft, she began rolling the rubber sealed end of the chrome phallus against her dripping sex; coating it in her wetness.

Mac leaned back in his chair with a contented sigh as her lips parted just enough to suck his tip as her hand worked up and down slowly. He watched as more and more of his member was engulfed by her luscious mouth, the irritation of being sent out into the acid rain fading immediately. His eyes went wide, however; whenever she lifted the chrome shaft and sat it crossways across his lap. While he was enjoying the sensations, he wasn't exactly the adventurous type and worried just how that thing was filled.

As she sucked his dick, Bridget couldn't help but feel more relaxed in her own home. It was a rare occasion indeed that she made it to a couch or chair before being used, let alone having the time to really enjoy herself in her own domicile. Sure, she had entertained a returning soldier or two that lived in one of the neighboring apartments and like most women expected a personal visit from her landlord from time to time; but for the most part had rarely utilized her apartment for anything other than sleeping, bathing, and shelter. Judging from his swollen, veiny cock, Mac didn't mind her sparse accommodations. Once he was throbbing from her mouth and stroking hand, she picked up the phallus with one hand, and snaked her other down to the harness, clicking it on in low gear.

She let out a small gasp as the piston returned to life, its length pressing into her as she began to rub Mac's tip with the rubber split on the fluid seal. It was a slightly unsettling sight to see the head of his member disappear into the chrome phallus, but Bridget's immediate use of her tongue all along his length and testicles alleviated any hesitation he had. She slowly began lowering it down his shaft and back off. "Feel okay?" she asked. He nodded as she continued, her eyes locked on his penis as she licked and stroked it faster.

Bridget's breathing was speeding up as the mechanical piston rose and retreated inside of her as the chrome shaft slid further down Mac's cock; making it look like he was sort of chrome-cocked god. She twisted it in a corkscrew motion as she leaned back to sit on her knees; now fully dedicated to filling the contraption up. She used both hands to quickly work it up and down his cock as his abdomen tightened; teasing him by sensually licking the tip of was now looked like chrome cock armor. She quickly drew it off and immediately took him back into her mouth for three deep, hard sucks. His head snapped back at the sudden warmth and wetness as her lips slid over his pulsing veins.

She set up a pattern where she would suck him fast and hard for a moment before sliding the phallus back over him, alternating between long and short strokes before sucking his cock again. She could see his knuckles turning white as his chest began to rise and fall. Her own body was humming with pleasure as she clicked the button again, bringing the piston up to nearly two penetrations per second. She let her head droop down as her neck flushed red from arousal; a quiver beginning to spread from her occasionally spasming walls. When he started swiveling his hips, she **** her lustful eyes to meet his again.

Mac gritted his teeth as he felt his muscles tighten. The sight of her staring up at him with parted, pouty lips and dreamy eyes combined with the sensations of her swaying breasts grazing his thighs and the tight shaft engulfing him. His testicles clenched suddenly, releasing a thick stream of semen into the device's reservoir. He looked down, the image melting in his mind as if the long, thick chrome cock was his own with Bridget worshipping it on her knees causing him to spasm and spurt more and more cum into it as his body shook from pleasure.

Slowly, Bridget drew the device off of him, twisting the seal to capture his seed. She sat it to the side and immediately engulfed his cum-coated shaft. Mac held her by the back of the head, his slowly shrinking cock roaring back to life for one final, thick eruption as he slid down her throat. Bridget fumbled with the ignition button, clicking it twice to turn it off as he relaxed in the chair; spent.

"Thanks, Mac." she said, glancing out the window. The rain had stopped, but she hadn't decided whether to kick him so she could get some sleep, or enjoy herself on her own terms for once.

.......................................................................................

Across the world, Oberfahnrich Dieter Bruner approached his Messerschmitt bf 112 Fighter-Bomber with a grave expression. The other pilots in his squadron were much more experienced than he, and he was both worried about the legendary British Royal Air **** and the nigh-impenetrable air defenses of the British Isles. He climbed into his seat and began his pre-flight checks. Perturbed, he noted that his fuel would allow for absolutely zero deviation from the proposed flight path from Copenhagen to County Kildare in Ireland. The DB 605D engine was more than sufficient for this task despite its age; though Bruner could tell that the days of the single propeller fighter jet were rapidly coming to a close.

He eased the plane onto the runway, occasionally glancing down at what was sure to be a woefully outdated map. Their plan was to come in high, then drop to near nape of the Earth altitude; the rising sun to their backs as they completed their bombing run. His plane boasted a 20mm cannon affixed to each wing and three 50 kilogram high explosive rocket assisted bombs; which he would have to drop to stand a fighting chance against the Spitfires he was almost sure to encounter. "We should have Stukas for this..."he thought as he opened the fuel lines and began his journey down the runway.

As he climbed into the air, he took a moment to take in the scene surrounding Copenhagen. The battle had been won, but the occasional ripple of gunfire from a plane or the massive destruction of an airship's bombing run punctuated the gray and black cloud of battle that hung over the city. He turned his attention to his instruments as the center of balance leveled out at his cruising altitude. He glanced left and right, seeing the more experienced men take up formation.

They weren't even told what they were bombing or why; only that the mission was critical (it always was, it seemed), and they couldn't wait for a squadron of heavy bombers or naval support. He would have spit if he could. If only the High Command would listen to the men actually fighting this war, he was sure they could break the stalemate and bathe Great Britain in steel and fire. Instead, he was resolved to the fact that these "critical" missions were often hastily planned and approved; and that his life was forfeit in the name of the Reich.

Explosions seemed tiny and insignificant at this height. He knew the flashes of light and puffs of smoke he saw upon the ocean were ships hammering each other with enough ordinance that even the winner would limp back to port badly damaged and short a number of crew. He ignored calls for air support as the the squadron moved across the ocean in the deep blue sky of the pre-dawn hours; their planes lazily rising and falling a few meters as the air temperature changed the further out to sea they ventured.

Meanwhile, Moira O'Dell opened her eyes as she stretched on the bed. Her husband had already departed for his job at the factory, and she still had an hour or two before she went to work at "Tully's," the diner she had worked at for close to 12 years. She slid out from the sheets and stretched again; her skin lilly white and mostly free of wrinkles at her 44 years of age. She had small, still mostly firm breasts and a chest and face covered in freckles; all framed by a gorgeous mane of bright reddish orange hair. She walked nude to the kitchen and peered out the window; wondering what her daughter Bridget was doing in the "Land of Opportunity".

Moira sighed as she opened the dresser to retrieve her work uniform. As was typical of her profession, she wore a tight white button up shirt, the top three buttons never even added at the factory; and a short loose skirt with no panties. She was certain that Mr. Tully would want his morning breakfast as soon as she got there, and she'd learned long ago he wasn't afraid to rip her panties clean off as he fucked her right on the counter while the factory workers drank their morning coffee. She wasn't as prudish and bashful as most Lasses, a fact well known around town that had earned her stern looks from the more conservative wives and mothers of the men who used her.

She walked back into the kitchen for a quick snack when she saw her husband's lunch still sitting on the counter. She shook her head, snatched it up, and opened the door. The sun was just barely cresting the horizon as she quickly walked toward the factory. Liam Dunkirk, a young man who had been discharged on medical grounds due to injuries, waved at her as he walked his shaggy terrier. She waved back, but kept her pace. If she hurried, she could catch her husband before he made it through the security checkpoint. She quickly walked down the roughly paved road as a breeze tossed her wild red hair about; the factory looming before her. She felt the first rays of the sun hit her face and turned to bask in it for a moment.

It was then the air raid sirens sounded.