Troubling Memories

Sid took the news with a sigh of relief. To Bridget's surprise, he was fairly blase' to the idea of Johnny joining the Meatheads. He puffed his cigarette and waved his hand through the smoke. "See that, that's all it is; a pipe dream. You know how many young bucks get the same idea? I've seen it a dozen times in my years. Kid's gotta head full of steam and thinks he's the cat's pajamas until he meets up with the reality of ridin' the streets. Give it a week, and he'll shuffle in with a busted nose; just beggin' for his job back." Bridget was surprised at first, but quickly realized he was trying to convince himself just as much as he was trying to convince her.

She sighed, ready to leave it at that before she realized something. "Did you ever belong to a club Sid?" she asked, pulling her welding goggles down and starting a bead along a length of armor plating meant for the muscle car. He stubbed the cigarette out before immediately fishing out another one, a nostalgic look in his eyes. He waved his hand dismissively again, but this time had a wry grin on his stubbly face.

"Well, I wouldn't call it a club, exactly. Me and some of the guys from my old unit used to ride after we got back from France." Bridget stopped welding and turned to look at him.

"You never told me you fought in the War." she said. His smile slowly faded. She recognized it once she saw it. Sid must have been diagnosed with Battle Fatigue. "Sorry, boss. I won't bring it up again." she said. He lit his cigarette and took a long puff. He shrugged off her concerns.

"Not that war, the Great War. I was a pimply little kid fresh off a farm in Virginia, that's a state in Farmland if they didn't teach you that in Ireland, and one sunken ship later I was drafted and shipped over. Christ, I was so young... We could tell, even then, that this was a new age in the history of the world. Those Maxims just chewed us up..." he said, staring off into the distance, his voice trailing off. "We didn't even have proper helmets... and our gas masks didn't work right. That's why I got a rasp in my voice." He swallowed hard, his eyes watering at the horrors from his past. "Lotta guys didn't make it. Lotta guys..." Bridget was getting very uncomfortable, and wanted to change the subject.

"You meet any girls there?" she asked. He rubbed his face, wiping the painful memories away and chuckling for a moment, his mood lightening considerably.

"Girls? Oh, you better believe I met some girls. Could you imagine me walkin' with my arm around a different dame every night down the streets of Paris?" he said with a chuckle. She glanced over at him, slightly confused. He sighed, "You youngsters have no idea how tough it was before the P.R.A... anyways, I met this one girl, Eloise Dubois. She was a real stunner. Nice, perky tits and blue eyes. She did this thing with her hands and mouth that...well anyways long story short I fell hard for her. I kept a picture of her in my mess kit that I'd look at in the trenches."

He fished his wallet out and pulled a yellowed, slightly faded photo from it, sitting on the work bench. Bridget nodded in appreciation. She was fairly average looking by today's standards, but she was pretty in a more wholesome, classical sense with her wavy blonde hair and sweet, innocent smile. She knew better than to ask what happened. She would have still been fertile when the Stadt swept into France, and wasn't quite pretty enough to be taken as a personal ****. Most likely, she was pilloried and used as a breeding girl until her ovaries dried up or her body gave out...

"You know, I think that's were the Brass got the idea for the P.R.A: from those pretty little French girls that were so thankful we were there and ready to show their appreciation. We had plenty of troops for round two of the Big Fight, and our casualties were bad, but not that bad. I think they remembered how much harder we fought when we were fightin' for our own reasons and not over some treaty or another. If everyone had a pregnant wife back home, they'd fight harder to get back to her, and the only way to do that was through victory... Anyways, the debate ended the day the Germans dropped the Bomb on Boston."

Bridget finished her weld, and sat her torch down. She didn't know much about American history, but she knew that the Germans dropped two nuclear bombs, "Gungnir" on the city of Boston and "Mjolnir" on Stalingrad in response to discovering the plans to what was supposed to be the defining battle of the war: an invasion of Normandy. The Allies scrapped the invasion plan and pulled much of their fleet back to defend the coastline, effectively stalling and reversing any advances they had made.

When President McArthur defeated Truman in an emergency election after Roosevelt's ****, the P.R.A morphed from an "strongly-suggested (re: nearly mandatory) initiative to get enlisted men to have children to what it had become today. The Supreme Court ruled that the Equal Protection clause meant that the P.R.A. had to cover women as well, as well same-sex use being that behavior that did not immediately lead to conception to provide "a culture of fertility inspiration" was enshrined in the P.R.A. The single surviving Senator from Boston added a rider onto it desegregating the country, reasoning that it didn't matter what color of American you were anymore.

"You have any kids, Sid?" she asked while rubbing her own fertile belly, seeing Doug eyeing her now that she was done welding. She had yet to conceive, but providing all of her parts worked properly, it was bound to happen sooner or later. She turned around, bending slightly and slowly swaying her hips with one hand on the edge of the workbench. She licked her fingers and ran them over her ass and down the outer perimeter of her pussy lips before gingerly sliding them in the center to spread her natural lubrication. Doug walked up to her, taking over with his own greasy hand.

"Sure, I got kids, two I know about for sure and who knows how many more. Both bein' educated in General with a focus on mechanical engineering. Rob's grades and PQ are good enough to get him into the academy as a motor pool Brass officer. Lydia is having trouble concentrating on her studies. She's worried about turning 18 inna couple years. She's...um...bloomed a bit recently," he said, using his hands to mime a set of expanding breasts. "Never any with Martha though. She "didn't want to bring a kid up in this world," whatever that means. She used to trade her ration cards for birth control pills, even though it carried a prison sentence if she ever got caught. Why do you think I had to work so hard?" he said with a chuckle.

Bridget gasped as Doug slid his fingers into her. "Ah! Ah! Ah!" she squealed. She was still very sensitive after being a little overzealous with the wrench handle. "You need a break, Birdie?" Doug asked sincerely. She kind of shrugged, but nodded with a sympathetic smile. He sighed, but stepped back. "Guess I'll try my luck after work." he said. Bridget stood up, a strange but sudden thought springing to her mind.

"Hold up, Doug, I'll think of something. It was good chattin' with you Sid." she said, followed Doug back to his work bench. "Hey Doug..." she said, biting her finger as she worked up the courage to ask her somewhat awkward request. "You got a minute to look over a design I made? You're the best custom guy in the shop." He nodded, patting his leg for her sit. She grinned, leaning over to unzip his pants. She slowly sat on his lap, spreading her legs so that the entire length of her pussy rested on the topside of his cock.

She slowly grinded her pussy against it, leaving the top glistening and the bottom dry as her flowery lips draped it. He turned the swivel chair so she could reach the draft paper and pencil. His hands wrapped around her waist as he started thrusting slowly, letting the pressure of her smooth, pale thighs and velvet-smooth lips provide a pleasurable friction. Bridget quickly sketched a rough design before setting the pencil down. Doug didn't know it, but this was for a bit of research.

"There." she said, setting the pencil down and stroking his jutting cock. She held the sketch up, quietly asking "Think you can make this?" she asked. He looked at it, tilting his head in an obvious attempt to figure out what the hell he was looking at.

"Yeah, I can make it, but what the Hell is it?" Bridget blushed.