The Last Flight Chapter 9 - Sex Stories

The Last Flight Chapter 9

... have a nice family life before the war took took it away?” I thought for a moment. Memories flooding back before I replied. “Not really.” I replied somewhat distant. “My father was a soldier in the first world war. He joined up when he was just seventeen. He never spoke of what he saw but I do know he served in the trenches in Belgium. I think something happened to him because I don't remember him being sober very often. I last saw him in nineteen forty-one when he went back to the army. I know he was posted as missing believed killed but I don't know where or when.” I took a deep breath. Jemima was watching me intently but didn't speak, just allowed me to go on. “When he was home on leave he would beat my mother if she so much as said something out of place. He threw his dinner at her more than once if there was something he didn't like.” Jemima gazed at me, her beautiful dark eyes twinkling as she blinked. “He sounds like a horrible man. At least my father did not beat my mother.” “I try to think of him as sick rather than just horrible. I am sure my mother would not have married him if that had been what he was always like.” “Maybe.” she replied. “Did he beat you too?” “He hit me just once.” I remembered the day he came home and could hardly stand he was so drunk. He began shouting at my mother because his dinner had dried out whilst she tried to keep it warm for him. I was nineteen then and the Battle of Britain was just beginning. My father was on leave after being ...

... rescued from Dunkirk. He picked up the plate, looked at it, then at my mother and suddenly threw it at her. By sheer good fortune she managed to avoid the projectile which crashed into the wall with such force that it left an indentation in the plaster. He lunged forwards toward her, his fist in the air ready to strike her so I jumped between them and grabbed his arm, shouting at him to leave her alone. Unfortunately I had not gripped him tightly enough and he broke free and struck me across the face with the back of his hand, knocking me sideways across the table and causing several pieces of crockery to crash to the floor. I could taste blood in my mouth and found that I had cut my lip on my teeth. Getting slowly to my feet I looked at him, swaying, arms by his sides. Drawing myself upright I stared him straight in the eye. “If you ever lay a hand on me or my mother again, I will kill you!” I hissed through clenched teeth. “Yeah...?” he replied slowly and raised his hand again. I didn't waver or flinch but continued to hold his gaze. “Make no mistake.” I whispered “I will kill you!” I could see the uncertainty in his eyes which gradually turned into recognition and sorrow, then, slowly, he let his hand fall to his side. He turned and staggered from the room to collapse onto the sofa in the living room. The following day he returned to his unit. I only saw him once more after that. He came home on leave for Christmas. He again got drunk and became abusive and once he raised his ...