Oh yes, dears, I’ve crashed more times than I can remember! In those days, the mark of an expert pilot was that you lived through your crashes. Back then it was canvas and wood that some grease monkey had somehow convinced to pretend to be an aeroplane, for a while. Not like these smooth birds you fly now, ladies. Oh top me off, sweetie, would you? I’ll admit, I wasn’t familiar with blackberry wine, but Emily, congratulate your aunty on a swell vintage.

A story? Oh no, I would hate to take over the conversation. Why don’t you tell me about yourselves? You both have that cute English accent that’s almost as pretty as you are. 

Golly, you both go so red; you’ll have the fire warden round. Did you see her, by the way? Hefty butch badger-girl, quite a looker; she almost convinced me to start a fire.

Oh well, I mean, if you’re both fixing to sit there and just blush and giggle, I suppose I could tell you about the last time I crashed, if you would like? Why don’t you sit on the couch, Diana? We can budge up, and you are closer to the paraffin heater that way. 

You don’t mind if I rest my tail on your knee, do you? Mmm, cosy. Now, let’s see, I was flying from Tripoli to Cannes, over the Tyrrhenian Sea. Weather was all right, sunny, wind a bit brisk, but nothing I couldn’t handle. Then the engine just chokes, like a preacher shown a pretty ankle, and up and dies. I tried to restart it but it had decided it didn’t want to be a Pratt and Whitney Wasp any more; it wanted to be an inanimate goddamn sculpture. It was getting to dusk; I could see why the old-time poets called the sea ‘wine dark’ but for once I had no wish for a drink. Corsica was somewhere to port, Italy was off starboard, but no way I was flying engineless to either of them. There were a fair number of little islands in that channel, so I glided down, and kept my eyes out. Broadcast mayday, of course. 

I had to be really careful; too shallow a glide and the Kitty would stall, too deep and I was lowering my flight time. So with one hand I controlled our descent, with the other I checked my supplies. Luckily I am very skilled with my hands. See, I can tickle both of you at the same time.

You know, I think that was one of the best landings I ever made; smooth as butter and as sweet as molasses. It was a real shame there were no photographers there, or hordes of fans, or pretty mechanics. And, naturally, no sooner had my plane touched the sea, than the Bad Kitty began to take on water. A fine plane but a terrible boat. And I guess only the mermaids were glad to see me. Anyhow, I grabbed an oilskin kit bag, and got out of there. Hell, that water was colder than a witch’s… heart. Didn’t even have time to say a proper farewell to my Kitty; I remember making love beneath her wings, so this was a sad goodbye. Oh sorry, I forgot you’re English: I meant holding hands beneath the wings with a nice gal.

Oh yeah? Perhaps if you could say that without going beet red, I’d believe you, Emily.

Anyhow, by a mixture of luck and judgement, I had put the plane down more or less in the bay of a small island. It was a heck of a swim, still, carrying a bag and weighed down with my pilot’s gear. The clothes kept you warm at altitude, but they soaked up water like a sponge. 

Like the rest of my people, I have no great liking for water, but I swim tolerably well. Though I was half stripped by the time I dragged myself up the pebbly shore. I started a fire with some driftwood and waterproof matches, and dried my remaining clothes. It was a good job no-one was there to see the ‘Glamourous Aviatrix Miss Betty’ naked, shivering and standing close enough to the fire that it would be a while before I needed to shave my legs, again. Thankfully it was summer, not winter—and not Britain, thank the lord—so the air was passing warm, otherwise I might not have survived the night.

But morning found me curled up next to the embers, a bit bedraggled but alive. The island was small and unpopulated; rocks, some grass, a big hill, and a single copse of stunted trees. I set another fire on the highest point, set some moisture traps, and tried to catch some fish using hook and line. Found a marvellous piece of sea-glass. Honestly, the island wasn’t bad, except no hootch and no honeys.

Well, I only waited a couple of days before La Felicità turned up. A fishing boat out of Marina di Campo, she had seen my fire, and the makeshift flags I had ready for just such an occurrence. In fact, the flags were mostly my clothes; it was hot enough that I was sitting in my underwear. If my rescuers had been British, I would have quickly covered myself so as not to give them conniptions, but I reckoned Italians would probably not faint.

Oh, is it, Miss Emily? Easy to say when this tin shack is too chilly to prove it.

Anyway, they didn’t want to risk beaching their boat, so I swam out to them. They threw down a line and float, and a striking shark-girl pulled me aboard.

Luck was definitely on my side; the crew was all women, and mostly animal girls. Italian men are men, after all. And the damn fool man leading Italy was making things difficult for everyone. So these folk banded together. But then, I suppose it’s only slightly better here; there’s a reason you’re an Irregular Squadron, and don’t get shown in the newsreels.

Anyway, I’ll skip over the irritating radio calls informing those looking for me that I was fine and they could stop panicking. I also assured the skipper that I didn’t need them to cut short their trip; I would be fine taking a few days to make it back to Marina di Campo. It would give my patroness a chance to set up transport and to have her secretaries deal with any paperwork. The skipper, a serious crow-girl called Amelia, fortunately had excellent English. My Italian wasn’t entirely non-existent, but it was learned largely in… ahem, ladies bedchambers, so was short on nautical terms and rather longer on rimandatemi il cor, empio tiranno.

Oh, you liked that, did you?

So, the world having been told that I was alive, I was handed off to the first mate, who showed me where I could have a basic wash and a bite to eat. She, the first mate, was a serpent-girl, with long limbs and a longer tail, perfectly at home in this swaying and clunky vessel. She was a sly one too, glancing at me while I ate. I knew those glances.

So, naturally I asked if there was anywhere to lie down, to recover from my ordeal. The first mate explained that they would try to find me a bunk, but space was tight, so in the meantime I was welcome to use her bunk. I agreed, of course. Her cabin was tiny; we couldn’t even stand upright, and the bed was more like a bench. I grabbed her hand and told her that I didn’t normally share the bunk of women I didn’t know the name of. She told me it was Carmilla. I explained that I wasn’t used to sleeping in such a swaying environment, and maybe I could use a demonstration. She blushed, and I asked if I could kiss her. She blushed some more. Her scales were like burnished metal, gunmetal grey and sooty black, her long neck was very kissable. I pushed her back onto the bed and, well…

The next morning I went—what? You are English, dears, and I am an American and also a fair bit older; I don’t want to singe your chaste and innocent ears with news of my scandalous liaisons. Oh really, you’re sure? Well, then snuggle in cuties, because I better whisper these bits.

I pushed her back on the bed, kissing her neck, her sharp jaw, her lips. I sent a hand scurrying up her blouse and groped her small but perfect breasts. She whispered some stuff in Italian that I did not understand, so I paused until she smiled and kissed me again. I helped her lift her blouse off, both of us banging elbows on the cabin walls. I ran a line of kisses from her navel to her collarbone. She moaned, relaxing into the bed, half closing her eyes. I kissed a breast and dragged my tongue over her hard nipple. Carmilla squirmed and sighed. She murmured take me, and raised her hands above her head. I’m not sure whether she was speaking in Italian or English, but I understood. 

I pulled her trousers off. Like most snake-girls, she was doubly blessed in the girlcock department. You don’t have many snake-girls in England do you? Well, when this war kerfuffle is over, you should vacation in southern Europe. 

I signalled to her to turn over, and kissed down her flexible spine. She lifted her hips towards me, and I didn’t refuse the invitation. Well, firstly I delivered a bite to her bottom, because it looks so toothsome; tiny scales and remarkably round for a snake-girl. And then—

Look, are you two blushing flowers sure you want me to carry on? It doesn’t get any more delicate. Alright, alright; I may have been misinformed about English girls. 

I got my arm under her and raised her ass off the bed. With my hand I felt her hard girlcocks, gripping them, one encircled by thumb and finger, the other by my remaining fingers. As I say, I’m very dexterous. With my other arm I moved her long tail to the side, and brushed my girldick against her butt. She moaned and thrashed her tail; I caught it beneath my foot. It still thrashed, but in a more controlled way. I teased around the edge of her butthole with the tip of my girlcock. She gasped and tried to raise her hips more. I held off until she was literally begging, then inserted myself. She hissed and bit down on the pillow, as I eased inside her. Feeling the warmth and the muscular tightness. When I was fully in, I pulled partway out, and then thrust in again. Carmilla moaned, her fangs putting bite marks in her pillow. Well, I grinned as I established a rhythm; enjoying the sensation of ploughing this pliable snake-girl. I moved my other hand now, jerking her girlcocks to the same rhythm. 

Without meaning to, the movement of the boat had influenced my motion. For a moment, me and La Felicità almost seemed as one; rolling on swells, splitting waves beneath our prow. Both in charge of our own little world.

Carmilla finished messily into my hand. My thrusts had gotten shorter and more frequent, and with a final deep thrust, I also finished. We both paused in that moment of ecstasy; basking in the sunlight of womanly companionship. The room was so warm and so scented with each of our nectars, it was like a strange hothouse; still and swollen with bursting blooms. I didn’t want to leave that moment, but my pumping was finished, and I was spent.

Dear me, you girls cannot sit still at all! Such fidgets. Are you sure you want me to continue?

Alright then. All too soon Carmilla had to return to her duties, but I slept all afternoon and most of the night.

The next morning I went to watch the crew work. It was early; the bonito bite well at dawn, tuna in the evening, amberjacks throughout, so the boat followed their piscine clock. Of course, I didn’t get involved in any actual work but, as the morning progressed, I found a spot where I wouldn’t get trampled and lay back; getting some sun and watching the salt-sprayed girls toil. Again, out of pure necessity, my underwear had to serve as a bathing costume; this would have raised eyebrows at home, but the crew didn’t raise any objections. The company were mostly butch, vulgar in that good-natured way, raucous and ready to laugh as they worked. It is always fun to watch experts, and these lovely brutes hauled ropes and gutted fish with easy excellence. And, well, I’m not saying that I looked them over like a gourmand salivating at a feast, but by evening time I was pretty damn hungry.

I followed a shark-girl below deck, the same one that had hauled me aboard. She was butch and surly, only occasionally cracking a smile at the crew’s larks. I trailed around the room after her, touching floats and reels. With her foot, she pushed some small boxes completely under a tarp; perhaps contraband? 

The shark-girl told me, gruffly, not to get in the way, that I might get hurt. I told her that I was more robust than I looked. She set down a bag of tools nearby and turned to go. I stepped into her way and put my hand on her upper arm. Her skin was delightful; smooth in one direction, rough in the other. She said something to the effect that she had heard me making whoopee with the first mate. I told her that I thought first mate was an instruction. She didn’t laugh; either her English wasn’t very good, or she was overdoing it on the butch stoicism. Or, I suppose, that I am less amusing than I think. 

No, you’re right, impossible!

Since she hasn’t objected to my hand on her upper arm, I put my other arm to her side, rucking up her vest and feeling her abs. She was much bigger than me, and all muscle. She looked at me, and warned me not to rile her up. I bit my lip and moved closer. I dropped my hand to her trousers and started unbuttoning. She growled and grabbed my hips, moving me to a corner, and lifting me onto a crate. She kissed me, suddenly and roughly. She asked me if I was sure. You know how I answered. She kissed me again, hard enough that I tasted blood.

She lifted me up again and turned me over; her calloused hands were hard and not exactly gentle. Without any ado, she pulled my panties down. I wriggled out of them. She felt my butt, kneading and stretching it with strong fingers. Last chance to run away, she whispered in my ear. I shook my head.

The shark bent me over the crate, and unbuttoned her trousers. With no fanfare, she slammed into me. I wheeze-moaned, my breath being knocked out of me. I was just beginning to recover when she slammed in again. I closed my eyes and lowered my head, concentrating on my breathing. She was big, and hard, and relentless. The fullness, the sudden increase in pressure almost—but not quite—to the point of unpleasantness, then the absence of withdrawal, then another pile-driver. Look, I’m a pilot because sometimes I don’t mind being at the mercy of a powerful machine. I suppose usually I am in command of the machine, but sometimes you have to let go.

Shark-girls have two dicks, as well. I sometimes think that us mammals are missing out. Her other girldick was soft, but was slapping my buttock every thrust. I just surrendered myself to the sensation.

She reached her orgasm; I was leaking as she thrust and spurted into me. I moaned again and concentrated on my recovery as she pulled out.

L’altra, she said, and plunged her other girldick—now hard—into me. I squealed and almost immediately I splattered the front of the crate with my juices. Breathless, I went pleasantly limp as she rammed repeatedly into me. I almost blacked out; the sway of the sea, the smell of the ocean, the relentless pounding, waves slapping the hull. When she finished again, I was barely aware of it, my brain gradually unscrambling only as she buttoned her trousers. She put my panties back on me, and moved me to a coil of rope. She picked up a mop and bucket, and cleaned our mess up. I congratulated myself on an excellent choice, and fell into a profound sleep.

Oh, you liked that did you, Diana? You’ve almost bitten through your lip.

Well, at any rate, I spent my days similarly on La Felicità and was sad when we finally turned towards port. 

On the last night, I sought out the skipper. She was in her cabin; I knocked and entered. She was at a tiny desk, looking at charts. Well, actually looking at a table of numbers, which, along with her little notepad, she pushed under the charts as I entered.

The cabin was very slightly larger than Carmilla’s; one could stand upright and there was just about room for the desk and a slim bookshelf. The floor had a threadbare rug over the linoleum. A small porthole looked out over a subtly-hued sunset. 

She barely spared me a glance, her feathered head bent over the charts. She was pretty, this crow-girl, in a slightly austere way. I repeated how grateful I was that La Felicità had found me. She turned in her chair and said something to the effect that I was evidently thanking the crew individually. I laughed, and told her that I was just celebrating her wonderful crew, and was she jealous? She shook her head.

I sighed elaborately, and got on my knees. I eased her legs apart; she did not resist me. I unbuttoned her trousers; thick twill rather than the crew’s waterproofs. Moving her underwear out of the way, I let her girlcock flop free. It was already semi erect, nestling amongst her adorably fluffy pubic feathers. I kissed her girlcock, and placed my mouth around it, exploring it with my tongue as it hardened. The skipper made an odd sound; half moan, half exaltation. Her girlcock was rapidly becoming too long for my mouth, but I kept sucking on its head. When it was fully deployed, I slid my lips delicately down the shaft. A short way, at first, and back; tongue and lips feeling the velvet hardness. Then deeper. Relaxing my throat into it. I glanced up at her, and I felt her cock twitch as she looked—black eyes half-lidded—at me. Hesitantly, she reached out and touched my hair, tousling it slightly. I kept up my bobbing; deeper still, feeling the thrum of increasing tension in her girlcock. 

Her orgasm shook her like a thunderstorm. She moaned and tightened her grip on my hair. My fists balled up, grabbing the dark twill as I held my position. I received everything that she could offer. With a last few spurts she stilled, breathing raggedly. I made sure she was clean, and let her go with a final kiss. I rested against her knee for a while. Finally, I stood up, and turned towards the door. 

Amelia grabbed my wrist, then pulled me backward onto her lap. I squeaked in surprise. Her other hand dived beneath my skirt and into my panties, already a little wet from leakage. She let go of my wrist, and groped at my breasts. I relaxed into her.

My girlcock resumed full vitality under her fingers, released from skirt and underwear. She was caressing, massaging me hurriedly and implacably. Her other hand kneaded my breast with similar rough urgency. I mewed and moaned, writhing against her. I could hear her harsh breaths in my ear. My own breathing was ragged, my body buzzing. An excitement joining breast to girlcock, her resolute touch upon both.

I finished quickly; she caught much of it on her hand. As I went limp, Amelia tasted me. I lifted her hand from my breast and kissed it.

In a while, she stood, and moved both of us over to the bed. Tomorrow would see the Marina di Campo, reams of fascist paperwork and my patroness’ gophers, but for now there was La Felicità on the wine-dark sea, catching the last rays of sunlight.

So, Emily, Diana, you see that crashing ain't as bad as all that. Now the wine is gone, and we still have the rest of the night to go. Have you got any thoughts as to what we do next? Because I might have a few ideas… it may be night, but we could always enjoy the sunshine of womanly companionship... 

 

 

Biographer’s notes:

As with many such stories, it is unclear how much–if any–of this tale is true. The original typewritten copy was found amongst the various artefacts uncovered in the mothballed Southwold Airfield. This version has been lightly edited: correcting the sections that were unclear, and slightly modernising the language.

Records kept by Irregular Squadrons are notoriously lax; there are several potential Dianas and Emilys that could have been the author. Or the names could be completely made-up to avoid scandal.

Elizabeth Callaway did visit Southwold Airfield in September 1940. (”US Flyer Salutes Our Boys and Girls”, Ipswich Chronicle). It is unknown for how long, but Elizabeth did have a fascination for Irregular Squadrons. As well as, obviously, a fascination for women.

Her sea landing and subsequent rescue was covered by several newspapers, but they concentrate more on the diplomatic incident (and famous fistfight) that would see her expelled from Italy. (A “reverse Napoleon”, she described it later, as she was exiled from Elba). At any rate, none of the papers refer to La Felicità by name, simply calling it “a fishing boat” (or sometimes “a rustic fishing boat”).

Records of fishing vessels in pre-war Italy are also extremely hard to find. This is particularly true when the vessel may have been involved in criminal activities and/or political violations against the government of the day.

However, there is a photograph of La Felicità in the Callaway Archive, so we may say at least that it existed. There is also a piece of sea-glass; this might just be coincidence.

“Rimandatemi il cor, empio tiranno” is from Gaspara Stampa’s Rhymes. “Send back my heart, impious tyrant.”