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Regina was in the cockpit of the Spitfire called PG-9 checking the gauges, ticking them off one-by-one on the clipboard list when the scramble horn sounded. She only hesitated a moment, tossed the board and list out, yanked the little access door closed, slid forward the canopy and pulled back the throttle and adjusted the mix. She revved the engine, released the parking brake and spun out of the revetment and then taxied to the end of the runway, pulling on the helmet as she did, her heart racing and a smile on her pretty face.

“Peter-George Nine ready to roll,” she announced, holding down the mike button and keeping her voice low. She could see men running toward the parked planes.

“Get going, angels twenty, southwest. Go, go. They’re coming right at us.”

Another plane pulled up beside her, wingtips nearly touching, and they roared down the tarmac together and lifted almost simultaneously. Regina watched the gear come up under the other plane and found the lever. She had never flown a Spit nor any plane with retraceable gear.

The pair climbed together, and she saw a flight of gray bombers with bulbous glass noses heading right for her, skimming the tree tops. She peeled away and went for them head on, clicked on her guns and got a red light on the dash.

Empty.

Damn, she ducked low and flew straight through the enemy formation, saw a few tracers, banked left and headed back to the satellite airfield, almost coasting, very embarrassed as well as angry. The Dorniers had disappeared, skipping her small field and heading for the city.

“George Peter Nine, no ammo; permission to land. Oh, Peter George nine, sorry.”

“Circle once,” said the voice. “Who is this?”

She tuned off the mike and swung wide, lining up the runway as she watched another fighter take off.

She started down and the alarm went off. She smiled to herself, flared out, dropped the wheels, landed smoothly and taxied to the amourer’s area. The only other planes she had flown were an old Piper and a Tiger Moth. She had soloed six months ago, right after turning sixteen, lied about her age and joined the RAF auxiliary, the WAAF. She still remembered that first night in the barracks. She had been a virgin that morning when she took the oath, but by the next dawn, she knew a lot, including that she like fucking and hated the taste of cocks.

Two men jumped up on each wing and she let the Rolls engine idle while they quickly filled her ammo hatches with belted machine gun bullets. It took less than five minutes, and she took off again and headed southwest fast with three hundred .303 bullets for each gun.

At twelve thousand, she saw them, a flight of five DO-17’s in echelon. There was no time to turn. She flicked on her trigger, leaned forward, ignored the tracer coming at her and when the first twin-engined bomber filled her sight, punched twice with her thumb, very short bursts into the right engine and slid to the side and fired at bulbous canopy of the second plane and then nosed up and put three short blasts into the underside of the third. She pulled back, went inverted and turned quickly to see three Germans falling out of the sky, two trailing smoke as several parachutes appeared, one of the other two was headed toward the ground but the other suddenly appeared right in front of her, bomb bay doors open. She gave him a short burst into the wing root and dove for the lone bomber headed inland.

The Spit reached 300 mph before the Dornier filled her gunsight, weaving from side to side. She shot, missed, slipped sideways, throttled back and fired again until her guns were empty. The bomber exploded in a ball of flame, sheet metal and smoke.

Guns empty and fuel low, Regina found her field, circled, got permission and landed, taxied to the ammo area and killed the engine. She slid back and canopy and yelled, “I need petrol.”

A major with a bristling mustache climbed the wing, glared at her and yelled, “Get the bloody hell out of that frigging plane!”

She blinked at him as the tanker arrived, asked, “Sir?” and hit the starter. The already hot engine roared to life and the officer was nearly blown off the wing, as his hat went flying.

Regina taxied to the other end of the short runway where three big tankers waited. She spun about and a thick hose was quickly attached and fuel pumped into her tanks. The cover was smacked closed and one man signaled thumbs up just as the hatless major came running across the field. The girl quickly turned onto the landing strip and gunned the big engine. The tail came up and she rose, smiling, and pulled the retract handle.

Noise crackled in her earphones and a breathless voice said, loudly, “Circle the field, be useful at least.”

She got trimmed up and leaned back, relaxed and made wide left turns about the countryside, alert, hoping for trouble but saw nothing but returning Spitfires. Evidently the raid was over. Thirty minutes later, low on fuel, she carefully landed, taxied to the storage area, swung about and got out of her plane, slid down the wing and hurried away.

By the time the bell rang for the evening meal, the story was widespread and everyone was talking about how some female had hijacked a Spitfire.

That night in the arms of her young lover, a flight lieutenant from a very wealthy Canadian family, she cuddled and purred, highly satisfied, the man’s limp prick in her hand, hoping for more.

“Did y’hear,” he asked, “some splittail took a crate up this morning.”

“Can’t believe it, really?”

“What they say. Spit had one of those new gun cameras, tied to the trigger somehow. They’re processing the film. Slut fired off 1200 rounds.”

“Um, you’re getting hard, aren’t you?”

“Doubt it. You wrung me out, you did. Major’s fiercely angry, says the woman nearly killed him.”

“Oh well, no harm done, eh? Plenty of majors about.”

They laughed and kissed, and she stroked his swelling male member and palmed its blunt head.

“Want to be on top?” he asked, patting her firm butt.

“Now I know why some call it a joystick,” she said with a laugh as she mounted his slim body and eased herself down his stiff shaft.

The next morning at breakfast in the shabby messhall, all the chatter was about the hijacked Spitfire and the story was that the gun film showed that she had hit five different Germans bombers and probably downed at least two of them.

She hurried back to the parked planes, found PG-9 but could not find the clipboard and the list she had been working on so she started another, finished that job and moved to the next plane down the line.

By the evening meal, the story was that the mystery pilot had been credited with four confirmed kills and one probable. A captured German pilot had said that all five of the planes in his wing had been shot down and that six fighters had jumped them from above.

Regina spent that night in Group Captain Manning’s bed and enjoyed his strenuous attentions thoroughly and then lay back beside him smoking a cigarette. “Who’s the girl?” he asked. “You know all the WAAFs; who had the nerve?”

“Lots of us. I could have done it myself.”

“Haw, haw. Course you could. How ‘bout licking the poor thing, dearie?”

The next morning the newspapers and the radio stations had the story and were saying that a female had shot down five German planes and was the Britain’s first woman ace. The search was on to find the girl and pin a medal on her.

That afternoon Regina was called into the squadron office and reported to the C.O. in her number one uniform. She saluted and stood before his desk. He smiled up at her. “This the one?” he asked the major sitting off to the side.

“Might be,” he said, rubbing his bushy mustache. Regina didn’t even glance at him. “Only saw her for a moment; damn’ near killed me, she did.”

“Corporal,” said the colonel with a smile, “did you nip one of our planes and had a bit of a joy ride t’other day?”

Regina blinked at him and shook her head, suppressing a smile. “No sir, not me.”

He opened a folder. “Says her you’ve got a license, soloed in a Moth. That right?”

“Yes sir. That’s tight.”

“So you do know how to fly, eh?”

Regina licked her lips.

“Do you know who took the fighter and flew off, got her story in the papers?”

“No sir, haven’t heard a single word.”

“What do you think, major,” the colonel turned to the bluff man.

“Couldn’t say, sorry. Might be her.”

“All right, corporal, dismissed. Stay out of trouble.”

Regina saluted, about faced and left, blushing.

Regina was in the cockpit of the Spitfire called PG-9 checking the gauges, ticking them off one-by-one on the clipboard list when the scramble horn sounded loudly and repeatedly. She only hesitated a moment, tossed the board and list out, yanked the little access door closed, slid forward the canopy and pulled back the throttle and adjusted the mix. She revved the engine, stood on the right-hand brake and rudder, spun out of the revetment and then taxied to the end of the runway, pulling on the helmet as she did, wobbling from side to side to see ahead, her heart racing and a smile on her pretty face.

“Peter-George Nine ready to roll,” she announced, holding down the mike button and keeping her voice low. She could see men running toward the parked planes.

“Get going, angels twenty, southwest. Go, go. They’re coming right at us.”

Another plane pulled up beside her, wingtips nearly touching, and they roared down the tarmac together and lifted almost simultaneously. Regina watched the gear come up under the other plane as it climbed and found the lever. She had never flown a Spit nor any plane with retraceable gear.

The pair climbed together, and suddenly she saw a flight of gray bombers with bulbous glass noses heading right for her field, skimming the tree tops. She peeled away and went for them head on, clicked on her guns and got a red light on the dash.

Empty.

Damn, she flew straight through the enemy formation, saw a few pale faces, banked left and headed back to the satellite airfield, almost coasting, very embarrassed as well as angry. The Dorniers had disappeared, skipping her small field and heading for the distant city.

“George Peter Nine, no ammo; permission to land. Oh, Peter George nine, sorry.”

“Circle once,” said the voice. “Who is this?”

She tuned off the mike and swung wide, lining up the runway as she watched another fighter take off.

She started down and the alarm went off. She smiled to herself, flared out, dropped the wheels, landed smoothly and taxied to the amourer’s area. The only other planes she had flown were an old two-place Piper and a Tiger Moth. She had soloed six months ago, right after turning sixteen, lied about her age and joined the RAF auxiliary, the WAAF. She still remembered that first night in the barracks. She had been a virgin that morning when she took the oath, but by the next dawn, she knew a lot, including that she liked fucking and hated the taste of cocks. Both her belly and the inside of her thighs were bruised.

Two men jumped up on each wing and she let the Rolls engine idle while they quickly filled her ammo hatches with belted machine gun bullets. It took less than five minutes, and she took off again and headed southwest fast with three hundred .303 bullets for each gun.

At twelve thousand, she saw them, a flight of five DO-17’s stacked up in echelon. There was no time to turn. She flicked on her trigger and gun sight, leaned forward, ignored the tracer coming at her and when the first twin-engined bomber filled her sight, punched twice, very short bursts into the right engine and slid to the side and fired at bulbous canopy of the second plane and then nosed up and put three short blasts into the underside of the third. She pulled back, went inverted and turned quickly to see three German aircraft falling out of the sky, two trailing smoke as several parachutes appeared. One of the other two was headed toward the ground but the other suddenly appeared right in front of her, bomb bay doors open. She gave him three bursts into the wing root and dove for the lone bomber headed inland.

The Spit reached 300 mph before the Dornier filled her gunsight, weaving from side to side. She shot, missed, slipped sideways, throttled back, got level and fired again until her guns were empty. The bomber exploded in a ball of flame, metal and smoke.

Guns again empty, Regina found her field, circled, got permission and landed, taxied to the ammo area and killed the engine. She slid back and canopy and yelled, “I need petrol.”

A major with a bristling mustache climbed the wing, glared at her and yelled, “Get the bloody hell out of that effing plane!”

She blinked at him as the tanker arrived, asked, “Sir?” and hit the starter. The already hot engine roared to life, and the officer was nearly blown off the wing as his hat went flying.

Regina taxied to the other end of the short runway where three big tankers waited. She spun about and a hose was quickly attached and pumped 100 octane into her tanks. The cover was smacked closed and one man signaled thumbs up just as the hatless major came running across the field. The girl quickly turned onto the landing strip and gunned the big engine. The tail came up and she rose, smiling, and pulled the retract handle.

Noise crackled in her earphones and a breathless voice said, loudly, “Circle the field, be useful at least. Bloody hell!”

She got trimmed up and leaned back, relaxed and made wide left turns about the coutryside, alert, hoping for trouble but saw nothing but returning Spitfires. Evidently the raid was over. Thirty minutes later, low on fuel, she carefully landed, taxied to the storage area, swung about and got out of her plane and hurried away.

By the time the bell rang for the evening meal, the story was widespread and everyone was talking about how some female had hijacked a Spitfire.

That night in the arms of her young lover, a flight lieutenant from a very wealthy Canadian family, she cuddled and purred, highly satisfied, the man’s limp prick in her hand, hoping for more.

“Did y’hear,” he asked, “some splittail took a crate up this morning.”

“Can’t believe it, really?”

“What they say. Spit had one of those new gun cameras, tied to the trigger somehow. They’re processing the film. Slut fired off 1200 rounds.”

“No, hadn’t heard that one, more bullslime I suppose. Um, you’re getting hard, aren’t you?”

“Doubt it. I’m nackered. You wrung me out, you did. Major’s fiercely angry, says the woman nearly killed him.”

“Oh well, no harm done, eh? Plenty of majors about.”

He laughed; they kissed, and she stroked his swelling male member and palmed its blunt head.

“Want to be on top?” he asked, patting her firm butt.

“Now I know why some call it a joystick,” she said with a laugh as she mounted his slim body and eased herself down his stiff shaft.

The next morning at breakfast in the shabby messhall, all the chatter was about the hijacked Spitfire and the favorite story was that the gun film showed that she had hit five Germans and probably downed at least two of them.

Regina hurried back to the parked planes, found PG-9 but could not find the clipboard and the list she had been working on so she started another, finished that job and moved to the next plane down the line.

By the evening meal, the story was that the mystery pilot had been credited with four confirmed kills and one probable. A captured German pilot had said that all five of the planes in his wing had been shot down and that six fighters had jumped them from above.

Regina spent that night in Group Captain Manning’s bed and enjoyed his strenuous attentions thoroughly and then lay back beside him smoking a cigarette.

The bold headline on the morning paper read “UNKNOWN FEMALE ACE.”

The messhall was filled with rumors. It was Amelia Earhart who had been hiding in Scotland. It was the Duke of Cumberland, a turncoat Hanoverian. It was a boy in disguise. It was Elizabeth, the King’s daughter. It never happened, just RAF chaff.

Elize McCoy sat at the breakfast table playing with her sausage and eggs and trying to listen to her father who was going on about marriage. “But I have a whole year, Daddy. I’m only fifteen you know?” He smiled and lit his first cigar of the day. “True, true, but remember you are promised, promised since you were two.” The pretty blonde girl made a sour face. “But Daddy, Philip is such a, a prig. Isn’t that the word? He’s no fun at all, won’t even dance or anything. And he goes to that hardcore church, that fire and hellstone preacher.” He chuckled. “He may be a dolt, suspect he is, but his family and ours need this wedding, this union. His tractor business and our cars are a fine match, make us number one in the Confederation; boy’s worth millions y’know.” “We’re rich enough, Daddy. Aren’t we?” “I suppose, but old Ralph admires you. Spect he’d like to have you in his own bed, crowded though it might be. Fact is, m’dear, once you are in his family, I expect you to be a good wife, and if your dear father-in-law wants to mount your lilywhite body, you will welcome him with open legs. Y’hear? He might get a child on you while his fat son just plays with your titties.” He looked stern, something he found hard to do with his lovely child, his only child. His fashion-model wife, who he knew was up in her room with one of her young studs, absolutely refused to bear another. “I’m going to the park with some of my friends; won’t be home for lunch.” She kissed his stubbled cheek and fled, her short skirt fluttering about her long legs, her young vulva pulsing, eager for sex. In the driveway she jumped into her royal-blue Jebster, the new sports coupe her father’s company had recently debuted and scattered gravel as she roared away. It was not friends she sought or intended to play with, and she grinned as she floored the powerful car and raced toward the big stud farm in the outskirts of Richmond. Elize, like her mother and most of her female cousins, had a running account with Stanley’s Studs and were able to satisfy themselves whenever and wherever they chose. The girl had been using the bound boys since she was twelve and seldom went through a summer week with romping with one or more of the well-hung young men whose job it was to please, serve and satisfy wealthy women and a few rich men. As she reached the county road and retracted the roof, Elize wondered again about the world she lived in, the world of privilege for a very few and toil and restraint for the many who served them. By the time she was born, the blacks had almost disappeared from the Confederate States, at least in name and obviousness, many shipped back to Africa or to Brazil, more than a million slaughtered in the mutiny or uprising of 1900, although numerous mulattos still served in various capacities, mostly sexual. In fact some of the most beautiful women on the salacious television programs were at least part African. Above the scattered progeny of former slaves and masters were the bound men and women, a serf-like multitude who were Scot-Irish or German for the most part, and by law and contract, forced to serve various masters for a set number of years, usually seven to ten. Most were young and in fact, when she thought of it, Elize wondered why there were not white-haired bound people. She did not know about the termination laws although she was aware of the crematorium on the distant hillside that smoked night and day. By law, when a member of the servant class was no longer useful, he or she was painlessly euthanized. There were, she knew, white people like herself who were not wealthy and could not vote, men and women such as doctors and teachers, who served the ruling class in various worthy capacities and who were rewarded for their work and allowed to breed more or less freely. Some of them were quite elderly. The girl frowned as she reached the long driveway and pulled into the parking area, jumped out and ran toward the big barn. Her people and people like them were at the top, they ran the country’s enterprises and ruled it as well, had for more than a century, since the end of the War Between the States. At least the men did. Women were cherished but they neither voted nor held elected office. President Wilbur Philipson, now in the eighth year of his ten-year term, was a friend of the family and often dined with the McCoys at their palatial home high above the James River. Her multi-millionaire father was a senator although he seldom attended sessions unless a vote was scheduled. Buck Stanley saw the lithe girl trotting across the lawn and felt his cock stir. She was one of the prettiest of the snotty bunch his boys served, and he had often plotted ways to get her alone and have her pale body for himself when she was high on one of the soporific drugs, but she ignored him with haughty glances despite the fact that his family was at least as high-ranking as hers, just not as rich. “Hi Buck,” Elize chirped, giving him a friendly hug and a nuzzle, letting her globular breast almost fall from her loose-fitting blouse, “how ‘bout fetching me a boy to play with, say that Robert Twelve I saw last time. He was right good.” “Fraid not, pretty thing, Bobby’s off working in Petersburg t’day, doing a bunch of them book reading ladies.” “Shoot,” she said with a pout, “aw’right, who’s next, who’s on deck as they say?” “Got a real young one for you, sweetie, only fourteen this boy is, just broke in so I’d like to know how he does when y’all are done, if you don’ mind.” She smiled and nodded. “Fourteen? Does he shave?” They laughed together and a door opened and the lean boy appeared, wearing the usual t-shirt and jeans, a sensor on his left ankle. All the boys and men who worked as studs had been neutered, some with chemicals but most by vasectomy, and all were famously endowed; seven inches was guaranteed by the firm. “Lord,” Eliza said, “ain’ much of him is there. Might break him if I’m not careful.” “Have fun,” Buck said, squirming as he tried to adjust his trousers. The bound boy took Elize by the hand and led her out to one of the grassy play areas behind the barn and within a hedge of bushes. His parents had hired him out to the Stanley firm, bound him by contract for ten years, and agreed to have hm operated on with the agreement that the treatment could possibly be reversed. It seldom was. Most of Stanley’ studs died in the saddle or were so diseased that they were terminated before their years of service were over. Wordlessly, they stripped each other in the bright sunshine, and the girl was very pleased to see that the skinny boy was indeed very well endowed; in fact his dangling pecker frightened her just a bit. She had enjoyed several young men who sported seven-inchers, just as Stanley advertised, “at least a stiff seven for you” the ads proclaimed. And last week, with the boy who was now in Richmond, she had her first eight-inch cock and screamed with delight when he repeatedly lifted her on it. But this youngster, this 14-year-old had a long, slim member that might be longer than that once it got fully excited. Elize stroked his slim penis as he bent to lick her hard nipples.

Jimmy, as the boy was called, was new to this work. He had gone through a six-week training regimen and had mounted several women, but this girl was different. She was beautiful and she was more or less his age. He licked and sucked her tits and then kissed his way down her lithe body, kneading her firm buttocks as he did so, and buried his face between her legs, probing and sucking as he had been taught until she squealed and pushed him away.

By then his long prick was fully aroused and arched up, nearly ten inches long and as thick as the handle of a baseball bat. The girl turned around, dropped to the padded mat, raised her ass and the boy stroked her bulging slit and then pushed his stiff rod into her. She wiggled and gasped as he penetrated and then held her at the waist as he drove it into the hilt, to the balls.

“More, more,” the girl gasped as he began, “harder, deeper!” Jimmy grabbed her long hair and arched her body as he hammered away with short, vicious thrusts and then he felt his testicles surge and the flow of semen in his cock. He trembled with fear as well as lust.

He came, gritting his teeth to keep from crying out, pumped hard and shivered with pleasure as he pistoned out his semen. The girl’s head dropped, but he grasped her at the shoulders and get right back into rhythm, humping steadily at marching pace just as he had been taught. Elize was on the point of achieving her third orgasm when the young man hammering his long ram into her suddenly stopped, grunted and collapsed on her.

She wiggled away, kicked his shouder and said, “What’s wrong, boy. Get back to work.”

His briefly blood-starved brain recovered, and he swam back to consciousness. Buck Stanley who had been watching the action on his closed-circuit TV and jerking off his cock while he did, zipped up his britches and ran out to the place where the boy was on his hands and knees, head drooping and the girl was kicking him in the ribs.

“What happened?” he asked her, not wanting to say he had seen the young man go stiff before he fainted.

“Damn if I know,” she said. “He jus’ quit on me.” Smiling, Buck pulled his Tredegar automatic and fired two heavy slugs into the back of the boy’s head. Blood spurted as he pushed the shocked girl back to the soft lounge, freed his raging cock and mounted her, still fully clothed. Elize screamed and screamed as she was raped.

Buck’s manhood was thick and hard and his style was vicious and mean. He satisfied himself in five minutes and then dragged the mewling girl back to the barn and gave her to the man in charge of the wholesale sluts. “Aw’right Jethro,” he snarled, “I want you to dye her hair and ship her off to N’Orleans with the next batch, y’hear?”

The man, who was well aware of who the girl was, nodded. “Y’can use her and share her, but don’ you let her get loose.”

“Yessir,” the man said, licking his lips as he grasped the girl’s wrist and pulled her to him. He patted her butt and said, “Come along, Honey, we’s gonna have some fun.”

Buck drove the roadster back behind the barn and had his mechanics disassemble the car. The engine and wheels went to one scrap dealer and the frame and body panels to another.

The headquarters tower of Jackson Motors was near the sprawling assembly unit on the road to Petersburg. The tower held the design, engineering, manufacturing, sales and business executives and their staff as well as dozens of young females who served the men who worked there. Each top executive had his own PA or mistress and there was a pool of well-trained girls shared by the others.

Jonathan McCoy entered his suite of offices at about ten that morning, ensconced himself in his huge, leather chair and welcomed Lucille, his current PA, with a smile and open legs as he got ready for a busy day. The lovely young woman put down his cup of coffee and sticky donut and knelt to service his cock with her mouth, throat and his testicles with her fingers tips. McCoy closed his eyes when he came, both hands buried in his girl’s curly hair. She licked him clean and left quickly as he turned to look at his schedule.

After a morning meeting about the new mid-engined sports car’s design, McCoy was thinking about whether to horse one of the new hires before or after lunch when his phone buzzed.

A strange voice said, “You want to know where yer kid’s at, you gotta pay me ten thousand in gold. Today. Interested?”

“No,” he said loudly and hung up. Then he wondered how someone outside had known his private number. The phone rang again.

“Now it will cost you twenty, twenty thousand, and I mean now or it’s goodbye Elize; you’ll never see her again in this life.”

McCoy said, “I’ll listen.”

Jethro Stevens smiled. He was sick of working for the Stanleys and sick of being treated like a bondsman. The girl was now in the stocks and two of his boys were using her, one in her mouth and the other sodomizing the youngster. The room was filled with the sound of grunting and flesh smacking together.

“How do I know you’ve got her?” McCoy asked, remembering that there had been several high-priced kidnappings recently, in the last few years.

Jethro took his phone to the wooden stocks, pushed the man away from her face and said, “Say hello to your Daddy, slut.” He held the phone out and Elize spat and said, “Help me, Daddy, please help me I’m at...” “Satisfied. Twenty thousand at noon downtown at Security Trust. I’ll send a messenger. He’ll be wearing a blue cap.” Another of his boys stepped up to use Elize’s face as Jethro listened to the man hem and haw. “Listen McCoy,” Jethro said loudly, “last chance or I ship her to the Magruders in New Orleans.” He named the most famous brothel operator in the Confederacy. “You know what twenty thousand in gold weighs?” McCoy asked. “I’ll take it in certificates,” Jethro said with a smile as the man horsing the girl’s ass pulled out of her and slapped her buttocks hard. “Right, noon, blue hat,” McCoy said and hung up. He quickly summoned his security chief and outlined the problem. Together they set up a plan to follow the messenger and find the girl. After he climaxed in the girl, Jethro freed Elize from the stocks and walked her down to the dock. He pushed her out to the end, lifted her chin and cut her throat. He dropped her body into the fast flowing stream, rinsed the wide blade and went back to dress for the money pick up.