Author: Marcus van Heller (pseud., not even pretending to be British)

About: Three grunts on a wild drunken jaunt, away from the pressures of war, and right smack dab into the joys of booze and women in a non-stop rollicking, sensuous tale, one recounted in exacting detail.

Excerpt:

Sullivan yelled: “Hey, the Marines have landed! That's us, pal, landed!” He was feeling no pain.

Brandy was kissing Bramwell against the wall— making him flop like a mackerel. Cushing stared; she was half naked, skirt up, blouse off her shoulders. The other dame was a blonde, nice, tits flopping under the shirt. Red gash of a mouth, looking at him with big, round eyes. The guy wasn't much, skinny, sandy hair, beagle eyes.

“I'm Marie,” the girl said, coming over to him. Her breath was wicked, and her eyes didn't quite focus.

Sullivan was right behind her, slapping her fanny hard. “Fucks like it's goin' outa style,” he hissed and she giggled loudly, grabbing at Cushing's thigh. “You wanna try me?”

“You shouldn't oughta say that to a Marine,” Cushing said. Her hand had him by the cock now. She ding-donged it. “Where you been?”

“Took Johnny home,” Sullivan said, “where's them other cunts? Where's Clara?”

“In the can.” Cushing was hard. He backed into the bedroom and Marie came with him, hanging on. He looked over her shoulder for the skinny guy, didn't see him. Sullivan was shouting for someone to put on the music, Brandy screamed with laughter at something, and Dessie and Clara came out of the John. Sullivan yelled “Clara!”

Marie had his cock out, naked in her hand. She was kissing him with everything she had—Man! Hold the goddam fort!

The joint was a madhouse in seconds.

The bedroom was dark. Cushing pulled Marie over and fell on the bed. She squealed. Man! he couldn't wait. Prong, all he could think of was prong! He nipped her skirt up, rolled on her and the legs spread and went around him. She was bucking up before he got it in her.

Warm! Man, she was warm, like a mouth around his cock. Ram it in, thrust it, Shit, she was crazy for it! The goddam bed squeaked like fury.

The fever got him by the balls and made him crazy for long minutes—boot her! Roll her around, let her squeal, she loved it—fuck her snatch to the bone!

He eased up, voices. Laughter. He looked around. Brandy was coming into the room with someone. He couldn't see; they had turned out the living room lights. She dropped onto the bed beside them, mostly naked. There was a glow from a night-light somewhere.

She giggled, legs up, pushing against them: “Hey,” Marie said, “Get your own fuggin'—”

Brandy said nothing, lips sealed in a fantastic kiss —it was the little skinny guy—the bed rocked as he rammed her. She was half on, half off the twin bed, and the guy was half kneeling, driving it into her, breath hoarse.

Cushing raised himself on his arms. There was no one on the other twin bed. They were too goddam drunk to know it. All four of them crowded together. Brandy was so close—he could see her naked titties, dark nippled. They were both panting, fucking like wild animals.