Sometimes, it is what you do that matters. Sometimes, it is who you are. Usually it is just being in the proper place at the proper moment in time with the will to act.

CHAPTER 6
I had a few years of fun, after that. I was really lucky, we were lucky, never to do a tour in Ulster, but Stewie and I got to see Hong Kong a couple of times before it was given to the Chinese, and we had more than a few joint exercises with the Dutch Marines, and more than a few fights, and much, much more than a few beers.

This is the final chapter in 'The Sissy Farm' It ends with Michelle marrying her Mistress Simone and simply describes the various outcomes of the various lives of Michelle's assorted aquaintances.
The ending is a bit of a cop out really but I'm getting stale with this story.
Hopefully there'll be some more coming along shortly.

Love to you all and a big thanks to those who commented.

OXOXOX.

Beverly.

CHAPTER 5
We went home, and I wasn’t the only one crying in his sleep.

Sometimes, it is what you do that matters. Sometimes, it is who you are. Usually it is just being in the proper place at the proper moment in time with the will to act.

CHAPTER 4
I knew it was going to be a long walk as soon as I heard about the Conveyor. We had helicopters, but nowhere near enough to move all of us, and we were the poor sods sent out on Shanks’s.

A story about a young man who loves to dress and act much much older with help from his best friend then unexpectedly from his mother, his dreams are set to come true.

CHAPTER 3
It isn’t like that at all, you know. I wasn’t lusting after Stewie, or indeed any man. I like women for that particular area of my life, though I must admit I hadn’t actually spent any time in indulging that taste.

I have taken a number of small liberties with history here, this being fiction after all. I apologise if any of the real folk who were involved in this feel I have wronged them in any way. This tale is offered in the deepest respect. And of course I affirm copyright, 2010, in both my real name as held by the site operators and the name Cyclist.

UNIFORMS.

Not even first light. The chop was making my teeth rattle as the blunt bow slammed into each wave the LCU met, and a couple of the lads were already being sick. The bergen weighed far too much, but I’d managed to snaffle a Mao suit and, much to my surprise, managed to squeeze it in. We were in the second wave, and as we had heard nothing from the shore so far it looked as if we were going to be unopposed. Thank fuck my new boots had come. Too many of the lads were still in ammo boots, but I had done more than enough on Dartmoor in mine to know exactly how bad they were.