The Bluebells of 1918 Ch. 02

***

The problem, as I see it, is twofold.

First, there's getting to the wire. That'll solve itself. The Germans aren't going to be on high-alert forever. Things'll calm down.

The second problem's getting past the wire. That's the tricky one. There's three ways: Under, over, or through.

Under? No. There were tunnelers at Holzminden and I saw the challenges. It takes a long time, requires too much manpower, and lots can go wrong.

Over? Madame Laurent said someone pole vaulted over the wire a few months ago. If I had someone to teach me, maybe it wouldn't be a crazy idea.

Through the wire it is. But how? I sip tea, staring out the window of my room. The bluebells are blooming across the lake.

The electricity is the issue. If it can't be shut off without raising an alarm, then I need protection from it.

Insulated pliers? I've got pliers. But what about insulation?

What're the best electrical insulators? Diamonds, of course. What else? Paper, glass, porcelain, rubber, dry wood, dry cotton. Those I can get.

Why should it be one thing? What if I could make insulated gloves, too? Insulated plier handles plus gloves stuffed with cotton. That should be enough.

Creep up to the first wire. Snip, snip, snip. The same with the electric fence. The same with the third barrier and I'm in the Netherlands. A free man ready to carry on the fight. Win the war, rendezvous with Emeline after.

Slow down. Remember those guards with orders to shoot on sight? Concealment and speed are crucial. A night attempt goes without saying. A moonless night is even better.

And I need to be quick. Less than a minute, maybe even thirty seconds.

I'll have to study the guards. Watch them. Time their movements. Just like I did at Holzminden.

It could work.

It has to.

***

Madame Laurent has brought me a present. She handed it to me this morning, smiling broadly. It's a map of the wire made by her son Michel.

I spread it out on the kitchen table. It's a printed map of the area over which he's drawn the route of the wire. He's marked guard stations and generators and even noted how many guards are housed where.

"This is priceless," I say.

Emeline points to a spot marked with a red X. "Here is the chateau."

I run my finger from the X towards the wire. "Somewhere on this map is the solution. The best place to cross and the best way from here to that spot."

Emeline kisses me. Madame Laurent pretends not to notice.

"What's that for?" I ask.

"For me to remember," she says. "When you go. When it is just me and Madame Laurent again and I have no one to kiss."

She goes to help Madame Laurent. I pause, admiring her derrière. How is she so effortlessly beautiful? She adds loveliness to even the most mundane of tasks.

I turn my attention back to the map. I study it, every road and creek. Every farmhouse and guardhouse.

The solution's here somewhere. I've got to find it.

***

Emeline and I sit at the table in the kitchen.

Madame Laurent has left, smiling at us as she dons her raincoat. It's pouring again. Another relentless rain began after lunch and hasn't let up.

Dinner is an onion and potato soup with some herbs and cream.

"Simple fare," Emeline says. "For lean times. Madame Laurent threw it together."

I sample some. "Threw together? This is better than anything back home."

"What is it like, in Philadelphia? I only know the grand hotels and the theater. I know nothing of the real city."

"I'm not sure I do, either. I spent most of my time at boarding school in Connecticut, then college in New Jersey."

"Boarding school? Your family has means?"

"You are looking at the heir apparent to the McQuay Tool Company."

"You are from money."

"Is that okay?"

"Of course. I have a lot of money myself."

"But you earned your money. I'll inherit everything."

"We are not so unalike," she says. "I did not start out poor and work my way up to fortune."

"No?"

"My father is a prominent attorney in Paris," she says. "And my mother's family owns a brewery in Antwerp. I went to the finest schools in Paris and Brussels."

"So how'd you get into acting?" I ask.

"After many misadventures. I ran away from home when I was eighteen."

"You didn't."

"I'd had enough," she says. "Enough of school and rules. I wanted to see things and experience life."

"And I bet you did."

"I took a job as assistant to a famous singer on her tour. I managed everything for her. One night one of the dancers in the show was sick and I took her place."

"Your big break," I say.

She smiles playfully. "But what of you? How does a rich boy from Philadelphia wind up flying an airplane in a war so far from Broad Street?"

"There's a tale," I say.

"We have all evening."

"I wanted to go off and fight. Join the British Royal Air Service. Do my part. But my father forbade it until I finished college."

"Then you joined."

"I was on an ocean liner the day after I graduated from Princeton."

"But why airplanes? Why not the army, or the navy?"

"Aviation is the future. I've convinced my family to invest in aviation companies. Planes are going to be bigger than you can imagine. Millions of people flying around the world every day."

"I can't imagine such a thing. Doesn't it frighten you, being up in the air?"

"No. It's pure freedom. There's nothing better. Well, except for one thing."

Emeline raises an eyebrow.

We adjourn to the parlor after dinner. The rain pelts the windows, the wind picking up. Does it always rain so often?

Emeline pours a clear liquid from a bottle into a pair of glasses and hands one to me. "Jenever. Belgian gin."

I sample some. "That's strong."

Emeline sits next to me. "Tell me about your experiences with women."

"What?"

"I wish to know what experiences you have had with women. You were not a virgin when we made love the first time."

"How could you tell?"

"It was obvious. I am correct, no?"

"You are."

She sips jenever. "How many were before me?"

"Um."

She rolls her eyes. "Do not be coy. Speak plainly. Tell me all. As if you are speaking with one of your pilot friends."

"But, I—"

Emeline narrows her eyes. "You have had your cock inside me. What is there to be shy about?"

"It's difficult."

"Ah, oui. The shame cloaked around acts of love. But the shame itself, that is the shameful thing."

"That's kinda profound."

"Of course it is. Now tell me all. Omit nothing. Who was your first?"

"Her name was Susan."

Emeline nods. "Susan. A pretty name."

"She'd sneak out of her house to meet me. She let me feel her up and we..."

She rolls her eyes. "And?"

"She performed fellatio on me."

Emeline smiles. "I bet she enjoyed sucking your glorious cock."

"She was a minister's daughter, a nationally-known one at that."

"It is often that way, no?"

"She used to meet me once or twice a week and go down on me. She never let me do anything else. No kissing. No intercourse. Just feeling her tits and sucking my cock."

"Why did it stop?"

"She married a minister from Trenton. She wanted to continue. She wanted to have my baby and pass it off as her husband's. I didn't think it was right and broke it off."

"She sounds fascinating. Was she all?"

"No. There was another girl in college. Lucille. We made love a few times but her family and mine were from two different worlds. It was complicated."

"A story as old as time."

"There were also others. Professional ladies."

Emeline grins. "That is no surprise. Especially during this war."

"There was a house near where I did flight training at Épernay. They were mostly French but a few Italians, too."

Emeline sips jenever. "You got to know them all, didn't you?"

"That doesn't bother you?"

"Why should it? This shame, shame, shame around sex. We are, everyone, obsessed with it. Les hypocrites most of all."

I take another sip of jenever. The stuff grows on you.

"Tell me," she asks. "Did you have a favorite at Épernay?"

"Camille."

"Camille! Tell me about your time with her."

"She'd use her mouth to get me going, then slide on a prophylactic. It was pretty standard. She lay on her back, I went into her and that was all. Not like with you."

Emeline smiles, sipping her drink.

"I bought a few hats for girls in Paris, too," I say.

"Bought a few hats? What does this mean?"

"A lot of women in Paris these days—shop girls, housewives, whomever—they're out to have fun. What with all the soldiers around and all."

"Of course. How could it be any other way?"

"And make some cash on the side."

"I see."

"It's called 'buying a girl a hat.' You buy dinner and pay for a room and when it's over..."

She shakes her head. "You go to le grand magasin and buy them a hat?"

"No. You leave them some money. You know, 'to buy a hat'. A gift, not an exchange of money for sexual services."

Emeline laughs. "The ladies of Paris are most clever."

"None of them compare to you, of course."

"No? Tell me more."

"You're more beautiful than all of them."

She gives me a mischievous glance. "Is that so?"

"It is. None of them kiss as well as you, either."

"How do you know this? Have you kissed every woman in Paris?"

"No, unfortunately."

She leans forward. "Then how can you be certain I am the best?"

I meet her gaze. "Because of how I feel when we kiss. I can't get enough of your lips. Or your tongue."

She licks her lower lip, her tongue sliding along it slowly. "Is that all you like about me?"

I place my hand on hers. "No. There's so much more."

"Such as?"

"Your hair, your eyes, your soft skin."

She inches closer. "Anything else?"

"Your breasts."

She slides still closer, meeting my gaze. "Now we are getting somewhere. What about them?"

"They're big and full and soft and I love burying myself in them."

"Then bury yourself."

I start to speak but she stops me with a finger to my lips. "No more talk. Kiss me."

I kiss her, soft and gentle.

Emeline's lips part. My tongue pushes through them, into her mouth. Her tongue is waiting, ready to receive me. Our tongues dance, twirling about as two performers in a ballet. Two sides of the same coin.

We push our lips tighter. My hands are on her breasts, squeezing them. Savoring their ampleness.

"Take me upstairs," she moans.

I stand, pulling her gently to her feet. We embrace, mouth clamping upon mouth, tongues and lips in furious motion.

I take her hand and lead her upstairs. When we get to the top, I turn to her and lift her into my arms.

"Patrice, mon chéri," she whispers. "You are so strong."

I carry her down the hall, into her bedroom. It's dark but I see enough. We fall into bed together.

I'm on top of her, kissing her neck and nibbling her earlobe.

"Oh god," she moans. "That feels good."

I stick my tongue in Emeline's ear and she shudders. "Oh my god."

On it goes. Lips, tongues, supple white neck, sensitive earlobes. All of it, again and again in a glorious jumble.

There's no order to any of it. Only my desire to give her pleasure.

Emeline lets me take control, but she's not passive. She returns my love, hands roving over my back. She cries out, spurring me on. She breathes in my ear as I kiss her neck. Our tongues do battle.

Clothing is stripped away. The process is haphazard, interrupted by frenzied kissing and groping.

"Oh, god," she moans.

First her sweater, then an unbuttoning of my shirt. The kicking off of shoes. It takes forever but that's fine. Let it. We can sleep all day tomorrow. Madame Laurent will approve.

We kiss. We caress. We discard additional articles of clothing. I'm out of my pants and down to my nightshirt. Emeline is rid of her skirt and her varied undergarments are gradually cast aside.

"I want you nude," I say.

"Then keep stripping me."

Why must there be so many layers of clothing? Buttons, hooks, clasps. It's far too much.

We grope our way forwards, kissing and stripping each other. The last sock is peeled away, the final garter removed.

Nudity at last. No more barriers. Skin against skin and my erect cock rubbing against her belly.

We roll over. Emeline is naked underneath me. Her arms clutch my back, pulling me close. We melt into one another and her smooth legs wrap around my waist.

She whispers in my ear. "I want you to fuck me hard, like I am one of the whores at Épernay."

"But you're not."

"I know. But I want you to fuck me like I am."

I hesitate.

She senses it, locking eyes with me. "Don't deny yourself. Fuck me as hard as you can. The way you would have liked to with Susan. Or Lucille. Or every whore in France."

I kiss her hard. I position my cock towards her but she shakes her head.

"Warm me up down there," she says. "Use your fingers."

Emeline guides my index inside her. "That's it. Get me nice and hot for you."

I finger her, kissing her mouth and neck. Working my way down to her tits.

Such wonderful tits! I pick one at random—her left—and suck hard on her nipple. Fingering her throughout.

Her back arches and she squeals, her mouth hanging open. "Oui. That's it. Keep going! Keep going!"

I add a second finger and give it to her harder.

"Putain oui!" she cries. Do not stop.

Her breasts heave as she moans. "Oh god, yes! Suck my tits! Suck my tits! Suce mes seins!"

Drifting between French and English already? I'm on the right track.

I keep going. Fingering her fast. Sucking on her nipple hard. Nibbling it. Biting it.

Emeline groans, crying out in.

She clutches my back, howling and screaming. Shaking. Her pussy clenches on my fingers.

"Oh, fuck," she sighs. "That was good. So fucking good. Get up here."

Emeline pulls my face to hers. Her tongue is aggressive, pushing into my mouth.

"Fuck me hard." Her breath is warm on my neck.

She points the tip of my dick at her pussy. I thrust forward and enter her. She's drenched from her climax. I push further. She pushes back, pulling me into her. I penetrate all the way inside her.

"Oh, fuck," I sigh.

Emeline gazes into my eyes, cradling the side of my face. She pulls me towards her waiting mouth. More eager tongue kissing.

I thrust into her pussy. Slow thrusts. Unhurried.

Emeline keeps one hand on the side of my face, her other on my shoulder. Her full breasts mash into my chest. I cradle her face with both hands as we kiss. Thrusting into her warm, tight pussy.

"Fuck yes," she cries. "Fuck me hard. Fuck me hard."

I speed up, hammering away. Minutes pass pounding her pussy. Such joy, such pleasure.

Time has no meaning. Only the taste of her mouth and the way her tongue twirls around my own. Her body under me as her hands wander over my shoulders. Most of all, my cock driving into her.

"That's the way," she murmurs in my ear as she kisses my neck. "Oiu."

I speed up, thrust following thrust as she clutches my shoulders. Pulling me tight. Kissing my neck. Flicking my earlobe with her tongue.

"Go on," she murmurs. "Fuck me hard. Fuck me like I am your whore."

I kiss her, still driving into her. "Is that what you want?"

"I do. Make me your whore. Make me your whore."

I thrust into her kissing her neck, my pace increasing. Growing frenzied.

Our mouths reunite. Another frantic dancing of tongues follows, rolling around each other. Wet, slobbering kissing. Better than anything I've ever experienced.

I keep thrusting into her, fucking her with manic intensity. She groans, kissing my neck.

"Is this how you fucked the whores at Eberney?" she whispers. "Is this how?"

I kiss her neck, pounding her hard. "Sometimes a different way."

"Tell me," she whispers. "What way?"

I tell her.

She kisses me hard, mostly tongue. "Then you will fuck me that way."

We rearrange ourselves. Emeline gets on her hands and knees and thrusts her plump rear end in the air. She undoes her hair, long black tresses spilling out over her shoulders.

What a view. The perfect sweep of her arched back. Her gorgeous ass.

I ease my dick into her, pressing forward. She's still wet and I enter her easily.

I grab her an ass cheek with each hand, appreciating their size and softness. Clutching them as I drive my cock into her.

"Oh, fuck," I groan.

I keep at it, speeding up. I want release. I want to explode inside of her. But not yet. Make it last.

I keep my pace under control, drilling her steadily. In and out, over and over for long minutes. Emeline moans, her pussy clenching down on my cock.

"Faster," she moans.

I can't deny her. My pace picks up, fucking her harder than before. Faster, stronger, deeper.

"Fuck me hard," she cries. "Make me your whore. I want to be your whore. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!"

No more holding back. I fuck her with all the lust I can summon.

"That's it," she squeals. "Like that! Fuck me like that. Fuck me like that!"

Emeline wails as I fuck her without restraint. As rapid and robustly as I can. Pounding away, over and over. Hard and fast.

"That's it," she screeches. "Fuck me! Fuck me! Oh, god, I'm going to cum again!"

Emeline gasps, lowering her face into her pillow. A steady wail follows.

Yes! I'm the one who does this for her. Me.

I fuck her through her long, squealing climax. In and out of her without pause.

The first signs of my approaching orgasm appear. A tingling in my dick. A growing excitement. At last.

I keep at her, thrusting my cock as deep as it'll go. Again and again.

No holding back. I'm seconds away. Almost there. So close. So close.

I thrust into her as deep as I can and hold it. Joy pours out of me as my dick throbs inside her. Pulse after pulse.

I thrust gently as the throbbing subsides. I pull out and we collapse onto the bed together. We are a mass of limbs holding each other. A happy, satisfied pair.

"That position always does it for me," Emeline says "Every time."

I'm overcome, staring into the darkness and holding Emeline's warm body tight. The only sounds are our breathing.

Outside, the rain has stopped. Moonlight streams in.

I kiss her forehead. Am I a fool? I've only known her a short time.

This can't be love, can it?

Can it?

***

Emeline goes downstairs. I lay on my back in the nude.

She returns with a bottle of jenever and one glass. I sit up and she hands them both to me. I pour some and take a sip.

She slips off her robe and lets it fall to the floor. She slides into bed and I give her the glass. She sips some and hands it back.

She rests her head on my shoulder. I kiss the top of it.

"Why must there be a war?" she says. "Why can't there be peace and me and you here together?"

"Now you're the one who sounds like an idealist. But I think you know better."

"Too true. War has always been and always will be."

I sip more jenever. "Maybe not always."

"Today it is Belgium, who else a century hence? Oh, mon Patrice, this world is a carousel of suffering. That is why people should cherish love when it comes."

Love? "Is this love?"

"I do not know."

I do.

We lay in silence for a long time. The glass gets passed back and forth. I admire her legs.

"There's so much I want to know about you," I say.

"And I you," she says.

She rests her head on my chest. I drape my arm over her shoulder. She melts into me and I'm content. My eyes wander over her form.

What'd she look like when she was my age? I can't imagine it was better than now. How could it be?

I put the glass aside and hold her. We start to drift off to sleep.

A distant whirring reaches me. I sit up.

"What is it?" Emeline asks.