To The Victor, The Spoils Ch. 01byThinkerLover©
Not quartering soldiers was a fundamental principal that America was built on during the Revolution. But one that Americans observed more in history than in practice now that more than 150 years had passed.
It wasn't that the French seemed to object to their saviours' making themselves at home in ranches and cottages across the countryside. In fact, some rather enjoyed it and almost never spoke -- even quietly -- of the fact that a similar triumphant privilege had been rolled out to the Germans only a few months before. They may have loathed the Germans but they'd have hated any foreigners in their countryside almost as much. But the French are proud survivors.
At least the Americans were out to kill krauts, the French had figured, not Frenchmen who happened to be jews, homosexuals or gypsies.
As Sgt. Heath Drecker of the 4th Mechanized Division enjoyed his lightly buttered roll at the home of one Gérard and his friendly and round wife Francine, he couldn't help but disbelieve his own damned luck.
He had come out of basic and then out of Fort Knox as a reinforcement to the 4th already months after the brutal invasion in June where the raucous failure of the modified "amphibious" Sherman tanks had drowned right off of their landing craft and left many a poor tank crew to perish, unarmed, on the bloody beach. And died as liberators -- as heroes. At least that's the way he had read about it in the newspaper in Tennessee. The men who had actually been there mostly looked like shit, now, and not at all like the victorious troops that you heard about in Roosevelt's "Fireside Chats".
It was mainly the infantry and the airborne who had won France, and only after it was all over did Sgt. Drecker's freshly-manufactured boots land on French soil and found that war was a much more pleasant experience than he had ever heard or imagined.
The wine, the girls and the cinemas in France were some of the nicest and friendliest that he had ever seen.
But what came down the stairwell, just then, was like a beautiful hangover to the frivolity of peace in France.
This hangover had a beautifully-proportioned body. Her legs stretched for miles just from the floor to the hem of her knee-length skirt and with slender-but-strong calves. Her eyes large and beautiful, if downcast. And her hair was cropped neatly only a couple of inches from her head. As a matter of fact, after three weeks into his tour without much care for his grooming, Heath dared imagine his own hair was longer than hers. Though she sported the hairstyle with a strange sexiness, Heath knew that this was not a common style among French women.
It was the neatly-trimmed growth that returned a few weeks after having her head shorn by the locals -- a cruel punishment reserved exclusively for girls who had all committed the same sin: fucking Nazis soldiers during the German occupation. And for once, Heath could empathize with a German boy who had seen such a creature.
"Sofie!" Barked her father. "Pourquoi avez-vous l'esprit ne m'a jamais?"
Heath didn't know any of what that meant but it sounded like an awful lot of American fathers he had met in his time. But 'Sofie' raised her chin in defiance as she proceeded to the icebox and removed a tall, ceramic jarafe of milk and then poured it.
"Parce que vous etes un fou stupide!" She responded. Even with only Freshman-year French, Heath knew what "stupide" was likely to be. Heath's eyes darted around the room. Francine averted her gaze and Gérard cursed under his breath as he scolded his daughter in French -- which Heath still had not learned a lick of.
But Sofie only glared at her father and at Heath on her way out the front door with her milk in-hand.
"Idiots!" She threw the door against the wall with a slam.
Heath smiled to Francine, whose face was flush with humiliation. "She has eyes like yours." He complimented her with a raise of his wine.
But Francine only grumbled in French that Heath was certain to have been indiscernible to anyone. She rose, still cursing under her breath, as she stormed out to where the laundry was hung on the line.
The next night, after local patrols in his Sherman, Heath gave the crew the night off. As he generally did. A few returned to barracks. The rest went out for some more fun in the usual variety.
But Heath returned to the home of Gérard to answer the old man's broken-English invitation for a nice dinner. Now, Heath was known to turn down some invitations to fraternize with the natives. But free food was never one of them. Of course, there were other exceptions, too.
Before his knuckles could rap the door to the countryside cottage, he heard her.
"Vous etes ici pour prendre un autre coup d'oeil á moi?"
He turned slowly to find his hangover lagging around the corner of the cottage. Her voice was soft like velvet but with a tone that was coarse as burlap.
"I'm sorry?" Heath asked.
She signaled with her hands and repeated "Vous," she pointed at him, "se moquer," she mimicked laughter, holding her belly and pointing accusingly.
She finished with, "de moi?" and, instead of pointing at herself to refer to "moi", she ran her fingers through her short-cropped hair, leaving nothing to be guessed.
"No," Heath answered. "I'm not here to make fun of you. I was invited."
She didn't seem to understand him and furthermore, didn't seem to care, either.
"Je ne vous crois pas." She muttered without interpretation of any kind.
Heath stepped away from the door and shifted a little in his starched-clean uniform.
"Look," he began. "You," he pointed at her, "are beautiful" he made up some sign representing beautiful with his hand over his face. "Belle," he said, trying in vain to impress her with one of his few French words.
She scoffed. "Merde..."
"No," heath continued. "No bullshit."
She huffed and turned to stomp away.
"Wait!" He insisted.
She didn't, only continued to storm toward the barn where her father's cows were kept.
After only a brief pause, Heath couldn't stand the thought of her leaving, being mad at him. He followed her.
"Laissez moi tranquille!" she shouted. This one he knew. It meant leave me alone. It was one he was ashamed to admit he had heard from more than one French girl since he got there.
"Fine," he said, "just tell me this: what the hell am I supposed to think about you, anyway?"
"Quois?" she shouted angrily.
He didn't even bother speaking, only pointed at her, drew an unmistakable swastika in the air and subtly pumped the air with his hips.
She slapped him.
Heath looked around the dank and musty old barn as he shook his head, his face stinging harder than it ever had done before. "Fine. I suppose that you wouldn't talk about it, would you?"
He shrugged his shoulders and turned away.
"Parfait! Au revoir, lache!" She said with finality.
Now, as far as Heath knew, a "parfait" was a dessert he didn't really care for and "au revoir" was pretty self-explanatory. But "lache" -- that was the French word for "coward".
He turned back to her with anger burning in his eyes. "Now, you listen, here, you slutty little traitor -- I know you understand exactly what I'm saying to you when I say that you'd better mind your fucking manners with me."
"Or else what?" she shot back in heavily-accented English. But...in English!
He nodded in resolution. "So, you do understand me."
"I am not stupide whore as your other French girls friends!" she answered.
He nodded, "Well, if you're so damned smart, then why don't you tell me how you got that sexy little haircut?"
She cast her eyes away with a huff. "Non! You understand me not at all!"
He shook his head, "No, you're wrong about that. I get you just fine. You like to be with successful men. Men with power. I think I understand just fine."
She scowled at him. "Then you know why I can speak like you?"
He nodded, again, "You were sleeping with a German officer to gather intel for the British," He answered matter-of-factly.
This took her off-guard, "You did not know this!"
"Mademoiselle, I'm a Sergeant in the U.S. Army patrolling this province for nearly a month, I make it my business to 'know this'." He shrugged. "Doesn't really make any difference why you did it, anyway, if you can't even appreciate the sacrifice that we've made to rescue you."
She raised her chin defiantly, "We were saved by no one!"
Heath laughed as he turned away. "One of those, huh?"
She obstinately jumped into his path, "Oui! One of those! I am!" Her eyes gleamed with passion when she rose up against him to defend her patriotic flare.
"A woman like you can't be trusted to keep her hear away from her bosom," he answered. "Don't tell me that you have the fire to fuck some man just because you are ordered to."
She shoved him hard. "I will not show you this. I know you! I know what you want!"
He brushed her hands off of him, "Listen, bright-eyes -- you've got some damn sexy gams and a nice set of tits, not to mention an amazing smile and an ass shaped for a goddess, but that doesn't mean every foreigner wants to put up with you."
Her eyes narrowed.
"No, thank you." He summarized and then briskly picked her up by her elbows and moved her out of his way.
She spat on the floor. "You not leaving!"
"Watch me, sexy." Heath muttered as he walked out the barndoor and across pasture to the nice warm meal that Sofie's mother had made for him.
This continued for three days. Heath would show up for dinner and Sofie would be waiting for him. They would argue about politics, his intentions with her family, what his right was to be called a soldier since he had never seen actual combat, etc. And every time that they argued, Heath got to know her a little better. And every time that her lips parted, he imagined them pressed against his skin. Every time that she mockingly ran her fingers through her short hair, he imagined her tight-cropped head swaying gently in the night air, tilted back with moans of pleasure.
At first it was his way of trying to embolden himself in his argument, imagining her fucking some SS Trooper and not just for information -- but because she liked being filled with his wicked, twisted German cock. But each time, Heath believed it less and less.
But on the fourth day, orders came from command to move out. Some major offensive out east. Time for some actual combat. Movement into Germany. Big stuff.
It was to be the last dinner he shared at the home of Gérard, Francine, and their beautiful daughter Sofie.
"I am not your girl friend, you understand?" she said, demanding.
He shook his head, "you'd be the worst one I'd ever had."
Her eyes fell to the ground. "There are many girls? American girls? Oui?"
He chuckled, "Oui."
She scoffed. "All the same."
His smile dissipated. "Probably," he answered.
He decided to ask her, "Don't be upset," he began, "but I can imagine it's very hard to let someone into your body and hate them, too. To allow them to violate you for your country's sake and not feel anything for them? I don't buy it, sweetheart. I don't think that anyone denies that it's only human nature."
Her eyes narrowed again. "I sleep with him for intelligence. Nothing else. I hate German."
Heath kicked the coffee-black soil of the barn, "Fine, have it your way."
"I hate you, too!" She shot at him.
He nodded. "Show me."
And with that, he turned and closed the door of the barn. He looked at her with his arms crossed.
"Absurde!" She said in rebellion.
He laughed and unlatched the barn-door, "Then let's go eat." She mimicked him. "Watch me, idiot!" And then sauntered out, mocking his American stride.
They enjoyed one last meal of glaring at one another as Gérard lavishly showered Heath with compliments for his heroism and his farewell wishes for a safe return to France that they all knew was never going to happen.
And every time that Gérard had his back turned, Heath winked in triumphant victory at Sofie, as if to rub in her face how right he had been about her all along. And each time that he did so, she fumed more.
After dinner was done and Gérard and his round wife had stumbled up to bed, drunken on wine and whiskey, Sofie marched headlong toward the barn -- pulling Heath violently by the wrist.
"Easy, honey, that's my fightin' arm," he said with a grin. Inside the barn, she threw him onto a pile of hay and turned to light the single candle in the barn.
"You're going to get my nice, 'cowardly' uniform all dirty, Mademoiselle," he chuckled.
"You remember: you are wrong about me." She warned with a menacing finger.
And then she untucked her cotton blouse and fumbled with the buttons at the neck.
"What's going on, Sofie?" He asked, suddenly serious.
"You wait there and you be silent!" She answered as she reached the hem of her blouse and pulled it high over her shorn head, spilling her perfect breasts into the cold French countryside air.
"Wait," Heath insisted.
"Non!" She answered and began working off the skirt. "I tell you. You no tell me."
Heath was stunned. Not only at how Sofie's soft-yet-perky breasts beautifully captured the glints of moonlight that filtered through narrow slats in the barn roof, but far more at his own reluctance to give her the opportunity to prove that she could fuck and not love.
"You don't have --" he stammered.
But before he was done, her soft, modest knee-length skirt cascaded into a puddle of cotton at her feet.
His eyes followed from her leather heels to the top of her naked head.
There was a permeating silence as he lay wide-eyed, admiring the perfection of her nakedness.
"Amazing," he whispered.
She stepped out of her skirt-puddle and toward him. Her tightly-gathered bush only obscuring his view of her womanly mound as her shoes softly and silently landed on the cold, earthen barn floor.
"Remove this." She ordered as she tapped his knee with the toe of her shoe.
He obeyed as quickly as possible, unbuckling his pants and pulling them down to his ankles. Beneath, his own soldier stood erect and engorged, calling for her vengeful body to enclose it with her warmth.
"You are smaller." She mocked.
He laughed, "Well, it's a good thing you're only doing it for king and country, Sofie."
Her face's expression became grave as they both realized that this was the first time that he had called her by her name. She gracefully descended to her knees, soiling them in the earth. Her right hand extended over his lap and her eyes followed it to rest with the palm of her hand on the tip of his slippery manhood.
"I never see one like this one," she said.
He looked at her, confused.
She indicated to his penis as she rolled the tip around in wide circles, caressing the hardened, bare point in her soft, moist palm - "No skin."
He nodded as he gazed down at his circumcised cock. "Well, they don't let you in the army any other way, babe."
She shook her head, "Is cruel, this. To do to young boys." He rolled his eyes. "What's cruel is what you're doing now, baby."
Her eyes looked up to his. As she rolled his cock between her fingers, candlelight showed him that her own nipples stood on end.
"Cold," she said, noticing his gaze.
He smiled, "...right."
Then her hand slid down his shaft, pulling him tight and teasing the base of his manhood.
"Oh, fuck me!" Heath muttered as his body tensed with horrible anticipation.
She stroked him again and again, his skin wrapping itself in a warm quilt of lust. Then she straddled his hips, resting his erect cock on her hairy lap.
"Yes," he said, "Convince me."
She winked at him, "Je vous menti."
He shook his head, "whatever you say, darling, just scream it at the top of your lungs.
She smiled, "Je vous menti," and she rose high onto one knee and descended again, stuffing his hard dick inside her tight pussy.
"Oh, fuck!" called Heath.
"Oui," she answered.
She slowly began shifting her pelvis on his lap, squeezing him deep inside of her warm, wet body.
"...je vous menti..." she repeated.
Heath reached up and stroked a fore finger down her chest and around the contours of her right breast. He ran two fingers around the cup of her stiffening areola and then cupped both breasts in his hands.
"...merde!" whispered Sofie. "Tout ce que vous les Américains!"
Heath like the sound of that, whatever it was. He suddenly found himself pumping his hips as he had once done to mimic the Nazi soldier that she had screwed before him. As he thrust himself deeper and deeper into her, he ran his thumbs gently over her nipples, teasing them slowly as her brow's deepening arch began to betray her lust. The sensation warmed her body in his very hands.
"...vous aimez les filles françaises, non?" She whispered seductively.
Heath ran his fingers down her narrow trunk to her round hips and then cupped them over her warm, smooth buttocks. As she bounced freely on him, her breathing became irregular. Gulps and gasps for air, interspersed with French words.
"...faites-le vite!" she ordered.
Heath continued to pump himself inside of her body, his own body nearing it's climax.
"...faites-le vite!" she repeated, again.
Her own hands touched her supple skin as her olive cheeks flushed red. The hands ran up her trunk to her breasts where she grabbed her nipples fiercely between her fingers and caressed herself passionately.
Between the two of them, her French waters splashed on him, slipping him in and out as her body began to softly squeeze him.
Then, she suddenly slowed and looked him in the eyes. She leaned her body forward, resting her hands in the hay beneath him, her breasts dangling with their erect nipples lightly brushing his uniform. And Heath's cock bent unnaturally upward as her pussy squeezed him from above.
"...embrasse-moi.." she whispered, suddenly stopping.
"Don't stop," Heath pleaded.
"...embrasse-moi..." she repeated.
She gyrated her hips on him ever so slightly and repeated, "...kiss me..."
He obeyed. She pumped his climaxing cock with a tight squeeze unlike anything his body had experienced before.
"á nouveau..." she ordered.
He kissed her, again, pressing his lips firmly to hers.
She pumped again.
He kissed her passionately, tracing the line of her soft lips with his tongue, her own tongue teased his as her body arched to and fro on his yearning penis, forcing him to slowly erupt until all of the strength in his body seemed to pour from him into her along with thick, creamy love.
And then, she rocked him until she had thoroughly climaxed, riding his body until there wasn't an ounce of him left.
"...your...American...girls...non...do...this..." she said, finally tipping her head back and letting out a gasp of air: "...Sainte Marie!" she cried with her might and her body shook on top of him, violently as her juices drowned his skin with pleasure.
And she collapsed on top of him.
As Heath and Sofie lay, partially dressed on the floor of Gérard's barn, he ran his fingers through her hair. "Sofie?"
"What does 'je vous menti' mean?" he asked.
Her long, slender arms wrapped around his torso tight, not wanting him to see her face as she wept. "I lie to you."
His brow furrowed. "Did you?"
She sniffled. "No woman give herself to a man without some love. I did care for him. I cannot help myself."
He nodded, "and me?"
She didn't answer, only held him closer.
"Will you come back to me? After it is over?"
He twisted the short strands of her hair between his fingers. "Yes," he answered.
"This is a lie..." she said with finality.
He gazed at the stars far above them through the slats in the barn roof and answered, "Yes, it is."