A French Resistance

His body hits the hay, and is soaked up like a stone in wet sand. Lying on his back, his chest heaves with exhaustion.

He groans. A minute passes. His breathing calms.

One eye is bruised shut but the other opens marginally, with effort, readjusting slowly to the gloom. The barn's roof is high with dusty light peaking through in shafts. His eye shuts. Slowly, he becomes aware of the feeling of straws pushing insistently at his skin. The hay offering a acupuncture. It hurts slightly, but he likes the intrusion. He likes the precision. It offsets the indiscreet burning pain in his leg that he dare not inspect. Shrapnel? Maybe. His mind ricochets back: the rattle of bullets, the burning tail, the plume of black smoke, the parachute. If his ears weren't still ringing with the shrill reminders of old explosions, he'd be able to hear the buzz of a distant dogfight overhead. But, cradled in the hay, he is alone.

She is in the cowshed when the plane comes down. There's a growl of an engine, her stool quivers and she hears the heavy forest canopy cave in. She knows it's close. The closest yet. The wreckage will be on their land. She tries to remember what the wind was like. If it's stayed easterly, the parachute will come down on the farm, over by the barn. That's if there is a parachute. She carefully stands up, ties her long sandy hair into two quick pigtails and leaves the shed.

Wiping her hands down the front of her dress she crosses the yard, quickly. Her eyes scan the cottage. It's Sunday afternoon and the lack of movement probably means her Papa is unconscious. He's slumped over the kitchen table so she removes half empty bottle of wine from his grip and tucks it under her arm. From the pantry she grabs a lump of cheese, half a baguette and, on the way out, takes a roll of bandage from the cupboard in the hall.

His brain is slow; maybe concussion, he thinks. Firmly, he forces himself to start again, to think it through. He was flying due North when he was hit, his altitude was… two thousand at least, his co-ordinates…his co-ordinates…it was futile, they were gone. He could be anywhere in Northern France, miles from the channel, with a leg that was throbbing in agony. Suddenly, a creak. His mind flies back and he skitters further into the hay. Too late, the sound's given him away, the door's opening.

"Monsieur?"

The voice is soft.

"Monsieur? Friend… friend."

He looks up, through one eyelid. The door is half open; the afternoon light dusts the floor. First he sees the food and wine, and then he sees the girl. She's young: nineteen or twenty. Her dress is blue and white, and her hair streams gold in the sunlight. With great effort, he sits upright.

"Lieutenant Turner, Mademoiselle." His mouth is dry and the words crack like plaster. "Her Majesty's Royal Air Force. Number one six five two two nine seven."

"Ah… Anglais!"

She laughs and moves closer to the haystack. His eyes are both open now and he stares at her intently. He watches her crouch by his feet. Watches her place the cheese and the bread on the floor. Watches her take a handkerchief from her pocket and spit into it. She leans over him, bringing her face close to his. She begins to wipe the dirt off his face, running her cloth over his brow, down under his chin and across his neck. He watches her eyes dart back and forward across his face. She seems to know what she's doing. Resistance, he thinks?

Maybe. It would be a miracle.

"My leg," he croaks.

"Non… c'est petit," she replies, "No… blood."

She sits back and hands him the wine and food, kneeling in front of him and, now satisfied, smiling again. He takes the wine and glugs it with relish, finishing the bottle. Then he begins to eat. The bread is soft and fresh, the cheese strong. He works it over in his mouth, turning the flavour over and over on his tongue. She is watching him eagerly. He realises he is chewing frantically and, not wanting to offend, he slows and lies back, turning his head away from her. He doesn't want to appear ungrateful but, in the red wine-soaked miasma of the French afternoon, he feels the gradual onset of fatigue. The edges of his consciousness begin to curl in upon themselves. His eyes shut, heavily.

"Non," says the girl, shaking his knee. "Réveiller… awake, awake."

He hears her, but she is a distant voice, the end of a bad radio connection. His mind turns black.

There is a hand on his crotch. His consciousness unfurls like a kite. He's back with the sharp prods of hay, the barn roof, the gloom and the tall shafts of sifted light. His eyes blink away the coating of weariness. His mind comes into focus. There is a hand on his crotch. He looks down.

She's gazing up at him with big mischievous eyes, her small fingers squeezing at him through his khaki trousers.

"Shhhh…" She says, as his legs tense up. "You can not sleep. Dangerous."

She runs her hand down under his balls and then up over his erection as it grows and takes shape beneath her fingers. Grinning widely, she clutches at it with her fingers, before unclasping his trouser button and tugging down his flies.

He winces in pain as she pulls his knees apart and settles between them in the hay. Not pausing to apologise she bends her wrist and reaches her hand down the front of his trousers, taking hold of his erection and pulling it free from his pants. Moaning, the lieutenant curves his good leg around her back and pulls her towards him, but she resists, smiling up at him through wide eyes. Lowering her gaze, she takes hold of his cock and begins to gently stroke, very slowly, her mouth falling slightly open. His foot more insistently pushes on her back, to let her know where he wants her to be. This time she obliges, reaching forward and wrapping her moist lips around his head. Her tongue flicks over the top of him, tasting the very tip. Her mouth is small and his cock is big but, stretched wide, she can draw half of him into her mouth, filling her up. He moans excitedly as she begins to establish a rhythm, licking him up and down.

His breathing begins to get ragged and his pelvis starts to thrust deeper into her mouth with every movement. His hands come down and hold her head, guiding her deeper until she can feel him at the back of her mouth. Taking hold of her pigtails he pulls, his breathing desperate. At the back of her throat, she repositions herself before attempting to swallow. After a little resistance, he pushes straight down. Her throat feels tight and squeezes at him and his cock pulses inside her. She takes him all, inch by inch, until her lips reach his stomach. Her pigtails are in his fists, his head is thrown back and his breathing is fast and broken. She comes up, releasing him from her throat, gasping for air and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Giggling, she stands up.

He writhes in the hay and, standing in front of him, she watches with pleasure. A moment later, she brings her hands up and begins to slowly undo the buttons on her dress. There are six and he stares as her tiny fingers unclasp them slowly, from top to bottom. Six tiny white buttons. When she has unfastened them all she slips the dress from her shoulders, letting it fall to her waist. The light plays softly across her skin, crescenting the rounds of the breasts, sweeping shadow into the indentation of her navel. She works the tight dress down over her hips, and lets it fall to the ground. In her small white knickers now she steps out of the dress and towards him.

His gaze is hungry. It darts and dives, following the curve from waist to hips, the light contours of her flat stomach, the length of her legs but always drawn back, back to her soft, full breasts and her small brown nipples. She reaches up and loosens her hair, shaking the bunches free to fall in long messy arcs over her chest. His gaze falls. Her skin is all deep browns and warm ochres next to the pure white of her underwear. Above, the sounds of battle have faded and the barn is quiet. The soft afternoon sunlight laps at her body as she turns, exposing the pert curve of her ass. He can feel himself throbbing. She hooks her fingers beneath the cotton panties and runs them down over her ass, tugging them away from her thighs and letting them drop to the barn floor. He notices she is hairless, her stomach falling smoothly away to the space between her legs. Turning, she steps away from her panties and returns to the hay, dropping again to her knees and wrapping her mouth around him again, now achingly hard.

Stretching his arms out, he splays his fingers into the hay. As the girl sucks harder and his grip tightens, he yanks handfuls of straw from the bales. Across his body the hay's prods had spread him out, made him aware of his surfaces, the contours of his shape. But now her mouth is centring him again, drawing him together into a tight knot of pressure.

The residual sensations from the fighting, the explosion, coursing through his extremities fade as the girl's soft warm mouth makes the heat and tension and throbbing grow where her mouth meets his stomach. He tries to resist his urges to indulge in the release that the ebbing of the girl's lips and the coursing of her tongue along his cock bring him nearer and nearer to. He strains, his head and neck arched back into the hay, the ends of the straw nicking his shoulders from the pressure. She acknowledges his writhing, but her previously quaint and servile air seems to have been discarded with her blue dress and knickers, crumpled and moist on the dusty barn floorboards. Just as she recalled her wounded lieutenant from the brink of sleep, she now forces him away from the crest her moist lips, wet tongue, and tight throat have brought him so dangerously close to.

As she forces him deep into her, once again burying her face into his hips, his skin, his pelvis, his sweat, his scent, she digs her nails into him, clawing his lower back, ass, his thighs, smearing blood from the shrapnel as she swallows him. The nerves in his legs seem to switch on, their sudden reclamation of sensation nearly as painful as his maid's talons. She continues to hold him against her, pressing into him, holding her breath. She can feel him swell inside of her, pressing against the sides of her throat, threatening to burst inside of her. Just as she feels him begin to quiver, the first pulse of his shaft seeming to resonate against her tongue, she pulls him out of her, stiffly and commandingly gripping his base, holding and restraining him from that release. He is gasping for air, struggling to contain himself, willing his own restraint, his retreat from the cliff he is so stiffly, rigidly perched on, desperate to prolong his captivity, his submission. He tries to relax, letting his head rest heavily on the hay, focusing on a rafter to hold his precarious, though critical, concentration.

He doesn't notice the girl lean backwards, keeping one hand firmly rooted where he is swollen. His attention is so focused on the beam and her warm fingers he doesn't hear the rustle of the leather cord on the floor or see it flick into the air at the corner of his vision. The burn brandished across his flank by the tongue of the whip startles him, snapping his head forward, his eyes quick to find the firm, smooth, nude silhouette straddling his vulnerable body. This time he sees her raise her fist, her small fingers curved around the heavy handle, and watches, almost in slow motion, as the leather strap uncoils from the base of the hay stack, wicking away bits of chaff, arcing over her head, imitating the curve of her breasts, back, ass, and snapping towards his flushed, beaded, flexed stomach. Before he even feels this second sting, raw yet pleasurable, she has flayed herself over him, roughly forcing his arms above his head, his wrists pressed together into the sharp hay under one of her soft hands.

He feels the slightest twinge in his injured leg again as she forces his legs together, pressing his thighs together between her own, smooth though strong. It seems the only part of him he has been allowed any agency over is his eyes, which avidly and hungrily lap across her splayed legs, smooth cunt, flat stomach, delicate ribs, and then, more slowly, over her smooth ripe breasts, her nipples seemingly near enough his face that he can feel her warmth. She is stretched forward over him, holding his strong arms in place. For a second she is seduced by his raincloud eyes, the yellow flecks sprinkled in his irises pulling her in. In that momentary lapse of concentration, he braces against her, her hold slipping just enough that he can raise his head enough to enclose one of her firm, warm, and erect nipples between his parched lips. He can't tell whether her gasp comes from her shock at the warm wetness engulfing the tip of her breast or at the nip, inviting her further into him. But it is unmistakably an indication of pleasure. In retaliation, she throws herself down upon his torso, suddenly ramming him into her, plunging his head, and then all of him into her warm depths, drowning his shaft in her interior allowing him to swell and fill her as she begins to raise herself up and down on top of him, contracting around his cock, as her own pleasure mounts and begins to overtake her control, over herself and her aroused soldier.

She moans, uncontrollably, as he throws her onto her back against the hay, unconscious now of any pain, only of his desperation to force himself further into her, of the throbbing that swells as he continues to as he enters and reenters her, feeling how slick she is as he pulls out of and returns into her. The hay is under his hands now, his knees barely grazing the straw as he slides in and out of her, faster and faster, deeper and deeper. He strains, pushing intensely against her pelvis, deep inside of her, right on the edge. He feels her legs wrapped around his back, forcing him into her as deeply as she can, holding him inside of her, and then he feels her tighten around his cock, her breathing faster and faster. Just as she catches her breath, her moans broken as her whole body tenses and shudders, he pulls out of her, thrusting into her over and over again. He can feel the explosion move in waves through her, the heat and pulses storming into him as he enters her – and then he grips her, the wave that crashes over him somehow more powerful even than the enemy fire, the explosion, the unfurling of his parachute.

He presses into her, the two of them tensing against each other, and digs his teeth into the firm flesh of her shoulder, clamping her skin, bracing with that final release, deep into her. The sharpness and acuteness of his bite, peaking the sensation of the stiffness and pressure of him inside her, makes her erupt once more, as he cums within her, her screams unnecessary, though thrilling, evidence of the climax thrusting spasms through her body and flushing her face.

And then, stillness, the two bodies once drawn and cocked, now resting against each other, flesh cooling. Though exhausted, he pushes himself onto one elbow, still above and inside of her, and uses his other hand, though it still tingles, to push her damp hair out of her eyes and off her forehead. He kisses her, his lips seeming to rest on hers gratefully, then he slowly shifts his weight off of her and onto the hay. He remembers the pain in his leg and though he makes no visible indication of it. She immediately remembers too, however, and reaches for the bandaging she has brought as he limply and heavily relaxes into the straw. She gently lifts his leg and rests his foot on one of her knees, allowing his leg to bend slightly. She wraps his leg and rinses away the blood with her handkerchief and a bucket of water from near the troughs. She removes some of the hay from behind the stack and creates a second mount to rest his leg on, keeping his wound elevated. Then she gathers a woolen blanket from a loft just above them, stepping daintily two steps up a ladder to reach it, and draws it over both of their tired, naked bodies. She curls herself around him, cradling him in her warm, soft, bare skin, reminding him of what has just passed as he finally surrenders to sleep in her arms.