The Labyrinth of Passion (romantic experiences)

by Charles Westmont

  She filled her pail with warm water, placing the sponge and the bar of Savon de Marseille on the night table. She saw his face still immobile. She began to remove the blanket and pulled his pants down. “This is demanding a good washing,” she said. She began unwrapping the shoulder bandages pulling at them very slowly. She was happy to see that no blood surfaced. He was naked except for his underwear.

  After soaking the sponge with warm water and rubbing in the soap, she began to wash him, barely touching his skin at first. She came down to his belly, when she saw a yellow circle spreading on the front of his briefs. “He is urinating in his underwear,” she murmured. She looked at his face, it was still motionless. After a few moments of hesitation, with her eyes shut, she proceeded to remove his trunk. Taking an inquisitive glance at his face, she turned to his genitals. She was reassured to find that they looked like those she had seen in the art books. Only last year, Anna, her good friend accompanied her to the school library to secretly remove a large book of Renaissance paintings. They felt satisfied and proud that they had taken their sexual education into their own hands. “This is much less embarrassing than asking stupid questions. And it is so simple,” she confessed to Anna.

  She took the sponge and cleaned around his genitals. When she started wiping his penis, the organ began to rise, pointing to her. She pulled back in horror. She glanced at his face, no change, no movement. She turned to his penis and to her stupefaction, it kept growing out of his pubic hair. She felt herself blushing. She quickly pulled the blanket over his body and ran out of the room closing the door.

  All day, she was overwhelmed and haunted by the morning’s discovery. She could not ignore the strange tingling of excitement at the thought of his growing penis pointing at her. It took a while before she could gather the courage to return. “I have to change the dressing on his wound,” she thought, trying to give herself good conscience. She finally came in the room and uncovered him to his belly. She was putting a last pin on his dressing, when her left eye saw a bulge growing under the blanket. “This penis must have a mind of its own,” she said to herself, having noticed no change in his facial expression. She began lowering the blanket over the bulge. She stood still, overtaken by a sudden burst of excitement, and struggled to catch her breath.

  Her stomach was tingling uncontrollably. With renewed determination, she moved the blanket out of the way. She approached the erection with her eyes closed. She lifted her hand and touched the hard penis with the tip of her index. She opened her eyes to see the darting organ continue emerging. She thought for a moment that she would faint from a combination of embarrassment, excitement and fear. She pulled back and began slipping the clean underwear along his legs, hoping to tame the aggressive organ. She had a last look at the dressing and left the room, still trembling from the excitement.

  She lay stretched on her bed for hours. She was covering her face with her night robe. Her half naked body was shivering from the cool, late winter breeze entering through the window. She could not remove from her mind’s eye the events of the afternoon. The more she thought of the American, the more disturbed she felt. Seeing his penis erect, pointing at her, increased the rhythm of the unusual tingling in her belly. Or was it her stomach…? She could feel the warmth between her thighs. She moved her hand between her legs. She felt her vagina swelling at her touch and pulsing slightly. The brush of her finger was accentuating the sensation. She became so aroused that she felt her insides erupt in a fireball of pleasure. She brought her hands to her face. She was fainting. Suddenly, she felt peaceful and calm. She was asleep.

  The next morning, she found that Mamie’s door was closed. Hélène had returned from Larochelle overnight. Catherine ran to the bakery next door and helped herself to a chocolatine and a croissant. The baker’s face brightened at the sight of his favorite client. “Good morning, my Sunshine!”

  She had grown accustomed of his morning effusions. She knew that she was a happy moment of his day. She moved closer to the counter to bless him with an enticing smile, and waived her hazelnut mane like a tigress. “Good morning, Antoine.”

  She was back in the kitchen brewing fresh coffee and reliving her memories from last night’s events. She felt Mamie approaching her from behind and gently pressing her lips on the back her neck. They sat together at the table. Mamie was bursting joyfully with the fresh news of her cousin and his family at Larochelle.

  The death of Boone

  Catherine told Mamie about the wounded American. Together, they entered the secret room. She was surprised to see the agent sitting on the side of his bed. He was posting a broad smile, somewhat soothing her secret apprehensions. “What a pleasure to meet you. I must apologize, but I do not know where I am or who you are. My name is Frank Boone,” he said, extending his hand in their direction, his face wincing with pain.

  They approached him and eased him back on the bed. With a frown, Mamie told him, “You have to be careful. You have been unconscious for three days.” Lying calmly on the pillow, he looked at them. “I remember the attack on the German convoy. The gentleman pulling me from the car, the shot, but…” He turned in pain. Mamie held his hand. “You are talking too much. Victor will be back tomorrow.” Catherine went on to explain the last few days’ events, following his rescue. That night, she prepared dinner and helped him to the dining room. She found that Boone made very pleasing and interesting conversation. When he looked at her, she blushed, unable to repel the thoughts of the pleasure and of the embarrassment that she had experienced, on his account.

  A few days later, at nightfall Catherine was standing at the window overlooking the park. The well-known noise of a Gestapo convoy approaching pulled her from daydream. Soldiers ran swiftly across the park and surrounded a lone man sitting near the fountain. She recognized Boone and immediately ran down the stairs calling, “Pappie! Pappie! The Germans are after the American in the park.” Victor entered the room and they heard shots. From the window, they saw a group of German soldiers surrounding Boone bleeding to death, sprawled on the park bench. “Les sales batards!” Victor swore between his teeth as he turned to run up the stairs to the attic to prepare to transmit the incident to the British headquarter.

  Every second evening at twenty-one-hundred hours, the Gestapo’s maintenance crew serviced the ground radar mobile unit. This left a twenty five minutes window that Victor would use to transmit across the Channel. Victor came out of the back room. He had just sent the encrypted message announcing the unfortunate shooting of the American when a red light signal called him back with an immediate answer. He sat at the radio and decoded the message from the tape: The Unicorn will ride the day after tomorrow. He immediately recognized the coded message that he had transmitted to his controller for the next delivery. “The blasted Englishmen did not waste any time,” the code implied that he would pick up a replacement for Boone on the hills of Riberac within two days.

  He left his secret room and came to the dinner table. Catherine was refilling Mamie glass of red wine. “A little more wine to finish the Roquefort,” Mamie began, and Victor and Catherine continued, their voices singing in unison “And a little more Roquefort to finish the wine.” The three were laughing wholeheartedly, a rare occurrence in these difficult times.

  Later that evening, when she let herself fall on the couch she began wondering why the agent had ventured out of hiding despite her grandfather’s warning. Victor had often repeated that it was too dangerous these days to venture out of the house. For quite some time, the Germans had been reportedly very edgy and the Gestapo appeared to be everywhere. Nobody could be trusted. One never knew when someone would talk for a favor. Catherine felt a deep sadness for Boone. He was a kind and generous man and unknowingly, he had been responsible for a first exciting experience. She had somehow used him, while he was in a coma, his penis being thoroughly awake.

  Prelude to an aggression

  At the British Army’s Special Services HQ, in London, on the eve of February 11t
h, 1944, the single flame of the chandelier danced wildly, but did not appear to disturb the two officers speaking softly, despite the blasts of the bombs falling nearby. “We have to bring an end to this mess. The explosions are getting closer every night. Damn V1s!” The Colonel, who was inspecting the map of France on the wall behind his impeccably polished Chippendale desk, was flicking his Zippo to fire his Meerschaum. “For the tenth time that night,” thought Parson.

  “Well Colonel, I understand the gravity of the situation. With the termination of Boone, who was our only reliable asset behind enemy lines in the south west, we lost our capability to confirm enemy positions, strengths and movements. The Dordogne brothers’ recent transmission announced the arrival of two elite Panzer divisions from Normandy to Larochelle. We may be fooling that Hitler bastard after all, but we cannot take the chance of diverting operations without a reliable confirmation.” Parson appeared uncomfortable, twisting his lanky body on the old leather armchair.

  “As you say, old chap, we need fail-safe confirmation of Hitler’s every move, and that means a report from one of our blokes. At this critical stage of our strategy, we cannot rely on a native Frenchman, who could be selling his services for the best offer,” Parson looked uneasy. “Well Colonel, we have no reason to doubt the Dordogne Brothers, the leaders have been quite a reliable duo in their support of our infiltrations. However, as you say old chap, there is too much at stake to take any kind of risk.” With a smirk on his face, he continued. “We certainly cannot trust the snotty, long legged Frog General and ask for his support. His oversized nose is still out of joint after we refused to crown him King of England upon his arrival on the islands. It would not surprise me if he was secretly seeking an alliance with Hitler, in revenge.”

  “Sorry, Colonel, did you hear the knock on the door?” The officer removed the lock and cautiously opened the door. A towering giant in full battledress stood at attention. “Good evening sir, Spalding reporting.” The Colonel did not move from his chair. “Come in Spalding. Thank you for responding so promptly to my request. You must be quite exhausted from your long roller-coaster flight in the belly of a bomber. America seems so much farther every day with this interminable war. Please let me introduce you to Captain Parson.” The newcomer raised his hand in salute. “Quite proud to finally meet you, sir. I am a great admirer. The Channel’s airspace seems less secured since you discarded your Spitfire to take your new responsibilities at HQ.” The Colonel indicated for Spalding to sit.

  “Let us get to business. We need your assistance on a matter of extreme importance and urgency. We need you to enter South West France and confirm troop movements along the coast. We have a report from the underground that Hitler has moved a few divisions from Normandy to Larochelle. Normandy is too dangerous for a direct, frontal attack at this time, unless the Panzers divisions are diverted elsewhere. The South West underground, and especially the two Dordogne Brothers, have proven quite helpful in recent years with the support of our undercover operations. Unfortunately, our best asset, an American named Boone, was captured and terminated yesterday, after three years of undercover work in the South West. We still need confirmation of any German troop movements in the area that may appear to be forecoming according to the Resistance. All you need to know is that the task is of prime importance and may be vital to your country.” Spalding listened carefully to every word, focusing on the Colonel’s virile features, distorted by the candlelight.

  At the first pause, Parson interrupted the conversation “We will be infiltrating you by air tomorrow night. I will be flying you to a secured village in Dordogne, where you will be taken over by the underground. Just pray that I have not lost my touch with the broom stick. We will be flying in the middle of a severe storm forecasted for the South West of France. This means fog thicker than Canadian pea soup.” Spalding was already standing at attention and turning towards the Colonel. “Sir, I will be ready and I request immediate dismissal. I have not slept for a few days and would like to regain full form for tomorrow night.” The Colonel returned his salute “Dismissed. And good luck, Spalding.”

  The plane had left England climbing over the heavy cloud cover and was now diving toward Riberac. “Get ready, Spalding, I will not stay long near the ground, the German DCA is not very far from the landing field.” The Englishman was tightening the strap of his bag. “All ready to jump, sir!” Spalding released his heavy duffle bag out of the door when the wheels touched the ground. “Goodnight and God bless, sir.” What seemed like seconds later, he was rolling in the heavy grass. He jumped to his feet with the ease of a panther, surprised by the glacial wind that slapped his face. He started running back to grab his bag and he saw the lights of a car flashing in the distance. He ran to the car, hardly impeded by the heavy bag. The night was pitch dark and foggy, but his instincts were guiding him in the general direction of the intermittent flashing lights.

  The dark form of the Citroen appeared in the meadow. “Here he is, Victor!” Louis stopped and ran to the newcomer. “Welcome to France! I am Louis, this is Victor, our leader.” He embraced the Englishman and released him for Victor’s embrace. Louis grabbed his bag and they ran to the car. They departed in the dark night, their lights out. “We are never too cautious these days,” said Victor, “These blasted Krauts make me so nervous. They seem to appear everywhere, without notice.” Louis slammed the brakes, turned the car toward the nearby brushes and killed the engine. Soon a long Benz limousine was moving slowly past their position in the deep fog, followed by a platoon of foot soldiers. After a fifteen minute wait, Louis advanced cautiously toward the road embankment. He turned and rising, he waived, “Victor! You can bring the car.” They came to the house without further incident and Victor showed Spalding to the secret room.

  The rape of Catherine

  It was late in the evening and Victor was still at the dinner table with Mamie, Spalding, the Englishman and Louis. Catherine had left for her room. Her soul was filled with the wonderful musical notes, flowing from her agile fingers that caressed the violin. Every evening, she would retire to play Nocturnes from the Fauré and Bizet repertory on the piano. The music was for her fragile soul, divine daily nourishment that she could seldom do without. She realized that she had left the table quite some time ago, yet everyone was still sitting there, conversing animatedly. She placed her instrument aside when she heard Victor saying, “It is fair to assume that I will not get the parts to fix our transmitter for a few days, maybe a week.” Spalding looked desperate. “I must brief HQ about the German troops’ movement, at the latest by tomorrow.”

  “The only transmitter part available is at my brother’s farm in Brantôme,” Victor replied.

  With the mention of Brantôme, Spalding, an Oxford history major, remembered the writings of the man. Brantôme had described the French courtesan’s life with explicit detail, focusing mainly on their sexual preferences. He had paid special attention to homosexuality, sadomasochism and oral stimulation.

  Lighting a cigarette, Victor continued, “The Gestapo has literally sealed Brantôme. I hear reports of secret activities from my brother, but we have not been able to communicate for ten days. It is too risky for us to go at this time. We would immediately arouse suspicion.” Catherine approached the table. “I will go, Pappie. I often visit Uncle George. The Germans have seen me there on my bicycle. They will not suspect a thing”.

  Mamie Hélène frowned. “It is far too dangerous at this time. This is not a game for young girls.” Catherine began to object, when Victor interrupted. “Catherine is right, and it is critical that we send this information. She will use your bicycle with the special tubing.” Mamie stood up, “I will go then.” Victor interjected, “Come to your senses Mamie! a woman of your age would not fool anyone. Riding your bicycle will arouse immediate suspicion, while a young girl visiting her family will appear perfectly innocent.”

  The next morning Victor and Catherine were hard at work in the garage, “That should do fine!
” Victor was screwing the transversal bar and placed the bicycle on the back seat of the car. Mamie came to hold Catherine in an embrace. “Be careful my angel, I love you and I will pray for your safety.” After a long hug, Catherine hopped on the front seat and Victor drove off. She felt so good of being old enough to play her part. She could not even consider the possibility of danger.

  Just outside of Bourdeille, she jumped on her bicycle. She barely heard Victor’s nervous goodbye. Deep in her thoughts, she did not even notice that she had entered Brantôme. She was coming closer to the famous spire. “The oldest in Europe,” as her uncle George kept repeating. Then, she saw a large Benz move from across the street and block her progression. She stopped to see the back door open.

  A tall German officer of the Gestapo came limping to her side, asking, “What is a lovely young woman doing in this dangerous zone?” Fear was crushing her heart. Trembling, she still found the strength to mutter: “I came to visit my aunt. She had her anniversary yesterday.”

  The officer seemed amused and was aroused by the sound of her voice. He turned to the car “Herman, bring this young lady and her bicycle to my office. I will walk through the park and cross the little bridge. I will meet you there.”

  The German commander had elected to locate his office just down the road from the Porte des Réformés, on the Boulevard de Coligny edging of the river. Set within a chalky limestone cavern, the interior of this former Troglodyte home gave him a broad view of everything moving in Brantôme.

  Catherine was sitting in a large leather armchair. Her feet could not touch the floor. Apprehensive, she watched the soldier blocking the office’s exit. His podgy look did not inspire any fear in her, but the arrival of the limping officer ignited turmoil in her heart. He came in, towering over the soldier. He looked very impressive in his ankle length black leather overcoat. “Dismissed soldier!” he ordered with a high pitch tone, that frightened Catherine to her bone marrow. He moved toward the massive desk and unbuttoned his leather coat, throwing it on top.