Wrapped in a blue velvet robe, Mahoney lay on his bed in the Hotel Saint Germain and smoked his cigar. He was cleanly shaven and cologne had been applied generously to his face and neck. His hair had been brushed and he looked almost handsome, despite the few lingering bruises and welts on his face.
On the next bed, Cranepool lay and smoked a cigarette. He too was shaven and well groomed and wore a maroon robe.
“This is the life, huh Sarge?” he asked, blowing smoke rings into the air.
“You bet your fucking ass,” Mahoney replied.
“Gee, just imagine—a few weeks ago we were sleeping in mud holes and killing Germans, and now here we are in a hotel in Paris.”
“That’s war, kiddo.”
“How long you think we’ll stay here?”
“Not long I imagine. Sooner or later we’ll have to rejoin our company, because if we don’t they’ll start carrying us on their morning report as AWOL, and if we’re AWOL some crazy fucking M.P. might shoot us on sight.”
“You think maybe tomorrow, Sarge?”
“Maybe.”
There was a knock on the door. Mahoney and Cranepool leapt out of their beds.
“You think it’s the girls?” Cranepool asked, dashing to the dresser mirror and smoothing down his blond hair.
“Must be,” Mahoney replied excitedly, joining Cranepool at the mirror and looking at himself. He wiped a crumb from the corner of his eye, pursed his lips, and examined his teeth.
There was another knock. Mahoney ran to the door and opened it wide. His jaw dropped open and his eyes spun around like cherries in a one-arm bandit. Standing before him were two gorgeous blond females who were identical twins, each carrying a bottle of Calvados brandy and two glasses.
“Bonjour,” said one of the blondes. “How are you?” she asked in fractured English. “We are here to have some fun.”
Mahoney stepped to the side and beckoned toward the interior of the room. “We speak French,” he said in French. “Please come in.”
The two blondes sashayed into the room. “Oh, what a lovely place,” one of them said.
They entered the room and handed the Calvados and glasses to Mahoney and Cranepool, who placed them on the dresser. Then Mahoney closed the door and locked it. Turning around, he saw Cranepool standing transfixed in the middle of the room, staring at the girls. The part of his robe in front of his groin was beginning to protrude.
Mahoney looked at the girls and his brain was reeling. There are some women who look like whores, he thought, some women who look like movie stars, and some women who look like the girl next door. These twins looked like a little bit of each, and Mahoney figured they were around twenty-five years old.
“Well,” he said, rubbing his hands together, “we might as well all get acquainted. My name’s Mahoney, and this here is my buddy, Cranepool.”
The blonde on the left wrinkled her nose. “What kind of strange names are they?”
“They’re regular American names,” Mahoney said.
“But I do not think I can pronounce them.” She looked at her sister. “Can you?”
Her sister shook her head. “I do not think so.”
“In that case,” Mahoney said, “you can call him Ed, and you can call me Joe.” Mahoney preferred to use his middle name in situations like this, because he couldn’t stand his first name. He’d never forgive his mother and father for naming him Clarence.
“Well,” said the blonde on the left, who was wearing a white dress with blue polka dots on it, “my name is Veronique, and this is my sister Monique.”
Monique, wearing a green skirt and yellow blouse, raised her hand and waved her fingers in the air. “Hello,” she said.
Everybody looked at each other awkwardly, unsure of what to do next. Mahoney figured that the best way to break the ice was for everybody to have a few drinks, so he went to the dresser and poured four glasses of Calvados. Everyone took a glass and Mahoney raised his high in the air.
“To happy days!” Mahoney said.
“To France!” said Veronique.
“To de Gaulle!” said Monique.
“To Ottumwa, Iowa!” Cranepool said.
Cranepool was so moved that he joined them in drinking. The fiery liquid burned his throat and warmed his brain. The girls giggled, and Mahoney stared lewdly at them.
Mahoney was getting tired of the social niceties. “Listen girls,” he said, “how much?”
Veronique winked. “You have cigarettes?”
“We sure have.”
She pursed her lips. “American cigarettes?”
“Naturally.”
“One pack apiece.”
“It’s a deal,” Mahoney said, relieved, for he thought he’d have to give them all he had.
He and Cranepool reached into the pockets of their robes and each took out a pack of cigarettes, which they handed Veronique. She examined the cellophane to make sure it hadn’t been ripped, sniffed the packages, and dropped them into their purses.
“Anytime you’re ready,” Veronique said.
Mahoney rubbed his hands together. “I’m ready right now and I’ll take you,” he said to her.
“That’s all right with me,” she replied.
Cranepool looked nervously at Monique, and she gave him a big smile.
Mahoney cleared his throat ominously, and Cranepool took the hint.
“Let’s go,” he said to Monique. “My bed’s in the next room.”
Monique picked up one of the bottles and walked toward the door. Cranepool followed her and then entered his bedroom. He closed the door, leaving Mahoney and Veronique alone. Mahoney sipped his glass of Calvados and looked at Veronique over the rim. She had nice breasts, perhaps a little on the small side but succulent anyway.
“Let’s take our clothes off,” he said.
“All right.”
She reached down, gripped the hem of her dress, and picked it up over her head. Mahoney stared with lust pounding in his heart as first her pretty legs emerged, next her white silk underpants, then her white silk brassiere, and finally the dress was over her head. She hung it in the closet, and Mahoney watched her every move like a wolf watching a rabbit. She wore high-heeled shoes that enhanced the line of her bare legs; her skin was like a strawberry milkshake.
Turning to him, she smiled gaily and reached behind her, unsnapping her bra. She took it off and hung it over a chair. Her breasts were high and firm as only young breasts can be. They were elegantly shaped and came to a point on their ends.
Mahoney’s cock was throbbing thunderously. He untied the belt of his robe and took it off, throwing it across the room. She laughed like a tinkling little bell at his melodramatic gesture and stepped out of her underpants. Mahoney looked at the fine blond hairs at the juncture of her legs and couldn’t stand it anymore.
With a growl in his throat, he charged and lifted her into the air. She smiled confidently and wrapped her arms around his neck.
“You’re like a wild horse,” she said. “I think I’m going to like you.”
He rushed toward the bed and let her down gently. Then he threw himself with wild abandon in between her legs, and he led with his tongue. He’d been longing for pussy for months, and now he wanted to bury himself face first in it.
She spread her legs and opened her slit with two fingers of her right hand. Mahoney lay the flat of his tongue against it, grunting and groaning. He cupped her soft little ass in his hands and probed his tongue deeper into her.
“Oh,” she whispered, squirming like a snake on the bed. She’d figured that she was going to be screwed nearly to death by a sex-starved American soldier, but she’d never realized that he was going to give her the pleasure of his tongue. “It feels so nice.”
She raised one leg into the air, and Mahoney worked his tongue in and out of her, scooping up the ambrosia. She tasted like lemonade, and he’d always loved lemonade in the summer. He pressed his teeth against her rose petals and wanted to take a bite, but he didn’t because he wasn’t that crazy. Instead, he caught her little gumdrop in his lips and flicked it with his tongue. Her eyes rolled up into her head and she thought she’d died and gone to heaven. She’d been screwing Germans for four years and not one of them ever did this to her. Not even her boyfriend did this to her—only Antoinette the lesbian, but even the fabulous Antoinette of the gigantic tongue never had eaten her as passionately as this American G.I.
She tried to grab his hair and hold him more tightly against her, but his hair was too short. So she had to hold the back of his head as she kicked her legs in the air.
“I love cunt,” Mahoney grunted. “I can’t live without cunt.’
“I’ll be your slave forever!” she said madly. “Just don’t stop what you’re doing!”
Mahoney knew he never could stop, that he was utterly lost. He kept slurping and slobbering between her legs, drooling and grunting, licking and nibbling, and he became so excited that he thought he was going to come.
He rolled onto his back and pulled her on top of him. “Suck my cock!” he yelled.
She moved around, sat on his face, bent over, and stuck his huge cock into her mouth. Mahoney licked her snatch while she bobbed her head up and down on his massive joint. Waves of ecstasy crashed over them, and then they came in each other’s mouths. Mahoney bellowed like a wild bull as his cock exploded, and Veronique twitched as though a thousand volts of electricity were being routed through her body. They went into wild convulsions against each other, Mahoney sucking her cunt and she gulping down his essential fluids. She squeezed his cock with both her dainty hands, and he dug his fingers into her ass. They bounced up and down on the bed, grunting and snorting, and she was afraid that she’d drown in all his juice. It dripped down her chin and squirted into her hair. She kept on sucking until he was dry and went limp underneath her, his tongue still between her legs. At this very time, not far away on the other side of the Seine, General Charles de Gaulle was marching down the Champs Elysees, receiving the acclaim of French people who did not have to work that afternoon.
Meanwhile, down the hall, Cranepool and Monique did not experience the initial burst of mutual attraction that Mahoney and Veronique had felt. The problem was Cranepool, who was plagued by guilt and doubt.
Cranepool and Monique had entered the room, and Monique placed the bottle on the dresser. She turned around, expecting Cranepool to attack her, but he only stood in the middle of the room, staring forlornly at her.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he replied nervously.
She smiled, hoping to relax him. “I can see that something’s wrong. Why don’t you tell me what it is?”
“No,” he said, “I’m all right.”
“Is the problem that you can’t get it up?”
He blushed. “No, it’s up.”
“Then what’s the matter?”
“Do you mind if I smoke a cigarette?”
“Go right ahead. I’ll pour us some Calvados.”
He took a pack of cigarettes out of his robe and lit one up, sitting on a chair. She poured Calvados into both their glasses, gave him one, kicked off her shoes, and sat on the edge of the bed, crossing her legs so that Cranepool could have a nice view of her legs and black lace underpants. When he saw them he looked away quickly as though he’d seen a ghost.
“You’re as skittish as a young colt,” she said. “Haven’t you ever had sexual relations with a woman before?”
“Of course!” Cranepool said, insulted.
“Then why are you so reluctant to have sexual relations with me?” she asked. “Don’t you think I’m pretty?”
“I think you’re very pretty,” he replied.
She patted the bed beside her. “Then why don’t you come and sit beside me?”
“I can’t,” he said.
“Of course you can,” she replied. “Just get up, walk over here, and sit down. I don’t bite.”
“I don’t think I should,” he said, a stutter in his voice.
“Why not?”
“Well,” he confessed, “I don’t feel at ease with you because you don’t really like me and you’re only doing it for the money.”
“I see,” she said softly.
“I’m sorry, but that’s the way I feel.”
“That’s all right,” she said. “If that’s the way you feel— that’s the way you feel. But we can still be friends, can’t we?”
“Sure.”
“We can still talk with each other like normal human beings, can’t we?”
“Uh-huh.”
“But you’re wrong, you know. I do like you.”
He shook his head angrily. “You’re just saying that.”
“No I’m not. Why do you think I don’t like you?”
“Because you don’t know me.”
“I know you,” she said. “You’re a very nice young man. And you have helped to liberate Paris. You’re rather handsome too.”
“You don’t mean that,” he told her.
“Yes I do mean that,” she insisted. “I really do like you, and moreover I know that you like me too.”
“How do you know?” he asked.
“May I come closer?”
“If you want to,” he said weakly.
She arose, walked toward him, and got on her knees on the floor beside him. Then, in a sudden movement, she reached underneath his robe and grabbed his big stiff dick.
“This is how I know you like me!” she said triumphantly.
She squeezed his dick, and shivers ran up and down his spine.
“Please don’t,” he whimpered.
“Am I hurting you?” she asked, opening his robe so she could see it.
He closed his eyes. “No.”
“Does this hurt?” she asked, reaching forward and licking the head of his dick.
The sensation made him curl his toes. “No,” he squeaked.
“How about this?”
She opened her mouth and placed the head of his dick inside, giving it a healthy suck. Then she licked it again and removed her mouth.
“You didn’t like that?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he replied.
She sighed, stood up, and smoothed the front of her skirt. “Well,” she said, “I’m not going to force you to do anything you don’t like. I guess I’ll just leave and I suppose I’ll have to tell your friend that you don’t like women.”
Cranepool sat upright in the chair. “NO!”
She shrugged. “Well, it’s the truth isn’t it.”
“No, it’s not the truth!”
“I think it is.”
She spun around and walked toward the door. Cranepool leapt out of his chair and ran after her, grabbing her shoulders from behind.
“Wait a minute!” he said.
“Please let me go,” she said coldly.
“Um ... but I’ve changed my mind!” he blurted. “I want you to stay!”
She pouted. “No you don’t.”
“Yes I do!”
“You didn’t like it when I put my tongue on your thing.”
“Yes I did!”
She turned around and smiled. “Then why didn’t you let me keep doing it?”
“Because you don’t care about me at all,” he said. “You’re just doing it for the cigarettes.”
She placed her hands on his shoulders, raised herself on her tiptoes, and kissed his lips. “But I’m a poor girl, sweetheart. I need cigarettes to exchange for food. I can’t help that.”
He tried to get away from her, but he didn’t try too hard because her body felt warm and soft against him. “That’s all right—you can have the cigarettes. I don’t want anybody to go to bed with me unless they love me.”
“But I do love you,” she murmured, brushing her lips against his. “Can’t you see that?” She kissed his cheek and stuck her tongue in his ear. “What do I have to do to prove it to you?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“I sucked your little dicky a few moments ago over there. Didn’t that mean anything to you?”
He nodded.
“Then why don’t you lie down on the bed and relax; because if you don’t, I’m going to walk down the hall and tell your sergeant that you refused to make love with me, and it’ll be the truth.”
He pinched his lips together and tried to think of a decent solution to the problem. “Okay,” he said, “but I don’t want you to do anything you really don’t want to do, do you understand?”
“I understand perfectly,” she cooed, running her hands down his body. “Now lie down on the bed over there and stop being such a pain in the neck.”
Feeling gawky and ill at ease, Cranepool shuffled to the bed, sat on it, and stretched out. His dick rose straight up in the air under his robe, and he folded his hands on top of it so it wouldn’t show.
He chewed his lips as he watched her disrobe at the foot of the bed. First she took off her green blouse, and she didn’t have a bra underneath it. Her breasts bobbed up and down as she moved, and he felt guilty about wanting to chew on them. He remembered his girlfriend Betsy from Ottumwa, Iowa, who’d send him a Dear John letter back in June; she’d had breasts like that. She had been the first girl he’d ever screwed and it had been for love, unlike the squalid business proposition he now thought he was in.
She dropped her skirt, and she didn’t have anything on underneath it either.
“Don’t you wear underwear?” Cranepool asked, horrified.
“It’s too warm,” she replied, getting onto the bed.
She walked on her knees across the bed toward him and stopped beside him, placing her hands on her waist. “Look at you—you’re scared to death!” she said.
“Who me?” he asked.
“I don’t think you can screw me. I think I’m going to have to screw you.”
He wagged his finger in the air. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
“Oh shut up,” she said, grabbing his joint. “I’m getting sick and tired of hearing that. You’re acting like a child.”
She flung his robe open and looked at his tall slender body. “Not bad at all,” she said, running the palm of her hand along his thigh.
He dug his fingernails into the sheets. “You think I’m built okay?”
“You’re built fine, but I’m not too sure about your mind.”
Abruptly, she bent over and kissed his cock. She ran her tongue around the head and then sucked it into her mouth. Cranepool exhaled, his eyes wide as saucers. Slowly she lowered her head on his cock until it was deep in her throat. Cranepool’s spine turned to jelly. He’d been blown before and every time it happened he thought it was the most exquisitely wonderful sensation in the world.
He thought it weird to be in bed with her, a beautiful young woman and total stranger with whom he could do anything he liked. Reaching underneath her, he prodded his forefinger into her breast, which was soft as marshmallow. He ran his fingers over her nipple, and it was hard as a pebble. Her head worked up and down slowly on his cock, and he felt as though he was falling into a dream.
She raised her head and looked at him. “You like that?”
“It was very nice,” he said with a smile.
“Are you still afraid of me?” she asked, moving her head to one side and smiling mischievously.
“I’ve never been afraid of you.”
“Liar.”
She straddled him, and he looked between her legs. She had no hair there, and he could see that she’s shaved it away. This was the first time he’d ever seen a shaved pussy, and he stared at it with more than routine interest. It looked like a mouth with a bit of its tongue sticking out.
She took his dick in hand, pointed it in the air, and slowly lowered herself to it. She moved his dick back and forth against her slit so that it would make her juicy. Cranepool’s brain was steaming with sexual madness due to the intense pleasure she was providing him, and he was losing his reason. Grabbing her tightly by the waist, he pulled her down around his dick and it pierced her all the way to the hilt.
“Well,” she said with a smile, bending over and kissing his lips, “I see that you’ve finally woken up.”
Cranepool worked his hips up and down. “Come on,” he whispered.
Slowly she raised herself. “Like this?”
“Uh-huh.”
And slowly she lowered herself again. “This too?”
“Yes,” he whispered.
She moved up and down rhythmically, and he met her stroke for stroke. She wagged her ass from side to side and made little circles with it, and Cranepool reached up, cupping her breasts in his hands and squeezing them.
“Harder,” she said, gritting her teeth and looking down at him.
He squeezed her breasts harder, and she closed her eyes, lost in joy. They humped each other like that until Cranepool felt himself going insane. He wanted to move more and do strange things. Arching his back, he pushed her to the side and she lost her balance, dropping to the bedspread. Cranepool twisted loose and was on her like a great raging beast. He spread her legs and took his dick in hand and plunged it between her legs.
“Oh my God!’ she screamed.
He grabbed her ass and began pumping. She wrapped her legs around his waist and wiggled like a hootchy-kootchy girl.
He fastened his lips on hers and jammed his tongue into her mouth. She circled it with her own tongue and then sucked it hard. Cranepool thought his head would burst. He felt as though his spine already had become unraveled. But still he kept fucking her. Even if a gun had been held to his head, he could not have stopped.
And then he felt himself coming. He was only twenty-two years old and did not yet know how to control himself. The two steam engines ran up his legs, crashed inside his scrotum, and exploded out his dick.
“Yaaahhhhh!” he screamed, arching his back.
The hot milk spurted out of him. When she felt it enter her she became so excited that she, a whore, came in spite of herself. She dug her fingernails deep into his shoulders and drew little pools of blood, but it felt glorious to him. His body was itchy and scratchy all over and someone was pulling a silken strand out of his dick. He screamed like a wild coyote and went into weird sexual convulsions, while Monique held on for dear life, coming again and again and thinking that she must never let this young sex maniac get away from her.
They continued fucking until he collapsed exhausted on her, and they lay panting in each other’s arms—while on the other side of town, General de Gaulle stood in front of the Arc de Triomphe and laid a wreath of red gladiola before the tomb of France’s unknown soldier.