"Oh, blimey, LeBeau, you startled me. Give a chap a warning, will you?"
It was close to midnight, and Peter Newkirk was in his sewing room in the tunnels under Stalag 13 when Louis LeBeau walked in on him. Peter had a cigarette in one hand, and a handful of himself in the other.
LeBeau smirked. "Startled you? How do you think I feel, walking in on that sight?" He put down a mug of coffee. "I thought you could use this. It's been a late night. Are you working on the uniforms for tomorrow, or are you too busy being un branleur?"
Peter pulled his hand out of his fly and picked up the coffee mug. "Been quite busy with both, actually," he said. "I can't get that girl Gretel out of my mind, mate. The Bristols on her..."
"Ahhh, the blonde with the les belles miches, les tétons that you could see right through her blouse. What do you call them?" Louis said, sighing.
"Nipples," Peter said. "Oh, blimey." He put down the mug. "I'm sorry, mate, I've just got to." He reached back into his fly.
"Fais ce que tu veux," Louis replied. "I won't stop you." His mind wandered to the English word Peter had just taught him. "Nipples," he sighed. "Et la cul," he said softly. "How do you say that one," he asked, waving a hand over his posterior.
"Her bottom," Peter said. "Oh my God, did you have to say that?" He was panting now.
"'Bottom' sounds childish. Isn't there a better word?" Louis inquired. He sat on the bench beside Peter.
"Her bum. Her buttocks. Her botty. Her rump. Her arse," Peter replied breathlessly. "Some people say derrière. Ohhhhhhh."
"Oui, my grandmother," Louis sniffed. "Please. La cul. Say it right."
"La cul," Peter said. "Ohhhh, my God. La cul. Oh, yes, that was a nice bit of her."
"Buttocks," Louis pronounced. "What an ugly language English is. -cks, -cks. What a horrible sound to use for that beautiful, soft, roundness... Ahhh." He had himself in hand now too. They fell into a shared rhythm of moans and strokes. Suddenly, Louis was straddling Peter's lap and pressing his tongue into his mouth. They kissed ravenously and made themselves comfortable.
"Mmm, Louis, je bande pour toi," Peter murmured. "Tu me fais bander." He pressed a little closer to prove it.
"No you don't! And no I'm not!" Louis replied. "And where did you learn that, anyway? Ahhh," His hand trailed down to Peter's belly to check on what was pressing into him. Oh. Ouais.
"No, really, Louis," Peter said. "I was down here thinking about you, not Gretel. Well, you and Gretel. Just not both at the same time. Well, not until just now. Oh nooooo. I mean yes. Ohhh my God."
"Ohhh," Louis said as he wrapped his hand around his destination. "Une grande trique. Yes, I think you must be thinking of me with a display like that. Je te suce la bite, Pierre," Louis said.
Peter's breathing sped up further. "Yes, please," he replied. He leaned back as Louis sank to his knees.
"La gaule, la gaule, tu as une gaule rigide," Louis murmured.
"Cor, don't talk politics at a moment like this," Peter exhaled. In moments, he was arching his back and the world seemed to spin. "Ah, ahh, ahhh, Lou-u-u-is. DeGaulle!"
LeBeau came back up to his feet, spitting, smiling and sporting his own gaule. Peter's head was leaning back on the tunnel wall as he gasped for breath. He was a ragdoll as Louis pressed his zob into Peter's hand. Peter took a deep breath and began stroking. Soon it was his turn to fall to his knees, taking Louis with him to the floor, kneeling on all fours and bobbing until Louis erupted.
They stayed on the floor in a tangle of limbs for some time, gathering their breath. Then they stood up and embraced, losing themselves in a kiss. They separated, and took a seat side by side on the bench, awkwardly wondering who should start.
Louis took it upon himself to break the ice.
"Let me tell you about this girl Wilhelmina," he started. "Oh, Pierre, her legs, her breasts. Et quand je l'ai touché là, elle était déjà mouillée."
"Ohhhhh my God, Louis," Peter responded, slumping against the wall. "Give a lad a break. I need at least 20 minutes between vivid descriptions of the opposite sex." He turned to Louis again and looked thoughtful. "The same sex, on the other hand…" He reached back into his fly. "How do you say this?"
"Listen carefully, mon pote. Les couilles."
"Lay kwee. Cobblers, mate."
"Wanker," Louis said.
"Branleur," Peter answered.
"Con," Louis said.
"C*nt," Peter replied.
"Close enough," Louis said, cupping his hands around Peter's cobblers and leaning in for a deep, deep kiss. Eventually, they came up for air and looked at each other, smiling.
"Louis?" Peter asked, pulling back to talk.
"Oui?"
"How wet was she?"
"Ohhhh, mon Dieu," Louis said breathlessly. "Tu ne me croirais pas si je te le disais."
"Try me," Peter said, leaning in for another kiss.
XXX
The title of this piece means "Talk Dirty to Me." Most of the phrases are self-explanatory in context. Fais ce que tu veux means roughly "hey, I won't stop you!"