For all of those still here, thank you so much for your continued beautiful words and reviews. They truly make my days and my weeks. I love this story, these characters, to the ends and corners of my heart and I love nothing more than sharing them with you. Please let me know what you think as we step deeper into the abject madness.
Content warning for this chapter: Explicit Sexuality.
"You dangle on the leash of your own longing. Your need grows teeth." - Margaret Atwood
August
1941
"Do you not think it a bit gauche?" I asked Jean, spinning in the mirror at the royal blue dress for which I was being fitted.
"No, no—you look elegant, sophisticated, beautiful," he meandered off and our eyes connected through the mirror before averting away like they always did. Jean and I had become close since I started diving deeper into the Resistance, since my departure from the fantasy with which Dieter enthralled me for months. I on my side, he on his.
Rather than harboring refugees, which I still did in special circumstances, I offered any service I may find fit for espionage in addition. It sounded far more exciting than it actually was, and as it was this evening would be my first foray into the world of intelligence. It was far more dangerous than just transporting information or guiding refugees through the woods of Southern France—it was extracting the information as well, putting oneself on the line, ready to die for the cause at a moment's notice, pointing at myself and dodging the bullets when someone becomes bright enough to notice.
I was indeed fine with dying, every day was just one more little death added onto a life hardly worth a second glance. Anything good I could do with this life—this body—would be worth it if it was helping someone. It certainly wasn't helping me.
This first assignment was simple; a party at a German diplomat's abode in the 18th—I was to meet the wife, then befriend the wife, earn her trust to momentarily uncover her husband's schedule whilst in country. I would be fool to think I would get a glimpse of his planner, but that was my plan—underneath the assignment which Jean has given me.
Jean thought based on my gender it would be easier to make friends and gossip with the wife, but what he failed to understand was my absolute character entirely. I was not naturally friendly nor did I find it easy to befriend other women. What I found easy, however, was outsmarting Germans. It was something of a new talent as of late.
The dress, dark blue with velvet and chiffon embellishments, had a deep cut neck-line that showed off far more than I'd ever been comfortable with on my own, and would most certainly aid in my task against any German man. But I was up against no German man.
"Are we certain this is most appropriate? I don't want the matriarch to find me in competition for her husband," I laughed but my tone was sincere. Jean stood, pipe in mouth, and saucer eyes on my chest. Suddenly I was far too aware of his deeply adoring gaze. Jean tugged at my bodice which produced a deeper plunge down my breasts and nodded satisfactorily.
"The Lady von Ribbentrop, Anna Elizabeth—for your edification, is something of a misanthrope and had she not been German I would be heavily invested in her open fortitude, if you understand my meaning," Jean spouted off as he tugged and groped at my chest, finding the right bits to expose, and I tried to remain comfortable. His eyes lingered on my breast and this acknowledgment revolted me.
If I understood Jean correctly it was my job not to appeal to the ideal of the man von Ribbentrop, but to instead appeal to the Lady von Ribbentrop—a task which seemed deeply out of my wheelhouse but the more I considered it the more I started to understand how I could utilize this to my advantage. I, a woman, understood more of what women wanted than what men understood of women—perhaps this would be easy.
"We just need his schedule for the week he's in Paris—once you get that I need you out of there. Can't lose you." Jean puffed his pipe and the smell of cheap but sweet tobacco supplemented a rather uncharacteristically sweet sentiment.
"I'll try my very best, Jean."
He nodded and we held a gaze. This was a peculiar gaze, one which we had never once shared and one which was deeply rooted in worry, and thus in kindness. For this brief moment I felt something from Jean I had never felt before—something like care. Suddenly I found the softness of his brown eyes profound rather than piercing, empty, and suddenly I found the slight upturn of his mustache sophisticated and endearing. Perhaps an avenue to explore later.
I arrived at the party on the tail of other sophisticates and intellectuals, spouting a bibliography of which I had no claim but the German soldiers at guard were none the wiser. It was lovely inside, a beautiful and large apartment once owned by a composer from Normandy who would allow his wife to stay in the off-seasons of the symphony. I had met her once; a lovely woman, a former farm girl from Aix, and unfortunate for the time; Jewish.
The decor was much the same, sans family photos and general Judaica that would be found in a home like this. It would only take me a few minutes around the piano to catch the eye of the Lady von Ribbentrop who offered me a glass of the champagne she was drinking, rather than the "slop" they offered the other guests.
"Thank you so much," I said in German, smiling as I took the glass from her. Her perfectly manicured eyebrows tilted at my accent and our fingers lingered upon the exchange of the glass.
"I'm sorry, I don't think we've been properly introduced—I'm Anna—Anna von Ribbentrop."
"Yes, yes I know—it is a pleasure. I am Simone de Bodin, writer and translator."
"Such a pleasure to speak to a Parisienne who respects the German language. Your kind is far and few between. In fact I don't think I've ever met any Frenchwoman with such a strong grasp of the German language." And then after some thought, "Or a man, for that matter."
I tried not to let the compliment, as superficial as it was, go to my head. But with the champagne and the beautiful woman in my gaze it was difficult not to be seduced by her attention.
"Thank you Lady von Ribbentrop—I take pride in my German, it is quite the difficult language to master."
"I must insist you call me Anna, and I must insist you are practically German yourself—you must have someone to practice with at home, an officer perhaps?"
"No, no—I have no one. Only…only myself." I averted my eyes away and then back to hers and this caught her curious attention immediately. Like a fish to a lure she was caught in my snare. Only to seal the deal, as it were. But how to do this? "Tell me, Anna"—I take her wrist softly in mine—"what has been your favorite part of Paris since you have arrived?"
Her eyes fall to my hand and she smiles under the demure downcast of her black eyelashes, "Oh my goodness, I suppose the architecture if I am honest. I've always loved beautiful buildings."
I could work with this, "Indeed, Paris is one of the most unique cities in the West for its architecture. This apartment being a prime example."
"You like architecture as well?"
"Indeed, I love it."
"Come here, I must show you something."
Anna led me through the party, hand in hand, and grasping the neck of a champagne bottle along the way as we cut through the amorous guests. She wanted nothing to do with them and in a brief way I was charmed by this. She was young, far too young to be lady to the late middle aged Foreign Diplomat of Germany, and it didn't seem like she was able to act like it either. So I, being of close age to her, was an immediate moth to her flame. Or was she the moth to mine?
Anna shouldered us into the main study with windows that overlooked Paris and the Eiffel Tower.
"Isn't it grand, indeed?"
"Oh…oh yes—Truly." And it was no exaggeration. I had always been staggered by Paris and its inimitable grandness, even—especially—in the night.
Anna turned the gramophone on and Edith Piaf's La Foule started. I take her offered hand with little hesitation and we danced and twirled to the beauty of Edith's soft voice only audible to us, the music from the grand piano drowning out any noise from our study that might leak out.
It is then, cheek to cheek, that I realize we are in the diplomat's study and his desk, illuminated by lamplight, is utterly scattered with potential intelligence. I smiled softly and fell into Anna's hold and her arms pulled me closer to her body. Her breath was hot on my neck, in my ear and I am briefly inspired to succumb to her intoxicating scent. Like raspberries. Then it is a decision to continue this, for the betterment of the Resistance and the fight against Germany, to succumb to Anna's advances.
"Anna, I'm sorry I don't um…" I pulled away, a shyness projected. She latched to the lure.
Her hand raised to my cheek and it was lovely to be touched so openly.
"It is okay, I promise," Anna said.
"But your husband—"
"My husband? The man who hardly looks at me. I'm afraid if I do not have a sniffling little mustache and an anger problem I am of no interest to that man."
I smirk, "I assume you are speaking of the Fuhrer."
"Unfortunately. Oh, Simone I feel I can be myself around you. How lovely is this?"
"Indeed, so lovely," I said and trailed my hands down her spine. A sharp breath left her gasping and she pulled back suddenly. Immediately I think that perhaps I had read the situation incorrectly, but then she moved to the door and locked it. Once the key was turned we are barricaded from the world behind six inches of mahogany. I react not just with anticipation in the pit of my stomach but in the abscess of my core, the warmth between my legs bloomed and begged to be shared.
When Anna returned to me, she paused and for a moment I took into consideration how much I could hurt her. But then I was reminded how much I had been hurt, and if someone was kind and lovely enough like Anna to find interest in me, I would lap it up like a starving dog. And so, I kiss her—I take her soft cheeks blooming like peach flowers in my hands and her heavenly moan shot a warm whip throughout my body.
"I've never—I'm sorry—" I gasped but instead Anna would rather hear none of it and pulled me back to her lips. I had never felt such softness, such gentle arousal in my life until kissing a woman like her. She was beautiful, of course on the outside but as our lips parted and I tasted the champagne on her tongue and the soft sweetness of her saliva I was intoxicated all over again. I wanted to know what her insides tasted like.
Anna separated from my lips to kiss my jaw and my neck and I nearly crumbled in chills her lips soft like butterfly wings.
"You are so beautiful, please speak to me in French," She muttered in my ear like a fleeting breeze.
I comply, "You're beautiful, Anna. Your lips are so soft."
I knew she did not know what I was saying but with each word she bit at my skin harder and pulled away my already deep and gaping neckline and captured my breast in her mouth.
"Anna, please my god—" I grasped at her but instead she took my hand and beautifully sucked each of my fingers like she was searching for a forbidden nectar with each dip and suction of her lips before she returned to my breasts. Completely exposed and I am completely under her thumb, forgetting all notions of espionage, I could only report on the way her lips felt as they pleasured me—the way her lithe fingers felt as they snuck up my skirts and the gasp which she produced when she discovered I had worn no undergarments. This was my assignment and my report.
"You were expecting this?" Anna smiled and our lips play softly against each other.
"No, no I wasn't—I had no idea you were…I was lonely," I admitted, which wasn't a lie, "I was lonely and wanted a secret—"
"A secret which I have now discovered."
"A secret which is now yours," I muttered and gasped as her finger is pushed inside me and I writhed under her, pressed against the edge of the desk.
"You are so wet, and yet you have never been touched by a woman like this?"
"No—never—it's…god it's so full."
Anna inserted another finger and I clutched onto her, kissing her neck and collarbone, gently rubbing her breasts through her bodice but she seemed utterly disinterested in my affections, only in my own pleasure. I was in no position to oppose her.
Anna ushered me up to sit on the edge of the desk, pushing her husband's papers aside, rolling up my skirts so my bare livelihood is exposed for her. When she knelt down and her complimentary muttering filled my ears, I am overcome. Her tongue is hot and strong against me and with each lick I melt further into her.
"Lay back," she insisted and I do—my head met the hard wooden surface of her husband's desk and my hair sprawls amongst the paperwork littered with information. She worked me further, fingers and tongue in synchronous strokes. The feelings invoked bring me close to love—of course they do in this moment, this is the oldest method in the book—love is central to pleasure, but pleasure was never central to love. Her expert maneuvers aside I cannot help but lose myself completely in the feeling. The idea of being fucked by a German diplomat's wife was something deceivingly and unexpectedly satisfying, something grandiose and secretive, something so taboo and treacherous we might both be killed for such activity. All of this boiled and simmered in the pit of my stomach and I felt my edge about to break.
Then I pause, as she was buried under my skirts I seize the quick opportunity to collect several sheets from the desk, hoping there is something of worth and stuffed them deep into my corset.
"My god, Anna—I'm—"
"Do not make a sound, little love." she ordered and returned, three fingers in and I was overstimulated and adored and writhing under her breath. I come with a bitten breath and cannot help but pull her hair, holding her mouth closer to my orgasm as she cleaned me up and rode me through it.
I was sweating and in her deepest favor as she crawled up and joined me on the desk. Our breathing mimicked each other and I was lost in her eyes.
"You have such beautiful eyes, so green," I said, brushing her blonde tresses behind her ear.
"You have such a beautiful pussy," she responded and I laughed before kissing her. We shifted positions and she allowed me to kiss her and to roll her skirts up but she stopped my hand before I could meet her core.
"Is something the matter?"
"No no, I just don't expect…"
"Don't expect, or don't want, l'amour?" Anna's eyes fluttered at the name and she breathed out. I kissed her again and whispered, "Let me treat you like you treated me, like you ought to be treated."
I tried to convince myself afterword that it was only because of the mission that I engaged in sexual activity with the Lady von Ribbentrop but it was something far more intimate and valid than that—something far deeper gained and experienced. Yes we got a decent amount of intelligence from what I was able to smuggle in my bodice during our romp in the study, but it was also a cathartic evening of pleasure and love—one I had not experienced since my departure from Dieter weeks ago. I was vulnerable and this woman could tell, and cherished it and loved me, if however briefly, for it. And I would always love her for it as well, even if I would never see her again.
"You did perfect—even better than expected, Alma." Jean smiled at my success, making notes of my collected papers that late evening. "Would you want to stop and grab a drink after this?"
"Of course," I said, still thinking about her lips on me—thinking further how much I missed Dieter, how much I wished Dieter's lips had found me. Thinking of how it would make me feel if Dieter called me his wenig Liebe.
"Cheers!"
"Cheers!"
We met at a cafe in Montmartre to celebrate the intelligence and I was happy—briefly, for our success. Jean's hand was at my waist and afterwards I let him walk me home. I was not drunk, nor disillusioned. I wanted someone to keep me company and I convinced myself Jean, desperate man as he pretended not to be, was the perfect solution.
Jean was not as tall as Dieter, nor as handsome or intimidating—but he was a man as Dieter was a man and if my eyes were closed I could not tell the difference. Perhaps the wine helped more with this than I had anticipated.
When he finished on my stomach I was left to clean it up while he lit himself a cigarette.
"I'm very proud of you, Alma."
"And why is that?"
His hand brushed down my arm and he said in a small breath, "You've finally let me show you how a real Frenchman can love you."
I turned so he would not see my immediate and amused reaction. As Frenchman went he was lesser in the column of selfish lovers I'd been with, however had I not been pleasured by the German Diplomat's wife this evening I would be quite unsatisfied indeed.
"This must stay within these walls, Jean."
A hum of disagreement but he did not counter. He himself was married, after all.
"Sometimes I forget you are not French. You certainly act more like a Frenchwoman every day," it was a bitter sentiment bitten as he slipped his trousers on. I laid back in bed and watched the muscles on his back ripple through the actions.
What I thought would be comforting and cathartic was no less mediocre than my own hand. Jean did not have Dieter's touch, that strong grip that both protected just as it cherished. Jean did not have Dieter's lips, that kissed away every sorrow I had ever produced and ensured any more to come that they would be quelled away without a second longer to root. Jean did not have Dieter's words, that said everything I needed—everything I thought, that resided in patience even in the face of frustration. Jean was not Dieter and I did not have to be happy about it, I just had to live with it.
I was not very good at living a life I did not want. Who would be?
Jean and I meet regularly and all is fine. Summer came and went, food was starting to become more scarce than before and I imagined it would only get worse the deeper into occupation Paris descended. The Nazis took Paris for its luxurious reputation and by occupying it destroyed that reputation day by day until only the crumbs of the cake were left. Who would lick the crumbs that were left?
This is what I felt like. A Nazi occupied and fluffed himself a home in my mind and bit by bit, feeling by feeling I was dwindled down to nothing, unrecognizable to even myself. Except I was perpetually intoxicated by the memory, the fantasy—obsessed with the notion that if Dieter was in front of me right now I would be his and only his, right and wrong and all allegiances aside and my life would be better.
All sense of self-worth had dissipated with each moment risked for the Resistance. I was already dead because of this.
Until one day, I wasn't.