ZELLE

Note: This story's themes link sex and death

Zelle knew she was in more trouble than an ovulating female who, in the impulsive rush of sexual response, forgot to insert her diaphragm. The last French officer she had slept with remained too suspicious of her probing, and we are not talking about rimming his anus.

Captain Fouquet sported one of those ridiculous twisted moustaches then in style. He occupied a slightly stocky body, approaching average male height, with a hairy chest and dark-cropped military hair matching heavy-set brown eyes. His penis, unfortunately, presented on the smaller side. Still, he occupied a position on the general staff as an attaché to a colonel as part of the nation's second army.

Zelle plied him with quality cognac and kisses to loosen his tongue and distract his mind from her intended purpose whilst massaging his partly erect member between her feet. He enjoyed this dainty, delicious, delectable, unanticipated experience.

"Mmm, babe, keep rubbing; keep rubbing," he moaned.

Zelle had no intention of continuing. A distracted penis-focused male is putty in the hands of any woman, let alone a master spy.

She eased the pressure slightly. A technique she mastered years ago working in a whore house. She had more than cum to squeeze from this officious self-important little man.

Distract then ply; it was an uncomplicated process. Reward then steal; it was nearly undemanding once a man ejaculated within you.

Fouquet nuzzled her breasts, still trapped inside her camisole and lacey bodice, deliberately pushed high to accentuate an attractiveness that had not faded. She was, however, always slightly disappointed in their smallish size. But her negligee and lift gave her boobs temporary prominence, creating an attractive bosom with a tight cleavage, where the captain had his moustache, nose and wet lips working, to his own, if not her satisfaction.

He was intoxicated by her carefully chosen fragrant lilac perfume. She loosened her bodice strings, and the officer, for a moment, thought he was staring at two alert sentries with bayonets ready as he made his regular routine rounds, so prominent were her nipples. Deep cherry red on twin plates of quivering blancmange. Fouquet was undertaking a full inspection of this presented pair. He expected a salute and got one.

Zelle deliberately placed each nipple into his salivating mouth, cupping each of her delicate cupcakes with her hands and positioning her nipple just inside his parted lips. He sobbed slightly with pleasure. Zelle regrettably pictured his wife as one of those dour, imposing women who slept in heavy night clothes, with just the Victorian slit for sex.

She worked her nipples around his mouth, making contact with his sloppy, probing tongue. He knew nothing about making love to a woman. The douche even had his eyes closed. She knew instinctively it would have been a waste of time and pleasure to blindfold him, as he had no comprehension of genuine sensual touch.

His hand groped for her crotch. Her slip and drawers protected her slightly moist quim. He fumbled through her defences like an ill-equipped night patrol on reconnaissance in no man's land. His fat fingers snagged easier on lace than miles of barbed wire. She took his hand and guided it to her velvet patch.

He moaned, "Aah, aah, aah," obviously in unmapped female territory.

He rubbed and fingered in an uncoordinated and useless way.

Zelle had to concentrate and seek a sexual encounter from memory to activate her necessary wetness. Small cock, maybe, but she didn't want it penetrating dry when he recovered from his revelry of exploration of her furry mound in a minute or two.

She knew exactly who to recall to burst an incendiary flame of desire from her mind to her cunt.

Rudy, hulking, handsome, blonde, Rudy.

Just repeating his name, Rudy, the striking young German officer. Rudy, her contact, in espionage. Thinking of his muscles created exquisite, tantalising, euphoric elation that overwhelmed Zelle's mind as she remembered unbuttoning his field-grey pants and releasing his dangling trouser snake. A turgid swollen masterpiece of hardness that she worked into a glistening object of erect female craving, as potent as a sabre.

Just whose side was she on in this war?

Nobodies; accept her own.

She liked men.

Well, men who knew how to pleasure a woman.

Fouquet fumbled around her anus, not deliberately to excite her. His knowledge of female geography would have cost lives if this were a battle zone.

He inserted a finger, probably wondering why his own wife's vagina wasn't this tight, and then he thought, no doubt, five children.

"Oh, Zelle, I want your tight hole," he moaned softly.

"Sir, do you want my pot," she whispered in his ear.

She needed information, and a deflated ego wouldn't provide any.

Fouquet's finger jagged from her crack, and he straightened uptight on the huge queen-size bed like he was facing a firing squad.

He spat words, effusive, "Pardon, mon Dieu, Mademoiselle!"

Zelle clinically removed her drawers and lifted her slip for Fouquet.

She, however, kept picturing the huge pecker of the virile striking blue-eyed young German officer, Rudy, who had taken her from behind against a stone crypt in a cemetery during a bombing raid.

As the sirens sounded after the marker shell was fired, he had eased her bloomers down, and they fell to her ankles. Rudy started licking the margins of her entire mound, where the soft fleshy thigh meets the coarse pubic feast. He knew how to build touch, work the sensation, create the craving, and turn appetite into hunger, launching anticipated longing into lingering lust as he parted her cherry crinkly labia.

Rudy allowed Zel to luxuriate in her body, to moan repeatedly, "Ooh, aah, ooh, aah, oh my, oh yes, ooh!"

He used two sets of fingers to divide the usually buried cherished lips and then indulged them equally.

Finally, the apex of feminine pleasure release was visible, Zelle's uniquely blueprinted clitoris, waiting, impatient, selfishly alert for bliss.

Decorum disappeared from the cemetery, floating farther away than the sound of artillery shells; touch was required and was mandated.

Rudy was in command of his tongue and fingers, and he directly launched a concentrated energy of effort around and through her mound and parted lips of desire akin to a rapid, devastating cavalry charge.

The coup de grace delivered like a flurry of sabres flashes as Rudy's tongue met her swollen clit; repetitively.

Her yielding womanhood formed out of nature's endlessly individual and transfixing beautiful portfolio for euphoric discharge belonged in the unique instance to Rudy and Rudy alone in a cemetery.

He abandoned himself to the exuberance of hedonistic delight and generously delved with inspired cunnilingus, assuring Zelle's satisfaction.

"Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God! I'm cumming, I'm cumming."

Her sudden shuddering, heaving climax peaked to earth-shattering, equating to a simultaneous concentrated artillery barrage from opposing sides as the bombardment continued around the couple. He rose with the musky smell of her sex on his face, and she breathed her own secret intoxicating odour, her sexual self, as Rudy kissed her, fully and passionately.

This was the prelude to a salvo of devastating manpower by Rudy to Zelle's awaiting womanhood.

Skilfully, he manipulated her body in a seamless movement. Zelle's face pressed into the moss covering the crypt marble. Abruptly, her empty designer cleft was defined by his male fullness.

"Mmm, mmm, oh, my, oh my," she gasped in surprise, not at his penis' girth and length. It was the grabbing of her hips and then his control of their mutual ego movement by cupping and governing the sex from her breasts.

Rudy engaged her entire body as an undivided organism of carnal unity. Zelle knew she was self-exploding within her inner personal being and detonating beyond soul with the architect of this pleasure creation, her German fancy-man.

Zelle; instinctively grabbed her own arse cheeks and splayed herself unashamedly for maximum enjoyment by spreading her fingers wide and pushing her arse cheeks away from each other, as far as she could hold, then going even farther again, in intense greedy human gratification at the touch. With each rapidly increasing thrust, her mind splurged into ecstasy. His ebbing and flowing male energy dominated her through his unseen, spectacularly felt penis.

"Arragh, ooh, oh my, arragh, yes, yes, yes," from Zelle.

As shells whistled and whined overhead and exploded behind them, he detonated inside her, and she, too, discharged a flood of feminine moisture that trickled with his semen down her soft thighs as he withdrew.

Calm dominated two individuals as their relaxed genitals returned to their own entrenched secrecy behind layers of clothes. In ten minutes, who would know that their bodies had coupled in no man's land, no one for all eternity, but for themselves?

Zelle directed the bumbling French captain, guiding Fouquet to where he needed to place his penis. She exposed her womanhood, her labia as cherry red as her nipples. Zelle visibly saw a precum drip emerge from the officer's aroused little man.

He may last a minute, she thought.

Zelle was momentarily distracted by his fumbling entry between her legs. His awkward, scraggy, and uncertain prod made her memory shoot to another sexual encounter.

The precise experience of when her cherry popped.

She recalled the loss of her virginity in the year she trained to be a school mam. She commenced her training after turning eighteen. The aging master took advantage of her at the end of the school day.

She softly smiled, not at Fouquet's grunting as he inexpertly tried to plough her. Instead, the past cunning of a randy old teacher.

"Zelle, please refill the inkwell before you leave; the ink is in the storeroom," instructed Master Gerard, the mature, leering bachelor.

She entered the darkened enclave and looked along the shelves. She perched on her tiptoes, checking the higher shelves. Quicker than a bullet is fired, her panties were around her knees, a probing hand between her arse and pussy, and her long skirt flapped up her spine.

Zelle should have resisted; that was her upbringing, but it was astonishingly intoxicating. She knew self-pleasure and the rapture of ego fulfilment but to be touched by another hand.

She cooed, amazed at the touch, "Mmm yes, mmm, yes!"

Zelle was swept away, rendered thoughtless. Her body took charge of the moment, and her mind observed and participated.

Touch, the light stroking of an entire hand covering her fleshy labial protrusions, awakened from that point a constant life of sexual craving that would never be fully satisfied by masturbating alone for the remainder of her life.

She would seek touch, demand touch, insist on touch, worship touch, be the slave of touch, and insistently live for touch.

The geriatric schoolmaster Gerard knew how to feel a girl up. His randy cock, couldn't control itself at the sight of such a sweet virginal, glistening, puffy-lipped, twin dangling invitation of flesh surrounded by a sprouting tangle of thick dark pubic hair against ivory smooth inner thighs.

One hand had already dropped her bloomers to just above her knees, and the other felt her compelling velvet wetness. He inserted two fingers deeply, checking for her hymen. He sensed she was a penile virgin, but the unknown was how deeply her elegant fingers had sought pleasure in her cavernous carnal moisture fissure.

Her moans of "Ooh, yes, oh yes, In God's name, yes, yes!" led him on.

The old codger wouldn't have hesitated anyway, but mutual acceptance peaks the sexual stakes.

He removed his fingers, and the sticky lubricated viscosity of her feminine cum glistened like spit on his index and forefinger. He knew exactly what to do with fem-cum.

Master Gerard turned Zelle's head, and even though she had never done this before, she instinctively wanted to taste her body fluids. She opened her pouting shimmering lips where she had already been circulating her tongue in pure self-gratification at each stroke of his horny spread fingers over her pubic swelling puffiness of soft breached tissue.

Zelle licked her femcum from his fingers like a proffered lolly pop. Tasting, savouring of herself, and as she did, it became the source of an unrealised potent energy that would hoist her arousal, elevate her sensuous drive centred between her thighs, past the threshold of overwhelming desire.

She now knew, without even articulating it to herself, she craved that first cock's deep, inserted presence.

What was the old bugger waiting for; surely, he knew she was ripe, over-sated with a greedy yearning beyond virginal control.

Her Catholic aunt, whom Zelle lived with, he knew, guarded the girl's virginity; she was never left alone with males. Gerard was considered trustworthy and professional.

Zelle, though in the here and now, needed cock instantly. She had needed it minutes before. She was past being ready, although a virgin still; she felt all woman.

This was her time.

She finally felt his solid member between her butt cheeks. He pushed his cock into her crack. The sensation roused, alluring, carnally tempting, and felt like the sin from Sunday sermons.

Any sense of iniquity was lost in the hardness pressing into her white softness, he squeezed her butt cheeks towards his member, and she moaned lightly, surprising herself as a low 'mmm' escaped her mouth.

She wasn't thinking anything.

Where that sound came from was 'mmm'; again, it was delectable, soft, and hard, complimenting, agreeing, and demanding each other. Her aching clitoris was close to irritation, her pussy needed cock, and her love nub fingers required immediately.

She received neither.

The master inserted a finger in her anus. She lurched slightly forward to steady herself.

Bottles of black ink were indifferent to her escalating bliss.

Zelle zigged and zagged from new experiences to unknown, undreamed hedonistic adventures.

Could it be a sin if you didn't know the pleasure?

He rimmed her balloon knot; she knew the similarity between her butt hole and a balloon, having explored her personal secret garden of earthly delights and its nearby friendly puckering anus with a hand mirror on regular occasions.

Surreptitiously, alone, fondling the coarse hair, sometimes trying to comb its unruly wispy stragglers into shape unsuccessfully, then lured to the fleshy controlled tempo of fingers generating wetness, till in a mounting frenzy of even more rapid finger action, she would climax.

The master's rimming was lust-inspiring, rousing her throbbing unplacated pussy.

Forever a virgin, it appeared.

Zelle completed the mental step before the physical action and processed her avid, ardent agitated anus would now be surrendered first.

The master spread her legs wider, and Zelle felt her pussy gape, her pudenda exposed beyond shame, and the dirty bugger ignored her pleading anus and plunged into her now sodden mossy cleft instead.

Zelle moaned, shocked at how it moved in her, how her body naturally enveloped his man meat and how her breathing joined the rhythm of his steady, regular thrusts.

"Ooh, oh ooh, oh my, oh ooh, oh yes, oh yes, oh yes!"

She was coming to terms with ripples of pleasure after a minute, as the head of his penis caught the opening of her vagina as he moved in and out. She relaxed into a pace of bodily and mental bliss when he suddenly drove harder into her.

'Orrgh, ah, oh, ooh" she yelped.

Then she grunted as he invaded her arse. He stormed her rear crack. Battered and pounded her balloon knot. Pilfered, plundered and pillaged her tradesman's entrance.

The delectable mind galvanising bon-viveur clouded her eyes in tears of joy.

"Oh, sweet Jesus, yes, yes, yes," she cooed as Gerad jerked and jolted inside her constricted cavity.

He withdrew, and she immediately felt his ejaculation fluid mixed with her bodily moisture tricking down her thighs, staining her bloomers.

Unfairly — the bloomers of sin.

Her aunt screeched, appalled at the tell-tale stains on her knickers on the next wash day.

"You tart, you moll, you wanton trollop!"

Her uncle then joined the seething diatribe and invective of errant lust.

"Strumpet, harlot, hussy, tramp!"

Zelle was expelled from their recent guardianship.

She recalled her parents drowning when she was very young. A boating accident.

Her aunt and uncle ejected her from what had become her home promptly, leaving her with only a letter of introduction to a nunnery outside Paris.

Zelle chose the streets instead, and her youthful features soon resulted in her receiving regular clients in a brothel.

Some customers were foreign businessmen from Germany in the years before the war.

Somehow, sweet gifts and weekends in the countryside forged a fitting together outside the nation she was born in, seemingly giving her to the streets.

She only had a photograph of her parents on their wedding day. She was aged three when she was left alone in the world. Zelle was too young to remember her parents living outside a picture frame.

She didn't want to remember the aunts, shunted backwards and forwards between the three of them, and the not-hidden whispered conversations—a burden, not our flesh, an encumbrance—that last one took a long time to understand and hurt the most.

Fouquet finished copulation quicker than a diarrhoea latrine visit. He knew only missionary position sex and thrusting to his own weak orgasm.

When Zelle received the required intelligence information from Fouquet, the prospect of meeting Rudy again in the cemetery drove her unsatisfied desires through this dull, immediate moment.

She wiped her pussy with a lacey pink handkerchief. The less of this man she could feel, the better.

After they sat up, she plied the captain with more cognac. He was more relaxed now.

Though, she thought her dildo up his anus was what he required to release his inhibitions in bed.

"So, when are you rejoining your battalion and where is your regiment facing the enemy, my hero."

She ran her fingers through his hair.

The question took him aback; you could tell by the shift in his eyes, but he answered, "We head for Passchendaele and advance in three days."

He volunteered no more.

Zelle gave him a kiss on the cheek.

A Judas peck of death, she believed.

After Fouquet's departure, she used her secret ink in a mascara vial to forward a message through her contacts to Rudy.

...…

Zelle knew that the game was up three days later, as the dominating, close-by front-line field guns were silent.

In life, it is always the weak, weaselly, weedy wankers that catch you out; the virile screwed and went to death as content men.

Fouquet would be satisfied within himself if he got sex on his birthday and Christmas each year, reflected Zelle, as she packed quickly and made for the train station.

The internal secret police were waiting for her.

Her life was then all over within three days.

A military special tribunal, court-martial, closed hearing, no appeal, no legal support; she had already been sentenced to death without this officially authorised sham.

The presiding officer, a colonel, paused only to ask her age.

She responded uninterested," Thirty –One."

The lead officer didn't even ask Zelle to plead.

However, the colonel paused before passing the sentence. He coughed, slightly relieved the female spy was over thirty; an unappealing, wasteful squandering of fine pussy otherwise: before authoritatively stating: "The sentence for treason against the Republic is death by firing squad; at dawn tomorrow; remove the traitor from the dock."

...

It was a chill, clear morning; in the courtyard, a single wooden post in front of a high sandstone bullet-riddled wall.

Zelle was briskly tied and positioned.

"A blindfold," a mumbling young soldier asked, the black band trembling in his fingers.

"No," she smiled.

Zelle wasn't anticipating the rays of dawn. Her mind's eye sought only Rudy.

Twelve infantrymen marched out in file and turned to face her, their weapons at ease.

A priest and two nuns chanted useless last rites in unison.

She declined the last rites.

"Eternity has nothing to offer without flesh," she stated.

The priest crossed himself and retreated.

The officer of the party then appeared through a courtyard door; it was Fouquet. He probably asked for the assignment, as most officers regarded it as obligatory shame to shoot a woman.

He avoided Zelle's eyes.

Though she looked at all thirteen men directly and uncompromisingly.

Fouquet said, glancing aside, "Any last words."

"I suppose it's out of the question to fuck the whole firing squad and escape," Zelle joked.

Fouquet ignored this, and the ritual of death unfolded.

Present Arms. Aim. Fire.

Twelve greenhorns would never forget her tranquil eyes.

It was like she had been touched in some extraordinary way they would never attain in life or even their demise when obscenely bleeding to death on a tangle of barbed wire in no man's land.

Zelle recalled sensual touch.

She was gladdened through entirely in a way they could, perhaps with the right woman, contemplate and experience — caressed to her élan vital.

She died thankful for the compelling, alluring mixture of enveloping and penetrating touch.

The last thought that passed through her mind wasn't searing metallic pain but human touch, the desire to be touched by another, to share touch.

She had been blessed; she had sought touch, and it had been returned, most recently by the powerful muscular body of Rudy in a cemetery.

That touch, consensual sexual touch on earth, outweighed eternity.

Touch is the epiphany of our existence.

Fouquet stumbled forward and administered the requisite coup de grâce.