Jeremy’s War: Chapter 8 "Genevieve"

Posted on March 6, 2008

Ch.8 GENEVIEVE

Sleepily, she stretched a tanned, smooth, well shaped leg out from under the bedclothes, and yawned voluptuously. The room was cold, but it worried her not the least. Tough, as well as beautiful, she would soon be flouting convention, and galloping around the bridle paths of Paris, training to become an even better horsewoman.
She retrieved her leg under the bedclothes, and snuggled cozily for a few more minutes. What would today bring?
Horses and men. Horses and men….

She giggled to herself, and pictured the coming day’s events. She knew, with that quiet certainty of youth, that she cut a dashing figure. Men’s heads turned all the time. Emancipated females doing their own thing both offended and fascinated them. They drank in her long, raven black hair billowing out behind her, her supple figure, her tight fitting riding suit, and, above all, her ample, bouncing breasts…
Genevieve enjoyed the attention. She and her friends refused to ride side saddle, the way some ladies elegantly and uncomfortably stepped about the place. Instead they rode like demons and dressed like the men. Riding boots, and tight breeches. She enjoyed it when she saw lust in older men’s eyes. She enjoyed flaunting her body, and enjoyed teasing and tormenting the opposite sex. Even the disapproving looks from other women were mostly tinged with envy, and Genevieve and her female horse loving friends had long since shed their inhibitions. But winding up the men took first place in terms of enjoyment.

Maybe that imbecile from the Rue Victor Hugo would be waiting for her again this morning. A tall, somewhat gangly youth, he would be fiddling around with his reins, pretending he had just come out to exercise. He owned a ridiculous looking asthmatic piebald, that looked as if her mother had been raped by a carthorse.
He would fall in beside her, trotting along, trying to breath in and out as well as chat her up. She would flash him a wide, encouraging smile, and he would practically swoon at her feet. Then, quietly, she would increase the pace. The piebald would cope all right at first, until she increased the pace just a little further. Too proud by far to ask her to slow down, he would try and match her speed. But his pony’s breath would soon start becoming more labored, and the chat line would amuse her by its increasing -rhythmic- desperation. She would accelerate just a lick more, and, at the moment his chat really started to dry up, she would launch off on some wholly irrelevant, casual subject. She would move as fast as possible, consistent with coincidentally portraying herself and her mare as quite fresh and wholly unaffected by the exercise.
She had learned by experience to forecast at what stage he gave up. He would quite suddenly announce he had arrived ‘at his turning’ (a different one each time), bid her farewell, and swing off up a different path. Once, through a gap in the trees, she had unexpectedly caught a glimpse of him just after he had departed. He had been leaning up against a tree, bent over forward, studying his horse’s foaming nostrils with concern. She had laughed about it for ages with Henri…

Henri. She giggled at the thought of her serious lover, and writhed her hips in spontaneous longing. The weight of the bedclothes massaged her pubic hair, and her buttocks enjoyed the firm feel of the mattress. A deep sigh of desire, almost a groan, welled up in her throat, and her right hand slid satisfyingly across her flat stomach. She felt her navel, and then her hand slid further down…
She enjoyed Henri. He was big, and a real gentleman. Pity about his job. Nothing more exciting than a bank clerk.
The job meant everything to him, however, and he expected to make promotion soon. Maybe he would be a bank manager one day. That would be the greatest achievement to Henri.
She could see him enjoying that role, his whole being dedicated to being the perfect bank manager. That would suit Henri well. And Papa approved of Henri…

Papa… She frowned slightly, and her right hand stopped the satisfying massage. They had argued again, quite fiercely, yesterday. What was it about this time?
Oh, yes. About going on summer holidays. To the country estate.

She sighed quietly, yawned, and stretched out luxuriously in all directions, willing her body to respond to the morning. One arm surfaced above the bedclothes, noticed the temperature, but stuck it out. One eyelid flickered half open, but shut again immediately. This would not do… The other arm appeared, and joined its companion, slapping the coverings for emphasis. She was going to get up.

The unfamiliar bellow of hungry cattle reached her ears, and pierced the torpor of her mind. Her eyes snapped open, and took in an old, worn, ornamental ceiling which was unfamiliar. At the same time, her mind brought back her whereabouts, and the reason for her violent quarrel with her father.
She was at the country farm, for her summer vacation.
Despite her wishes to the contrary, her father had insisted that she accompany him to their ‘second home’.
Ah, merde! C’est pas vrai…

Disappointment.
She would have much preferred to stay in Paris, despite the summer heat and filth. There were men in Paris, Henri amongst them, there was the riding school, her female friends, there was the opera, dancing, and all night parties. There was the war, and all the gallant young men with their uniforms and decorations, and their incredible stories. She had been introduced to Charles Nungesser, the hero of the French Air Force, with his scarred face and irresistible smile. He had regaled her with the story of his escape from behind the German lines, stealing a staff car by shooting the occupants, and racing pell-mell across no-man’s land. The salons loved him, and he partied as hard as he fought in the sky.
Oh,if only…!
Here in the country there was nothing but cows and scornful old men and women, who said little but who disapproved with their eyes. She had argued vehemently to stay on in Paris, stating that she could manage quite well on her own with the maid. After all, she was nineteen… Her father had wanted none of it, and, ignoring all her protestations, had dragged her off to the country. And so, here they were, hundreds of miles from Paris, on the old farm…

The farm yard noises increased, and Genevieve heard the unmistakable country tones of Madame Pegoud shouting at the old dog.
Madame Pegoud… Genevieve laughed. Madame Pegoud got older and more senile every year. She also seemed to become more deaf. Her father had employed the old woman and her husband some decades before to look after the large country estate. Monsieur Pegoud had since died, but Madame Pegoud stubbornly clung to life. With the aid of a man from the village, who cycled up every day, she continued to run the place, much to Genevieve’s father’s annoyance. He wished the old crow would die, so he could appoint a younger person, but, with the loyalty of the master to an old servant, he would never replace her until she passed away. His vocal displeasure whenever the subject of Madame Pegoud cropped up, camouflaged his decency, and Genevieve was amused by his outrage at the old lady’s fortitude. She laughed at his customary description of her: ‘that old crow’s mother’. Despite that she knew his true feelings.

She bounced out of bed, and stood, naked, in front of the mirror. Some lazy exercises followed, until, her body awakened, she swung arms and hips more vigorously. It was good to be alive. She studied her profile in the mirror, and thought of Nungesser. He had been drunk, surrounded by females, but, when introduced to her, he had fallen theatrically on one knee, and kissed her hand, gently. To whoops of delight from the audience, he had then, rising to his feet, put an arm around her waist, another around her shoulders, and tipped her backwards off her feet. The movement had been so polished, so smooth, that she had barely had time for surprise, before he had kissed her long and deliciously, full on the lips.
She had struggled for a brief second, and then relaxed and enjoyed it, to screams of delight from her female friends, and roars of approval from the men.
Only Nungesser could get away with that behavior all the time, anywhere and everywhere. He was a hero, and had been shot down and injured a few months later. But he was flying and fighting again now, and the papers were full of his exploits.

She raised an arm, and absently felt her breasts. She turned sideways, and studied her profile in the mirror. Her breasts could be fuller. They were well developed, and firm, but could do with growing just a little more.
She drew her breath in, and studied her breasts again, and her flat stomach.
Charles Nungesser. What would it be like to go to sleep in those arms, and make love to that hunk of a man?
She shut her eyes, and imagined his broad shoulders and hairy chest bearing down upon her, thrusting his manhood inside her…
It had to be better than that wimp Marcel. She frowned, and started to dress, slowly, studying her anatomy thoughtfully in the mirror. The tennis club had been full of big men, who desired her, but, in surrendering her virginity to the studious Marcel, she had picked a shy character, with whom she felt safe. Who would have stopped at any stage, if she had so desired. Who had penetrated, ejaculated disappointingly quickly, and then cried. Still, it had been good. She had learned so much, and enjoyed her own body as much as his. It had been a voyage of discovery, made none the less pleasant by her slightly weak companion.
She continued to dress, slowly, remembering back. They had met secretly on a regular basis after that first time, becoming more and more relaxed about their bodies and their bodily desires. But she had soon tired of him, and looked for pastures new. She had broken it off with him, and Marcel had cried again, begging her not to leave. In the end she had scolded him, and been quite cruel. He had written her pathetic letters, and, on one occasion, thrown stones up at her window in the middle of the night. She had gone down to see him, slipping quietly past her father’s bedroom door, more to prevent him from breaking the window than from any desire to really see him. He had announced he was joining the army to fight for France, and she had indulged him in his desire for one last night of passion. Sneaking him out in the morning had been a hair raising experience, and she had been glad to see him turn the corner of the alley at the back. The relief had been immense, and thought provoking. Never again would she give herself to a slavish man…

She finished dressing, and skipped down the stairs. Outside, the cool morning was pleasant and fresh.
She attended to her new horse, which her father had bought her to make up for her missing out on a summer in Paris. Soon she was saddling up. It was a novelty having a horse in the country as well her mare in Paris. Passing out through the ironwork gate, she wondered which way to go. She decided to head for the old village. Ten minutes took her there, and she passed through in two. Nothing stirred, and the only sign of life was a dog barking. Her horse’s steps echoed off the houses, and she turned up the hill leading north, suddenly acutely aware of how much she missed Paris. A long country road wound through some fields and small woods, and she trotted for several miles. A country path crossed the road, leading into some woods, and on an impulse she turned and followed it, delighting for a while in the changed scenery. She skipped over fallen branches, and followed the twists and turns of the path, taking care to avoid knurled roots and rabbit holes. Deeper and deeper she went, until in the end she arrived at a small clearing, with, curiously, an old abandoned plough.
She lay down on the grass, and picked a long stem of grass. Chewing it thoughtfully, she contemplated Life.

She was young. She was beautiful. Her father was rich.
She had friends. The only trouble was that her friends were all in Paris. That was a problem. But…
She rolled over onto her stomach, and rested her chin on her fists. The light played through the leaves, and myriad patches of light danced lustily with the shadows.
Charles Nungesser…
Why had she so enjoyed her few minutes with that man? Why had the sheer amorous cheek of his action not offended her? Why did she think of him, and search the newspapers for reports of his actions? The latest report was that he had been challenged to single combat by the Germans, in a message dropped onto his airfield in a bottle. He had gone to the rendez-vous, and been jumped by five German aircraft. However, he had not run, but stayed and fought. He had shot down two, and the others had fled. The newspapers had enjoyed a field day.
It was the sort of raw heroism that people looked for in times of war. And she had lain in that man’s arms, and kissed him…
She felt herself getting hot in a strange, uncomfortable way, and pushed the memory away. She was thinking too much about Nungesser. She looked around the clearing for distraction, and focussed on the old plough. How many horses had spent their life dragging that contraption through the soil of France? How many farm hands had spent the day sweating and stumbling along behind?
It was impossible to know. But now it lay there, a discarded wreck, the wood rotting and the metal rusting. Strange. Strange how things passed. People passed by as well.
With a pang she thought of her dead mother, and tears stung her eyes. She missed her mother intensely. The consolation offered to her by her father had infuriated her at the time: "Mama is in heaven".
Mama is in heaven…
She had wanted to scream: "Why? What is she doing there? Why is she not here? If God is so good, why doesn’t he send her back?"
But she had said nothing, and retired to her room, and cried.

She stood up, and walked over to the old plough, and examined it. She ran her hand along the old timber, and marveled at the feel of it. That had once been a tree. But now it was dead. Although it still existed.
She turned away, gazing up at the sky. Mama was in heaven, was she? Was that where heaven was?
She lowered her gaze to the ground, and studied the green grass.

With an ache, she realized she was lonely. Very, very lonely. She wanted a man like Charles Nungesser, who would be a hero, not a bank clerk. Who would be big and rough, and yet gentle and kind. Who would hold her close, and make love to her, and make her feel wanted and special and beautiful.

The silence oppressed her, she turned, and rode back the way she had come.

F.M.


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5 responses to Jeremy’s War: Chapter 8 "Genevieve"

  1. Well, this chapter for some reason really surprised me.
    It sent me off on a completely different tangent. I have read up to chapter 20, so I understand more the way you have intertwined the lives of your characters.
    At the time I first read this chapter, I was surprised. It seemed an abrupt change in style. Almost like a different melody being introduced entirely.
    I liked it very much. After a bumpy start to reading your novel,I think it was at the end of this chapter that I found myself really getting engrossed. It marked some kind of a turning point for me.
    I felt (feel) her character and disposition was well described.

  2. “Instead they rode like demons and dressed like the men. Riding boots, and tight breeches.”

    You venture into the mind of the opposite sex frequently don’t you? Admit it, you secretly wish you were a crossdresser.

    “The weight of the bedclothes massaged her [pubic hair, and her buttocks] enjoyed the firm feel of the mattress.”

    Whoa dude! Little too graphic, kinda like a broken record. Get rid of the medical terms and be subtle, subtlety is femininity.

    Protestations? You mean protests.

    “She shut her eyes, and imagined his broad shoulders and hairy chest bearing down upon her, thrusting his manhood inside her…”

    Okay c’mon eww, not in the mood.

    Hey btw, in the beginning you described this chic as a genderful weapon of mass destruction who knows she’s hot. She’s like got her iPod in strutting to “my style is da bomb da bomd diggy diggy,” plus she’s horny. Power-bitch, and all you got her doing is trotting along like a little country gal. Make her ride that pony like it was born to be ridden, afterall we all know what a girl on a horse is a metaphor for. So dang have her gallop that thing like Seabiscut and show that she has some skill, that will make her intimidating, and that’s what makes her sexy.

    Of course, you know I’d be the girl in the tight leathers and flame helmet straddling a Yamaha R6, totally more sexy than a chic on a pony.

  3. Describing characters in a way that brings them alive… is not easy. It is difficult to avoid the cliche quicksand. This is a character modeled on a real person I once knew…

    "Of course, you know I’d be the girl in the tight leathers and flame helmet straddling a Yamaha R6, totally more sexy than a chic on a pony."
    Not necessarily. A lot of bikers are not true grit bikers. they are weekend posers. I frequent a local biker watering hole. It’s entertaining to watch the expensive bikes come waddling in, struggling to park without falling over.
    A lady biker who rides, really rides, knows how to ride, and has the scars to prove it…. yep, that’s kinda sexy. The dolled up creature trying to look flash on her "Yahaha"…. probably just an accident waiting for
    one more crankshaft revolution.

    Thanks for reading.

  4. Ah Francis…

    "Not necessarily. A lot of bikers are not true grit bikers. they are weekend posers"

    are ya talking of bikettes now then are ya?

    L M F A O

    and what do ya call the ones who ride the bikettes, then, boyo?

    I agree with her – you surely climbing inside some chicks head here for sure – some nice little virgin chick – how’d ya get there?

  5. Easily. Courtesy of constant practice.

    (…)

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