Post War Boom

[Batman76]

A two parter romance set during and shortly after WW2. An American Commando falls in love with a fierce French Resistance operative...who has some interesting appetites. The consequences of those appetites aren't apparent during the constraints of the greatest war in history, but when peace breaks out...

 

....

Looking back on my life, I have to say that the summer of '46 was the happiest one I ever had and it was all because of Fleur.

 

The previous five years had been a nightmare. Just like Sherman had said eighty years earlier, war was all hell. Lives being wasted by the million from New Guinea to Norway, all the awful industry of modern civilization turned to destroying all because some mustachioed freak was pissy he only had one nut.

 

Before the war I'd been two years into a double French and German Major at Harvard, the type of useless degree that you can pursue when you've got New England blueblood money that the depression didn't even dent. Once the Pacific Fleet went from floating on top of to being beneath Pearl Harbor's waters, I signed up for the Army. A lot of men of my class went for cushy out of combat positions, but the Dahlgreens have always been fighters and Vincent Dahlgreen wasn't going to be the exception.

 

I chose airborne and excelled at it. I was always built lean and strong, so basic officer training wasn't hard...but being multi-fluent meant I got picked for a special unit just as soon as I earned the right to blouse my pants over my boots.

 

Being a part of a bushwhacking guerilla army dropped behind enemy lines into occupied France to teach the non-humanity having Nazis a lesson in fearing our knives and guns was not as fun as it sounded. Okay, there were times when it was fun. You really haven't lived until you've blown up a train full of Tiger tanks.

 

But years behind enemy lines weren't a vacation. It was always either freezing cold or burning hot, we were never clean enough, never had enough food. That was before getting shot at frequently, by an enemy who always had superior numbers and superior firepower. We were always afraid of betrayal, not all the French were with the resistance, but the ones that were...

 

I met Fleur within two days of parachuting into France. Few Americans hated Nazis more than her: her army physician father and brothers had died in the French Army during the invasion, her librarian mother killed seemingly at random right after and she'd been conscripted out into serving as a bar maid in a Luftwaffe rest area. We'd just started recon on the place when the Germans started foaming at the mouth and grabbing their throats from the poison she'd put in their steins. I won't say it was love at first sight, all the dead men were rather off putting...

 

But Fleur was magnificent.

 

Fleur's skin was pale and freckled easily in the sun, fitting for a girl with red hair and these green eyes that could be either viper poisonous or clover soft by turns. She had these puffy lips that always pouted when she got angry and this gorgeous aquiline nose that she could always look down on you with. That was easy because she was very very tall for a woman, edging over six feet, taller than everyone in the squad but me.

 

Tall wasn't as popular then you see. Women were supposed to be short and petite, dainty and soft little things that stayed at home cooking and cleaning. Fleur was rangy and tough, even before the war she'd been a champion runner in school and had preferred doing farm work and hunting on the family farm. Wartime shortages had melted what little excess weight had been on her off by the time we met and apart from the delicateness of her facial features could pass for a thin man with her hair short.

 

We were inseparable for the next two years. Not just a physical attraction to her long firm legs and the tight waist either. She was fierce and argumentative, we'd argue about everything from the best way to infiltrate a German panzer depot to how the war would reshape colonial politics and I'm not ashamed to say that I'd lose most of the time.

 

Some of the squad questioned having a civilian with us but she was risking more than any of them and was the only one who could pass as French. Even after we joined up with a resistance unit she stayed, by that point she'd killed enough German's no one would question her being there. She was a better shot than any of us and had a real aggression, a fire in her eyes that was as frightening as it was alluring.

 

To me the war was a horrible, frightening thing to get through, a just task to wipe the stain of Nazism off the earth but awful. While to Fleur, World War Two was everything she'd always wanted. She got to lead (sometimes she led the squad more than me), got to blow up trains of V1 parts and stab SS Captains, got to kill the men who'd taken everything from her, got to be in control of her fate for once.

 

As D-Day neared we grew closer together and well...rubber was in short supply in occupied France.

 

By the time the Navy started bombarding Omaha beach, Fleur was getting morning sickness and despite the food shortages, she had to let her gunbelt out a notch by the time 3rd Army broke out of the hedgerows in Operation Cobra. We both knew she was pregnant by then but she wouldn't acknowledge it, that meant admitting she was going back to being a woman, expected to stay at home and wipe snotty noses and cook. Getting shot changed that a little, just a Luger bullet through the bicep, a clean flesh wound that the liberating medics treated easy enough but...

 

"I don't want to lose our bebe," she confessed to me, bandage around her arm, "and without me driving you on, you won't get to Berlin before you die of old age."

 

"And I don't want to lose you," I told her, taking the uninjured hand, "being with you is the only part of the last two years I don't want to stop."

 

She had her shirt off which was...Fleur wasn't really showing yet. Her waist was still hard and muscular, just a little fuller. But her flat chest was swelling, mosquito bites having suddenly sprouted around her pink nipples. Next to her was an C-ration box, contents emptied in the half hour I'd spent briefing the relieving 4th Armored Officer.

 

Now the C-Ration was despised by American soldiers as being totally unpalatable. But to someone who'd been starving in occupied France, it was case of heaven on earth. It had vegetables and meat (canned but still), it had sugar and coffee, it had jam and crackers, it had three cookies and a little rock hard block of chocolate.

 

"But it has to, you're going on to the rest of the war while I'm...going back to being unimportant," Fleur sighed, frustrated and hurt, "restrained by whatever ass of a husband a pregnant girl can find..."

 

I and my surviving squad mates already had orders to return to the 82nd Airborne while the Resistance troops we'd fought with were being drafted into the Free French army...except for her. deGalle didn't want female soldiers in his army, much less officers. She was expected to go back and rebuild the family farm and pop out b**s. War had brought us together by chance and was already sweeping us apart.

 

"I...," was all I could manage, throat choking up, "I think I saw a padre in the headquarters..."

 

Our wedding lasted fifteen minutes and was mostly filling out immigration paper work, Fleur's wedding dress being bothering to button up the Eisenhower jacket she'd grabbed. Our honey moon was a long night spent together in the hayloft of a barn, trying to pack an entire marriage's worth of sex into one night in case the worst happened to either of us.

 

"I hope I don't hate America...," she panted after the third or fourth time, "will people try and tell me what to do?"

 

"Its like everywhere. People will always try, you just have to not let them," I told her, more exhausted by her suddenly rapacious appetites than the war, "my mother for instance is a real Boston Brahmin, she'll try and turn you into a proper society matron."

 

"Fuck her," Fleur laughed, rolling off of me and sighing, "I want to smoke but it'll be bad for the baby."

 

"Smoking, bad for a baby?" I laughed.

 

"Have you never read how many poisons are in cigarettes?" she challenged me, "My father was a doctor, he was sure those things cause cancer!"

 

I laughed again, until I cried from where her thighs had been gripping my ribs.

 

She'd been on top of me. She'd been under me. Wrapped up with me.

 

My ribs hurt. My dick hurt. My back hurt.

 

I'd sucked things on her that 1940s science wasn't even sure existed yet and been afraid her screams were going to call a barrage down on us.

 

She laughed with me and tried not to cry. We'd fought and lived rough and killed people, but we were still little more than kids. Both of us were twenty three at the most, making us old for the war.

 

"How about some food instead," she asked, sitting up and giving me the kind of look your mother would warn you about, "the little bastard you put in me is hungry."

 

"You had a whole C-ration, that's supposed to be enough food for a whole day of combat," I joked at her, gently touching her stomach, "I probably won't recognize you when the war is over."

 

"I was shot this morning," she said, punching my arm, "and I'm pregnant. Besides, all I want are the sweets. Its not as if I had a wedding cake."

 

Finding my clothes was difficult in the dark, but I managed to find her a C-ration and a can opener. When I got back, she'd turned on a little flash light to illuminate our hay filled honeymoon suite, sitting with her legs crossed in the shadows like some some sort of pagan goddess expecting a sacrifice.

 

"Feed me," she ordered, in the same voice she'd say "Take out that bunker."

 

In the dark I slathered some jam over a cracker and held it slowly to her lips. She opened her mouth with a grin but I pulled it away before she could bite down, then put it to her lips again before she could do anything but glare. The cracker disappeared in a bite and she licked the jam from her lips.

 

"More," she insisted, breath coming faster and harder.

 

The crackers went quickly and she licked the jam tin clean. I made the cookies last as long as I could, breaking them into halves and running them over her body, making her moan and giggle before they went into her mouth.

 

"More," Fleur ordered me, sweating hard and panting, hand between her legs.

 

The candy bar was a Hershey's. I broke the little squares off one by one and fed them to her with my mouth. She kissed me and bit my lips each time, on the last square she drew blood.

 

"Ow," I said, sucking my own lip.

 

"A reminder to keep your head down," she told me, grabbing the back of my head and putting it between her thighs.

 

The next morning I awoke with a very sore neck to find Fleur eating the last of the C-ration.

 

Fleur went to America and the family manor in Massachusetts, plucked from combat into the only world power untouched by war where the most dangerous thing was my high class mother's realization that her son's French bride wasn't . I went back into the regular army, going through Market Garden, The Bulge and then into Germany itself as an OSS attache/Battalion Inteligence Officer.

 

My wife wrote me a letter every single day, demanding to know about the war's progress. Over my mother's protests, Fleur quickly got a job at the Springfield Armory test firing rifles until she got too big in the middle and was sent home...which really seemed to happen quicker than I would have expected unless I lost count of the months. She started studying so she could apply to Yale, just to piss off my parents I think, and a lot of her letters were of complaints. My family's unthinking wealth and privilege, how annoying she found the English language and how much the kid inside her kicked.

 

Fleur never exactly said that she was getting "Fat" in so many words. But the letters were full of phrases like "my swollen breasts hurt", "my shoes don't fit", "I tore another dress seam today". From future experience I would be able to guess just how much she'd grown at the time, but in the Winter of 44/45 I'd only ever experienced lean, hardy Fleur, a woman of nerves and sinew at war.

 

The other Fleur, the one not in constant danger, the one who wasn't exerting herself all day...that Fleur I wouldn't meet until the Summer of '46.

[John Smith]

[dania201]

LOVE IT

[harrylime]

Fantastic start -- keep going! 

[xandercroft]

The clit didn’t exist in 1940?  No wonder old people are cranky. 

[John Smith]

8 hours ago, xandercroft said:

The clit didn’t exist in 1940?  No wonder old people are cranky. 

[boss frond]

i want more

[Batman76]

21 minutes ago, boss frond said:

i want more

Well, here you go:

 

Chapter 2/2

We didn't get to go home the minute Hitler put himself out of our misery.

 

There were still concentration camps to liberate, infrastructure to repair, war criminals to hunt down and a whole post-war order to hammer out in Europe. Of course this was all before Japan was bombed into surrendering too, everyone in the 82nd was getting ready to jump into Tokyo and finish that theater off. I spent the whole time wrapped in what the shrinks today would accurately call anxiety.

 

Fleur had given birth in March of 45, a baby girl named Isabelle that I desperately wanted to see. I'd convinced myself after surviving the whole war and marrying Fleur, that I'd used up any remaining luck I'd had. I was convinced I was going to get killed in some pointless Banzai charge by some blood mad Samurai too crazy to know he was beaten before I even got to hold her. I didn't celebrate when news came out about the bomb but I cried like a damn baby when Japan surrendered.

 

Everyone was sort of hysterical when VJ Day was announced. The goddamn war was finally over, this horrible waste of our youth was finally done and we could get on with living. I just wanted to go home but the system for demobilization used more arcane math than the Manhattan Project had. I wasted nearly another goddamn year patrolling Berlin, writing every day to Fleur and convinced I was going to die in some damn traffic accident or get shot by a drunk.

 

Fleur was doing better. My wife was about as girlish as George S. Patton but she liked our daughter. Isabelle brought a kind of peace between Fleur and my mother, while my kid sister Francine became a friend to her, helping her study for college entrance exams. She mentioned reading a lot and occasionally mentioned being frustrated with losing weight.

 

A lot of women complain about that, its one of the curses of their existence. But as the horrible wait stretched on, Fleur kept mentioning the struggle and never mentioned the loss. She wasn't exercising all day every day and my wife had more food than she was ever used to, even before rationing ended.

 

When she'd first gotten to America, she'd cattily called my mother and sister fat. My mother's family had a weight problem that bobbed up and down in the female line, my mom had been the Queen of Flappers who'd hit the middle age spread hard right before the depression and I remembered Francine as a spoiled butter ball before war-time rationing slimmed her down for a bit. Those comments slowed down to nothing as my wife's pregnancy went on and I noticed. I was kind of curious, remembering the hungry demands of our sole shared day as husband and wife.

 

Then I finally got to go home.

 

Everything had changed at home. The war had put all the factories back to full employment (all women at the time) and cash was everywhere. There was a lot of flux at the moment as it turned out a lot of women didn't like to be told to be sent back to the Kitchen and post-war demand wasn't there yet but that was driven from my mind the moment I came into the family house in Boston and saw her at the head of the stairs, my duffle bag hitting the floor with a rattle when I realized it was her.

 

Fleur's hair had gotten long.

 

During the war it had been paired short, often by a bayonet, a type of ginger stubble that didn't really show its true color. When I saw her then, it was down to her shoulders, this glorious foam of crimson curls past the shoulder, red as the stripes on an American flag. For a moment that hair symbolized everything we'd ever fought for, a world where Fleur could let her hair grow out.

 

"Vincent!" she screamed, voice as high as when she'd been shot and she bounced down the stairs.

 

When I say bounce, I mean that Fleur bounced.

 

Exposure to America's golden fields of grain had piled soft puppy fat onto my rock hard resistance fighter's flat chest. What had been these little mosquito bites when she'd left had exploded outwards into this pair of snow white pumpkins large as her head. They went up and down with each hurried step in ways that were probably still illegal at the time, a rippling jiggle bounce that threatened to burst her top. God she had to have the best pair of breasts in New England, a pair of zeppelins that a life preserver wouldn't have fit around.

 

I didn't have much to say, there wasn't much I was capable of saying, when she got her arms around me and I got mine around her and we kissed. It was a long kiss and salty with tears and it gave me time to notice just how much of Fleur there was to hold onto. My hands were resting in a thick pillow of back fat, sinking deep into the blanket my girl's hard muscle had gone to sleep under.

 

When I pressed her closer into me, Fleur's bountiful breasts and full belly pressed into my stomach. She'd had muscles like a man when we separated, muscles that you flat out didn't see on women in those days. A pregnancy and a year with too much food had replaced all of that with a significant paunch.

 

It was incredibly soft. Softer than I'd thought something could be, softer than a goose down pillows and silken sheets and melted ice cream. It sagged a little bit, forming a little roll just from standing. Squishy piles of fat had filled in the gaunt curve of her waist, love handles stretching taut the fabric of...

 

"Good God, you're naked," I laughed, trying to make sense of it.

 

Fleur looked down at herself and blushed. My Fleur who'd emptied a Tommy Gun into an SS Captain's stomach at such close range the blood got on her actually blushed red as a tomato from her head, over these new curves and down her some what plumper legs.

 

"I was going swimming," she said, putting a hand on her stomach roll, "do you like it? It's called a 'Bi-Ki-ni."

 

The word was nonsensical at the time, some desolate Pacific Atoll that the Air Force had decided to explode with an Atom Bomb. But some goddamn genius had decided to make this beautiful girl's garment out of it. By today's standards it was down right conservative, but by '46 I have to say that it was pornographic.

 

Fleur's bikini was made out of white fabric that she'd stitched herself. Tiny panties were wrapped tight around these round, round hips that would have made every Jazz lounge singer jealous. The crest of her paunch rested against its upper fabric, pushing it down scandalously low. Although she'd had a baby and...I don't know, Sex-tuppled in size upstairs she was still pretty firm, straining against the thin cloth of the top. I could see her nipples through it already, nipples that had tripled in size and turned brown from pink.

 

"It's a good way to lose weight," she said, clearly embarassed at being what...fifty pounds? Sixty pounds, heavier than Id seen her last?

 

"Lose weight, why would you want to?" I kissed her again, running my fingers up her soft, soft back.

 

By '46 standards she was fat. Not obese, but certainly past the point of curvaceousness due to that tummy. At the time I'm writing down these old memories she'd just be kind of an average weight, Fleur was so tall and had been so damn skinny that the astounding gain had just rounded and rounded and rounded her out.

 

"I"d hoped to be thinner by the time you got back. I've become so flabby and weak," she started to say before I kissed her again, trying to wrap myself into her as tight as I could.

 

"Fleur, there is nothing, nothing, that could make me think you were weak," I told her and kissed her again, hands moving up her back and trying to undo the knot holding her breasts in.

 

If we hadn't been interrupted I think that I'd have made her pregnant right then and there. But the house had my mother in it who was all tears to see me and my sister Francine (who's thin girl pants were, with the end of rationing about to tear off of her) and then in a beautiful moment I never wanted to end, wake my daughter from her nap. There was a dinner and stories about the rest of the war and how the home front had went and everything that was changing but at the end of the night...

 

It took us a little bit to get Fleur out of the men's trousers and jacket she'd changed into. They were mine and they were snug on her, about to pop off those over abundant curves. Pulling them down her legs was just, the soft thigh fat puffing over the tight fabric was...it was like unwrapping a christmas present for me.

 

"Are you in a hurry?" she laughed as I licked up her thighs towards her treasure.

 

"We've got two years to make up," I told her and then she couldn't speak again because I was suckling her soft and gentle and firm.

 

She was on top by the end, that hadn't changed. Despite going soft all over, despite her body going from boyish to painfully womanly, despite her breasts going from mosquito bites to mountains...Fleur was still her. She rode me like a horse, bouncy hips going up and down against me, breasts heaving and her smile was savage. I was panting and in a lather at the end, her sweat pouring off of her and mixing with mine as I came into her.

 

Fleur leaned onto me, first her tummy and then her breasts and then her whole body resting on mine. It was a dense, heavy pillow that squished onto me and she kissed me soft.

 

"It really did feel like you'd waited two years," she laughed and kissed me again.

 

It took until July for our honeymoon to really start. There was paper work because my father had died of illness during the war, a cruel fit of irony really and the family factory had become a vital war industry that was enormously important. Dahlgreen cocoa was used in every C-Ration after all.

 

But in the lead up to the Fourth, the first peace time 4th of July since '41, Fleur and I decided we needed time for us. I was going back to college with her in the fall, switching for business and this new fangled thing called advertising, while Fleur, after years of dealing death wanted to become a doctor, an obstetrician specifically after giving birth herself. Fall would bring more work for both of us and the time we had was precious.

 

The family had a sail boat, a nice thing that almost touched on yacht I'd learned to sail on before the war. After making sure it was ship shape, the two of us decided to take it to tour the family cocoa plantations in that most American friendly of nations, Cuba. Isabelle would stay at home, looked after by her adoring aunt Francine who was battling the return of her own baby fat with every bit of vigor that I'd fought the Hun with. I wanted this one chance to be young and free with Fleur, to take Fleur to Havana's famous night clubs, I wanted to see her try the new dances, I wanted to see her in a bikini every damn chance I could.

 

As I took the yacht out of Boston Harbor, a nice breeze pushing us on, Fleur went down below to get changed into a bikini. It took her a lot of time, enough time that we cleared the city and made the coastal lanes that would take us quick and swift down to the Carribean. I wondered where she'd gone but not sinking us both was pretty important too and I was too stubborn to just use the motor, trying to do things the old fashioned way.

 

I heard a pop, something that for a half second made me think of a rifle before Fleur came back up holding a foaming bottle of champagne and not wearing any clothes. She took a long drink of it, green eyes near glowing with the power my lust gave her. She'd been swimming every day that summer, constellations of freckles forming across her face, her shoulders and her breasts.

 

"Where's your bikini?" I managed, damn glad there wasn't anything in front of us to hit.

 

"It didn't fit," she shrugged, head sized breasts bouncing and smiled.

 

She'd been eating a lot every day that summer too. Fleur loved barbecues, she became damn good at it and mixed her own sauces, but especially the eating part. Her appetite for weenies was both erotic and frightening to me, she'd often eat until she had to undo her shorts or let their button pop off. Maybe it had been the war time privation during her youth, maybe it was being a woman in such a constrained time period, maybe it was that Fleur was just totally unable to hold back.

 

"It didn't fit?" I asked her, running my eyes over all her unconstrained glory.

 

"To be accurate, it broke," she smiled, proud of herself, "shredded to be accurate. I've gained fifteen pounds since you came back."

 

Fleur was proud of that. Proud of getting rounder and fuller to such a degree in just a month.

 

The ideal was curvier then than it is now. A little belly fat was alright, but the waist needed to be narrow and flat, with cheesecake hips and bountiful breasts. Fleur was much fatter than that, the new weight pushing past my weight, pushing 200lbs.

 

I noticed her double chin was in full first, appearing at most angles now. Fleur's cheeks were rounding out, making her look younger and girlish despite all the men she'd killed. Her breasts looked swollen, almost achingly so, zeppelin sized. That stomach was getting rounder, fuller, starting to take the same shape it did when she over ate.

 

"I think...," she said, pausing to take a long drink, champagne pouring down her chin and over her breasts as she swayed towards me, this seductive plumpness as arousing as her old hardness had been.

 

"That you like me better," she smiled, dimples showing when she grabbed the throbbing erection under my shorts, "now that I am soft."

 

The rest of our life had its ups and downs, like all lives do. But we were together and we were happy and Fleur was always, always soft.

[swahilimonkfish]

This, folks, is what a masterpiece reads like.

The time, attention to detail, the moments, the romance, the character. It's the Casablanca of WG, this

[Cyril Figgis]

Hot damn, but this was a good story.  Loved the set-up of the first part, with the relationship between the two amidst the war setting and the stuffing scene in the barn being especially magical.  The second part was exquisite, and your ability to describe the curves of this overfed freedom fighter were something to behold.

Kudos to you, man.

[Batman76]

6 hours ago, swahilimonkfish said:

This, folks, is what a masterpiece reads like.

The time, attention to detail, the moments, the romance, the character. It's the Casablanca of WG, this

 

13 minutes ago, CyrilFiggus said:

Hot damn, but this was a good story.  Loved the set-up of the first part, with the relationship between the two amidst the war setting and the stuffing scene in the barn being especially magical.  The second part was exquisite, and your ability to describe the curves of this overfed freedom fighter were something to behold.

Kudos to you, man.

 

Holy shit, that's high praise from you two.

[boss frond]

This was so good!

[dania201]

Very well done. The character’s voice really comes through too—it makes the story