deepundergroundpoetry.com
WARTIME INTERLUDE (FROM 'STRIPTEASE' COMP)
This is a more detailed telling of a scene within one paragraph of a WWII-set novel, between a runaway British POW and a French village woman.
She said unto him, "To be frank,
there's only one way I could thank
for what you did for me today"
as daylight outside passed away.
She stepped upstairs to her bedroom,
lit a candle to break the gloom.
From the floorboards to down below
where he did wait came creaks, so slow.
Shoes were first to go, off her feet
and placed under the bed, paired neat.
From the top down, and behind her,
She unbuttoned her frock azure.
The camisole over shoulders she
thrust off quite slowly but surely,
to join the frock now on the chair
as she progressively came bare.
The brassiere came next, unhooked,
so that stark topless she now looked,
before she eased her knickers down
her legs, baring a bush of brown.
The clothes all now atop the chair,
she called him he could come up there
once from the jug-filled bowl she kept,
to wash herself before she slept,
she had hand-soaped strategic bits,
her sexual parts and armpits.
In restrained expectation he
climbed up the stairs to where she'd be.
The door ajar, into the room
he looked then walked, smelling perfume
That from a bottle she'd applied
about herself, its waft room-wide.
The candle was still burning bright,
casting around flickering light.
He saw her standing in profile,
she turned to him with knowing smile.
He saw the light show up her breasts,
the nipples aroused interests
buried since he went on the run
from captivity of the Hun.
From the dark and perky breast tips,
his eyes passed her navel to hips
where the triangle of right size
marked that place between her thighs.
An arm she calmly extended
to draw back the linen on bed
as an act of invitation
to this man of an allied nation.
He cast his clothes, they passed the night,
made love while Europe was in fight.
(Background noises of "Bang! Bang!" and explosions.)
She said unto him, "To be frank,
there's only one way I could thank
for what you did for me today"
as daylight outside passed away.
She stepped upstairs to her bedroom,
lit a candle to break the gloom.
From the floorboards to down below
where he did wait came creaks, so slow.
Shoes were first to go, off her feet
and placed under the bed, paired neat.
From the top down, and behind her,
She unbuttoned her frock azure.
The camisole over shoulders she
thrust off quite slowly but surely,
to join the frock now on the chair
as she progressively came bare.
The brassiere came next, unhooked,
so that stark topless she now looked,
before she eased her knickers down
her legs, baring a bush of brown.
The clothes all now atop the chair,
she called him he could come up there
once from the jug-filled bowl she kept,
to wash herself before she slept,
she had hand-soaped strategic bits,
her sexual parts and armpits.
In restrained expectation he
climbed up the stairs to where she'd be.
The door ajar, into the room
he looked then walked, smelling perfume
That from a bottle she'd applied
about herself, its waft room-wide.
The candle was still burning bright,
casting around flickering light.
He saw her standing in profile,
she turned to him with knowing smile.
He saw the light show up her breasts,
the nipples aroused interests
buried since he went on the run
from captivity of the Hun.
From the dark and perky breast tips,
his eyes passed her navel to hips
where the triangle of right size
marked that place between her thighs.
An arm she calmly extended
to draw back the linen on bed
as an act of invitation
to this man of an allied nation.
He cast his clothes, they passed the night,
made love while Europe was in fight.
(Background noises of "Bang! Bang!" and explosions.)
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