“Diary of a Changeling” Part 10

this is a continuing series of an Englishwoman caught in Paris in 1940. She has met a man, MN. who is involved in some activity that is about to be revealed. She is also residing with S., an elegant ‘woman of an indeterminate age’ in Paris, who might or might not be a collaborator with the Germans.

“boche” is a derogatory French name for the Germans  derived from WWI. It was very popular slur in the 1940’s.

Diary of a Changeling, #10

July 21, 1940

Yesterday MN drove us in S.’s car to the countryside, northeast of Paris, near Reims.
S. gave me even more money and said to be sure and bring back some champagne.

It was about 2 hours out from Paris, and the countryside was beautiful, blooming. We passed some boches, but MN just waved and they didn’t challenge us. I was surprised, but MN said that the Germans, for now, are few and far between in this region.

He unloaded me and my two large baskets at the edge of a village, and pointed out the road to the farmhouse. He didn’t say much about ‘his business’ as S. calls it, but she already told me he was meeting some men on ‘that’ business. I am forming my own opinions about ‘his’ business.

The first farmhouse I stopped at looked prosperous enough, with barns and a low stone wall across the front of the property. A man, above middle age, was sitting in the sunlight, whittling some wood. My bad french brought a scowl, and he asked me if I were German. I assured him I wasn’t, I was an English teacher in Paris, sent by my French relatives (a big lie here!) to buy food. Parisian stores were short on rations. I wanted a couple of chickens, and I would pay well if he had them.

He told me to sit down on the bench and he would get me my chickens. I heard some squawking and he came back with two dead chickens, hanging by their necks. I asked him if he would cut off their heads, and he scowled and sputtered something in French, the only part I caught was that he expected the whole price, with or without the necks. I assured him I would pay him the price of the chickens, and he could keep the necks and heads as part of the profit. His chickens were cher enough! I forgot the hens would bleed out the bottom of the baskets, and I dripped blood down the road. M. the Farmer had the last laugh and the English teacher had blood on her shoes.

A few more farmhouses, and I had garnered 8 kilos of potatoes, kilos of tomatoes, peaches and my baskets were heavy. I walked down the road MN had pointed to, and it took me at least an hour. I had to put down the two heavy baskets frequently.

I was lucky a man with a donkey cart came down behind me and I waggled a lift, the price of a few francs. He dropped me near enough the farmhouse, at a fork in the road. I saw S.’s car when I rounded the hill.

Coming up to the door, I dropped my baskets and opened it. There was a heavy cloud of smoke, those damn French cigarettes, and there around the large, rough wooden table were four people, one of them a woman. MN looked up, his expression startled, and rose to meet me. The others looked hostile, as if I was a boche.

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2008

“Diary of a Changeling” Part 9

A continuation of the “Diary” series in a different form…but slightly.

Diary of a Changeling, #9

Diary Entry, July 20th, 1940

S. has gone out, and I finally get a chance to write.

This morning, breakfast definitely showed the scarcity of food Parisians are suffering.  S. tells me the countryside fares better. There is the blackmarket in Paris, but the prices!  Bread is almost not to be had.

The damn boches are demanding that all the good stuff be sent to Germany, so there goes our meats, flour and cheeses.

I wonder about S.  After our meager breakfast of stale-ish bread and tea, she suggested that I go with MN into the countryside and see what I could obtain from the farmers. She mentioned that MN would be meeting with a man about some business…what she never clarifies.  At that time I could take baskets and buy whatever was possible at the farm houses or the village market.  I asked where, and apparently we are to return to the farmhouse she owns.

That is all to the good, because perhaps MN and I will be able to stay over again in that lumpy bed.

Right after breakfast, one of these damn Germans came to visit and brought a sack of flour.  S. was very gracious and poured him some of her dwindling cognac.

I wonder what her neighbors think with these Germans welcome in her salon?

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2008

“Diary of a Changeling” Part 6

These have been extended outwards from one form to more of a quickie.  Hope that doesn’t raise any sand….they are not flashers because they have no beginning/middle/end in each episode.  They are a continuation.

‘Nuff said.

Lady Nyo

Diary of a Changeling

Diary, June 28, 1940 (#6)

I was at S.’s today, telling her about our night over in the countryside.

How MN filled the woodstove with splits stacked in the kitchen, how the stove puffed and groaned and how good the three eggs I found in the old hen house tasted. I heard a rooster crow so there must be hens around. I took a chance but the eggs were fresh.

S. laughed, she seemed at ease.  She said I am good for MN.  He needs a diversion in his life. He needs a woman to fry him eggs in the morning. He needs a woman to warm his bed at night.

MN has never told me about his past.  I thought it would come in time.  There is such little chance now, with him scarce and not even S. knowing where he is from day to day.

But I do miss him, and wonder what he is up to.  When I see him, I fall under his spell, and my body responds to his presence faster than my mind.  My skin seems softer, my movements more languid.  S. laughs when she questions me, saying all this is natural.

He is a man and I am a woman.  What could be more normal?

S. and I were having our usual talk when the maid informed her the German, Lieutenant Wolflauf was downstairs.

This German is very cordial, quiet, but commanding.  He kissed my hand, which I thought outrageous considering his army has just invaded Paris.

I sat and said little. S. was her usual self, elegant and unflappable, but I could tell a bit nervous.

I kept staring at his shiny black boots.  They seemed more than boots, and they made me nervous for some reason. They were like mirrors into the future.

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2008

“Diary of a Changeling” #8

Another installment …..ANOTHER NON_FLASHER

Diary, #8

I have settled in with S. for three days now. I thought it best for I can’t get back to England now because of the war. S. has a magic wand to produce the good cheeses and we actually have a bottle of wine at dinner.

I saw MN yesterday for the first time since I moved. He looked drawn and tired, but he was hungry, and it wasn’t for food.

S. has given me some blouses, silk, and some skirts. She is taller but the skirts I can hem. The silk feels lovely and she gave me some beautiful lace and silk brassieres. They make me feel sexy.

Had an effect on MN when he appeared at S.’s. He grabbed me up and pushed me against the wall, palming my breasts. I would have raised my leg around his hip, a la Tango style, but the damn skirt was too narrow. Didn’t matter too much because he grew pressed against me and put my hand on his cock.

We heard S. come back down the hall, heels tapping on the polished floor. I broke away, settling my clothes.

I didn’t fool S. one bit. Her smile said it all.

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2008

“Diary of a Changeling” #7

N.B. THIS IS A NON-FLASHER FORM.  Mackerals flying around here..

This series is proving popular with some and absolutely hated by others. Perhaps it is frustrating because the truncated, flasher form (200 words) leaves too many questions as to what is happening and this form doesn’t give enough to keep some folks interest.

For others, the form does exactly this: it creates tension and nuance that draws them into the web of the story. I have received some emails privately from readers that are frustrated because they want MORE story immediately and have asked to ditch the flasher form and write longggg. And about the same who appreciate the ‘tease’ of the story as presented.

I could go long, but then the tension would be lost I believe. And, I think the story out as I go. I think this is important for any writer in that we bridle ourselves and enjoy the ride. For why do we write these things if not for ourselves first, and then others?

Lady Nyo

Diary #7

S. rang me up this morning. She wants me to consider moving to her apartment. She says she has too much room, and she gets lonely for company.

I think she is worried about me and wants me close. That is fine, MN also stays there on occasion and we would have more access to each other.

It would be nice to be able to sleep with him in a big, comfortable bed. That lumpy mattress did little for my bones.

S. is worried because I am thinner. It’s hard to get a normal diet with food rationing and the stores depleted. The Germans are getting the milk, butter and meat. We are seeing rutabagas and turnips showing up more and more and bread and cheeses are almost non existent.

There are posters appearing all over the boulevards, condemning the Jews, even saying “Kill the Jews.” Saying they wanted the war, let them have it.

Idiots! These have to be the French collaborating with the stupid Germans. Decent French would not sully their minds with such crap.

S. said we are living in dangerous times and it will get worse. We are surrounded with enemies posing as friends.

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2008

“The Diaries”…continuing… these are ‘flashers’, 200 word stories…

WARNING: THESE are NOT Flashers….a whole lot of fish here (mackerals)

These flashers ‘tell’ an ongoing story about a woman caught in Paris when the Germans invaded France in the summer of 1940. She is involved in a sadomasochist relationship with “MN” who is a Frenchman.

Lady Nyo

DIARY OF A CHANGELING #4

Diary: June 21, 1940

MN is back. I was at S.’s and he just appeared! It’s been a week and of course I had questions, but S. warned me. Don’t ask him anything.

MN seemed tired, his face thinner, paler. But looking at him, my own gut clenching, there is little difference. Still that same full mouth, that smile which touched on a cynicism with all life, those eyes so expressive, or maybe I am so much in thrall with his power I can’t see the truth: he is just a man.

No, he is more. He is much more, now. And he knows it. There was almost an invisible thread that connected us across the room. All propriety with S. there, but when she answered the phone across the room, MN turned to me, his hand across his mouth, hiding his smile. Only his eyes danced over his hand, and it was enough for me to feel this flush of lust.

S. announced a Lieutenant Wolauf was to visit.

MN left too soon. Only a kiss on the cheek and a whispered “a demain, a demain” and he was gone.

Two cold words to warm me.

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2008

Diary of a Changeling

Diary: June 24th, 1940 (#5)

The division of France is done, and no one is happy except the Germans and Marshal Petain. S. is puffing her stinky Gauloises, nervous. I can’t stand to be around her.

Petrol is scarce, but MN took me in S’s car out to the countryside. He has use of a farmhouse and this was new for us.

The house is old, with beamed ceilings and a stone sink in the kitchen. We ate bread,. stinky cheese and a bottle of wine.

Upstairs in the bedroom, MN said we shouldn’t ‘waste’ the beams and tied me with ropes he brought.

Perhaps it was the wine, or perhaps I am ‘getting tougher’ but he gave me more lashes than usual. I didn’t want to stop, but he was still careful.

This pain gets my attention fast, radiating outward and inward at the same time. MN stuck his hand in my crack and rubbed, cooing in my ear, whispering French nothings, soothing my tears with his breath.

We made love for the first time, MN slowly touching my body from my feet to my neck with his tongue and hands.

Why am I doing this? Because I must.

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2008

Diary of a Changeling

Diary, June 28, 1940 (#6)

I was at S.’s today, telling her about our night over in the countryside.

How MN filled the woodstove with wood stacked in the kitchen, how the stove puffed and groaned and how good the three eggs I found in the old hen house tasted. Hens were around so the eggs were fresh.

S. laughed, she seemed at ease. She said I am good for MN. He needs a diversion in his life. He needs a woman to fry him eggs in the morning.

MN has never told me about his past. I thought it would come in time. There is such little chance now, with him scarce and not even S. knowing where he is from day to day.

S. and I were having our usual talk when the maid informed her the German, Lieutenant Wolflauf was downstairs.

This German is very cordial, quiet, but commanding. He kissed my hand, which I thought outrageous considering his army has just invaded Paris.

I sat and said little. S. was her usual self, elegant and unflappable, but a bit nervous.

I kept staring at his shiny black boots. They seemed more than boots. They were like mirrors that saw the future.

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2008

“Diary of a Changeling”……6 NON-flashers….

WARNING: These are NOT flashers for the above (much above) reasons..they are scenes that just happen to be 200 words long each.  They will stretch themselves in the newest episodes.  Don’t want any more mackerals flying around..

I’m going to post all 6 of these  non-flashers (200 word scenes) I have very recently written. I am doing so because people have asked to read them in sum…and I thought…why the hell not?

I post these one at a time on ERWA, but that is too slow for some readers..and i can understand their feelings. This was something I wanted to write to answer some of the pain/pleasures issues that I was discovering for myself recently, and I have set them in Germany, summer of 1940 when the Nazis entered and occupied France in general, and here, Paris.

Nazis, a Sadist, woman exploring these pain/sexual issues, the French Resistance, Jews in the Resistance, etc. The juxtaposition of all this makes me queasy because the formation is …..tricky.

But if we can’t take risks with history and our writings…we don’t grow.

Lady Nyo

“Diary of a Changeling” in Six episodes so far… (3 today, 3 tomorrow)

DIARY OF A CHANGLING (#1)

I have started a series of flashers in an epistolary form. This follows the development of a woman who begins to understand the issues of pain and its application to arousal and sex.

Diary Entry 1

It finally happened last night. This morning I feel a stranger in my skin. The welts from his whip will disappear soon.

I never thought it could be so! How could I crave this—torture? How could pain do this to me? Am I normal?

S___ was the one who set it up. She didn’t tell me much, just that it was ‘time’. All those conversations over tea, those events I thought she was making up. They were just lascivious stories, something a friend would tell another to wile the afternoon away. Besides, S___ was a writer, a novelist. She cultivated her imagination.

“What do you mean, ‘it’s time’?” I asked.

I remember her laughing, placing her cup on the tea table.

I quote her:

“I can smell your excitement. It gets stronger with each visit. You must not deny anything, ma cherie. You are wet now, yes?”

S__ had smiled and said: “Your responses are obvious. You crave it.”

Ah! I can’t write anymore. My hands shake. Even now my face burns with blushes!
Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2008

DIARY OF A CHANGELING

Diary Entry 2.

I saw S. today. She smoking a stinky Gauloises and looking so chic. French women are born this way, with no efforts to be so.

She asked me how it went with MN. I struggled to answer, my hands shaking, my teacup rattling in the saucer.

I told her ‘it went well.’ How could I explain??

We made small talk for she was expecting a guest and I was leaving anyway.

But my mind recalled when MN. traced the whip handle down my back, making me shiver. I remembered his breath in my ear, the scent of him close to my skin, the cuffs on my wrists, how he stroked my flesh, warming it with his hand, cupping my breast and my ass. Dipping his hand in my wetness.

Nothing could have prepared me for that first strike. The sting was like a hornet, the pain radiating outward, making me gasp. His whip owned me with the first blow. What had I done? I wanted to scream.

Rising to leave, MN. walked in. I froze. I saw S. smile. MN. kissed her hand, and turned. I must have looked the fool.

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2008

Diary: June 14th, 1940 (#3)

I was looking out the window with S. and watching the Germans march past. They passed forever, seemingly endless supply of men in black boots.

S. is very nervous and puffed on her terrible Gauloises. I could have screamed but we are all bundles of nerves. She said things would radically change and we will have to ‘make do.’

I don’t know about S. though. She is well placed and has lovers in the government. She has the best brie and wine.

I can’t get back to England now, am dependent upon S. MN.disappeared this last week, but S. tells me he will be back, he is on ‘business’. What kind she doesn’t say.

He was a bit too lavish with the whip this last time, and my back and buttocks are still bruised. It is strange how these bruises have become something different to me than just examples of pain. His whip stings me, but he knows to wait and in the waiting something happens. I am resolved to find out more. Of course, this is rather outre considering what is happening outside the windows now.

I have become obsessed. Pain is the portal.

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2008