Date: Thu, 5 Mar 2009 19:35:20 +0200
From: Sebastian Oakland <sebastian.oak@gmail.com>
Subject: The Pilot and the Patriot - Complete short story

This is a short story about a man that makes a lot of stupid decisions, and
a boy left to his own devices.  It is much more graphic than either of my
previous stories, even I was shocked at what my imagination could conjure.
Especially since I'm not into this kind of stuff at all. It too is utter
fantasy, so do not indulge in this behaviour if it risks your health or
freedom.  Neither should you read this if you're not supposed to.  This is
my third attempt at writing a short story in my second language. The
others, Badges, boys, and bastards, and Cuts, is elsewhere on Nifty.  If
you are bothered by the anachronisms in this story, get over it!  If you
liked it please send a note saying so to sebastian.oak@gmail.com, if you'd
like to point out improvements, you're very welcome.

The Pilot and the Patriot
a short story by
Sebastian Thomas Oakland

Second Lieutenant Robert Steinmann was miserable.  He was wet through to
his icy bones as he lay among the brush that grew around the precariously
deep pond at which he was hiding.  It was not chill-weathered, but he had
been soaked for hours, and the evaporating pond slick drew from him the
little warmth the afternoon sun gave him.  His flight suit was camouflaged
enough for him to all but disappear among the little growth that had not
been grazed on by absent bovines.  He was out of view unless someone
searched for him.  He rested his head on his arms as another shiver quaked
through his body.  He crossed his legs at the ankles and hoped that they
might find comfort in one another's company.  In his closed eyelids he
reviewed the moments that brought him to this wretched state.  He was so
sure he had it covered.

His Mustang fighter patrolled the route the bombers would follow to spawn
their deadly load over enemy cities.  The big ones flew higher, and were
safe from the Luftwaffe, but the shorter range DC's needed escorts and
scouts.  His squadron was sent ahead to clear the sky of the few but
tenacious Messerschmitt interceptors that would harass the bombers to their
doom.  Moments after his wing commander had reported the way clear two
little Kraut planes appeared out of nowhere, knocked out one plane from
their formation in a cloud of flame and smoke before they even knew they
were under attack, and soon one clang to his ass like a tick on a
stallion's ball.

"So you think you're gonna die, Gerry!" he shouted at his pursuer, ignoring
the fact that he was the one in detriment.  It did not surprise him when in
a last ditch left turn to loose the Messerschmitt he saw the rat-tat scars
edging from the tip of the wing to the cockpit, igniting the fuel that was
stored there; He was flanking into the German's aim.  He aborted the
manoeuvre and dropped the stick forward throwing the plane into a rapid
dive.  The flames extinguished, but the fuel leaked into the dawn leaving a
trail of vapour.  He pulled up slowing the plane down, and dropped
altitude;

"Just a flat piece of earth, Lord," he heard himself praying, and as if
someone heard him an easy meadow sprawled into view just ahead, the engine
spluttered its last objection to the lack of fuel.  The propeller stuck
against its own gears and sat motionless, not a care in this world.  Robert
glided the plane onto the field and held on for dear life as the tyres
negotiated a surface that was not level enough for driving, let alone
touching down a plane.  When it finally came to a rest the aircraft had
suffered irreparably.  In the field behind laid the tip of the wounded wing
and part of its undercarriage.  The landing had knocked the wind out of
Robert, and it took him a few minutes to gather his wits and evacuate the
plane.  He grabbed his survival kit and a worn leather briefcase, and slid
the windscreen out of the way.  He unbuckled the many belts, and thought to
hop onto the wing and from there to the ground.  The plane was in an
awkward position, still Robert had no fear of heights, he was a pilot after
all, and he leapt without much consideration.  On impact a searing pain
ripped through his lower leg.

"Idiot!" he screeched at himself.  He had sprained his ankle and his escape
plan, a quick dash back to the front and across it to freedom evaporated
from his list of options.  Instead of confidently striding away from the
plane crash he had survived he had to crawl on all fours to a hideaway,
taking care not to injure himself any further.  He had to regroup, take
stock, and come up with a plan to survive this ordeal.  The downed plane
seemed not to have attracted much attention.  A plane on the ground was no
threat, and an enemy pilot on the loose was not going to change the course
of the war, and enemy resources were already thinly spread along two
fronts.  Robert did not know this, weeks of training demanded that he kept
on the run to evade an enemy that was certainly searching for him, but the
country side seemed calm, occasionally marked by the quiet scars of a
violent war.  He stayed low and out of view for most of the morning, but
reality dawned around noon and he knew he'd have to find a hide out.  His
ankle was hurting like hell.  He had not yet dressed it and every move he
made in his slow progress to safety was a challenge and a torture. It was
not until the afternoon that Robert stumbled upon the little pond and
impulsively decided to check it out.

Jurgen Gruber knew that the war effort was not going according to plan.
More than a year before the supply line for his Fatherland Youth group
ended, and not long after that the group stopped meeting altogether.  Every
night he would watch in elation as the swarms of planes flew west to bring
destruction to the little island off the coast of France.  He also watched
as those planes became less and less till eventually the tide swung and
even larger flocks came from the west to fly to the heart of his beloved
country.  But Jurgen resolved that if the invaders made it all the way to
the little farm where his grandmother and he still bided the victory of the
Reich, he would stop their advance, even if he had to do it by himself.  He
still wore the uniform the Fuhrer had sent to him for his twelfth birthday,
no replacements came after that.  The brown shirt was faded from frequent
washing, mended all over, and far too small; but dressing in it still
warmed his heart, and he felt pride in the accomplishments of his people,
even as they stood alone against the might of the world.  The short hosen
barely buttoned shut all the way to the top, and he relied on the leather
belt and shoulder strap to keep the outfit together.

There was not much to do around the farm.  Most of the livestock had been
rounded up by the Wehrmacht as contributions to the war effort.  No cows
grazed around the fields, and no goats bleated in the distance.  Even the
few chickens that stayed close to the house seemed too meagre to eat, and
his grandma and he had to live of gruel that used to be animal feed, and
the occasional egg.  Some trees in the arbour still bore fruit, but only in
the highest branches.  He had climbed into a peach tree to find the last of
its harvest.  He picked one for his grandmother and dropped it into the
front of his shirt where it rested in a bulge against his tummy, its fuzz
instigating an itch.  He lingered up there pushing foliage out of the way
and surveyed the western horizon for movement.

"Jurgen, water!" his grandmother reminded him from inside the little house.
It was a sturdy construction, but the thatched roof would not last another
winter.  They'd have to find a way to fix it themselves, or to find a
different spot entirely.  His father went to war and never came back.  His
mother helped in her way; she went off with an SS officer the first time
they came around the stead.  He deftly swung from the higher branches
making his lithe way down, snatched up a tattered pale and headed for the
pond, the small vegetable patch needed water if they were going to grow
enough to keep them alive through winter.

The splash nearly startled Robert.  He had dozed off from fatigue
aggravated by pain, cold and hunger.  At first he thought he had been
discovered, but the soft humming of a pointless anthem just warned him of
the proximity of discovery.  It was the voice of a child, soft, innocent,
and humming praises to a country teetering on the edge.  He lay very still,
confident that he had not been spotted.  When he heard a grunt of effort he
dared a look and through sticks and leaves saw a young boy dragging water
out of the slimy pond.  He relaxed, surely a boy in the hinterland was not
much of a threat, he rested his chin on his crossed arms, shrugged at the
moist chill still gripping his body and watched as the blonde grappled at
the handle with two hands and turned to go back wherever he came from.  As
the child walked away a shock of fear paralysed Robert's breathing, goose
bumps rose in his neck and spread flightily over his back and down his
sides; the boy wore a bright red armband and on it, embroidered in black
was the damned hooked cross.

Ever since the nightmare started he had not once seen any enemy activity.
No patrols roamed the countryside, no troops moved over the green fields or
the sparse woodlands that dotted the landscape.  No rumble of panzer or
heavy vehicles could be heard, even at a distance.  Rumours had it that the
Germans were on their knees, but so much that even their own country seemed
abandoned seemed too good to be true, but still, rather safe than sorry.
The boy disappeared over a low rise.  If he came from there it meant some
kind of habitation was not far away.  Maybe the boy came from a small town,
or a hamlet.  Whatever it was, it was small; Robert had not encountered
major roads that passed through the area, but that being said; he avoided
traversing obstacles that might expose him.  A major road might very well
slither its way through on the other side of the hillock behind which the
boy went.

The air force, with a war time turnover of pilots, neither expected of
Robert to survive the crash, nor to have the resources to mount a rescue
for any lost pilot.  The compulsory week of survival training scarcely
prepared him for this situation.  He was sure that in there somewhere was
the mantra `stay away from any people', which would make a lot of sense if
he was able and healthy, but his injury and the deadening cold justified in
Robert's mind a careful peek over the hill.  He left the cover of the pond
growth and slowly crawled into the open meadow.  He tried to stick to the
longer grass, and hoped that no more pales of water required fetching.  He
was not only exposed to view, but also the warm rays of sunlight that soon
relieved the clammy chill of his legs, and his back heartily basked in the
fresh smelling grass.  Life returned to his body, and so did the dull ache
from his injured ankle.  He mustered himself and crawled the short distance
to crest the rise.

At first he could only see the thatch of a small house and around the back
a barn, maybe twice as big as the house, but certainly twice as high.  He
lifted onto his elbows; even further back stood some trees in rows.  He
dared a few steps closer.  The scene in front was postcard pretty, like the
house was set up to be an idyllic image of a rustic homeland.  He expected
Heidi to run around the corner into the arms of her dear grandfather at any
moment.  Instead a boy with a visibly empty bucket marched into Robert's
sight.  His bearing was straight-up and confident.  He placed the bucket
into what Robert thought must be the place at which the bucket lived.  He
smiled to himself, the Krauts and their peculiarities.  The boy never
looked up.  He was strong looking, but not tall.  He was muscled from doing
chores grown-ups should, but slender because of war time rations.  He was
not skinny, but lean like an athlete.  Robert recognised the haircut,
typical soup bowl, short around the sides and back with a sharp edge and
longer top.  His fringe hung in his blue eyes, and shone white in the
afternoon sun.  His face was boyishly aquiline, sharp, and handsome.
Robert knew that any colour but bright blue eyes would blemish his tone and
features.  Boys like that would inspire anyone to war, and the insane to
genocide.  The boy hung around aimlessly for a second before responding to
what must have been a summons from inside the house.  Robert waited for a
while, and watched.  As the afternoon wore on he circled the yard at great
distance, he saw no one but the boy and a little old lady.  There were no
telephone or power lines.  He was tired and hungry, he could not risk a
night in the open, and the little family of two seemed harmless enough,
they would never even know he was there, he thought to himself.

Jurgen walked around the yard one last time before going to bed.  He could
do no more for his people than making sure his little part of Germany was
safe and secure, after all, he was the man of the house.  He double checked
the latch on the chicken coup, holding the lantern high over his head to
spread the light of the little flame that fluttered inside the shiny glass
a little wider.  He went to the last checkpoint, though no livestock had
walked through the doors for a long time, there was still plenty of hay and
tools that were assets in times of all around shortage.  The door was
closed as it always is; he touched it as a matter of habit, and turned for
bed.  The wide arches drawn in the dust at his feet alarmed him.  The door
was opened, and if Grandmother wanted something she would have sent him.
She had not sent him for a long while.  Someone was there.  Jurgen blew out
the little flame, and put the lantern down quickly.  He huddled close to
the door.  The youth group had trained him well.  To be less visible, would
be the first step in a series that would give a soldier the advantage when
in contact with an enemy.  To be aware and observe would be the next.  No
one jumped at the boy as he felt suddenly afraid.  He was alone in the
darkness, and clearly someone else was where they did not belong.  He
thought of running for his grandmother, or screaming for help, but he knew
that for all practical considerations he should accept that he was alone,
and had to get control over himself, and the situation.  He could see a
boot print sliding through the door, but could not tell whether it came or
went.  He listened but heard no sound form inside.  This is up to you,
Jurgen, he thought and slowly rose to lift the latch, the door softly swung
open under its own weight.  Jurgen halted it with his foot, and slid
inside, closing the latch behind him. The quarter moon gleaming through the
high vents gave Jurgen enough light to see that the ladder had moved.  He
had left it against the wall by the door when he harvested some much
earlier that season.  Now it rested against the half attic, the second
level of the barn where bales of hay were kept dry until they were needed.
There were lots.

The boy was on edge, he grappled for the penknife that was clasped to his
belt, opened it and ascended the ladder step after quiet step.  Blood
whooshed steadily in his ears, his heart beat rapidly, and he could hardly
breathe.  He peeked over the wooden floor.  What he saw gave him the
courage to step higher, and look at what must have been the least menacing
enemy he had seen in his life.  On a high pile of fresh hay lay a man
asleep on his stomach, he was spread out quite comfortably.  Small purring
sounds escaped from his throat as he was blissfully ignorant of a little
Nazi with a drawn blade looking at his naked butt.  Jurgen saw the flight
suit with the star spangled banner on its sleeve draped across the rafters,
obviously moist from an encounter with water.  The man was tall, and dark,
and the moon gave him a bluish glow.  His skin was smooth and practically
hairless.  Even his legs had only the shortest stubble.  His broad
shoulders tapered down wide lats, to a thin middle that widened again into
a set of muscular thighs.  His arms were folded under his torso in a bid
for warmth, but his high round butt topped legs were spread wide, and
relaxed.  A bandage bound one of the enemy's ankles.

"A prisoner," Jurgen whimpered to himself, "I have my very own prisoner of
war!"  In his mind flashed an image of the Great Leader hanging from his
neck a large Iron Cross.  He could barely contain the excitement that
bubbled through him like the brook that sprung from below the pond that fed
their little farm.  Jurgen made a quick decision; he pulled the flight suit
down from the rafters, descended the ladder, and left the sleeping man
undisturbed.  Quietly he moved the ladder away from the landing; he was
trapped.  He closed the door again, considering putting a lock on it.  He
decided against the move.  It would not be possible for anyone with a
ruined foot to descend from the upper level without a ladder, the man had
no clothes and could not scamper across the countryside naked, and of
course, Jurgen had no lock.  Jurgen considered his options: declaring the
prisoner to the authorities would be the simplest thing to do, but his
youth group were completely disbanded, and the last patrol that came by the
farm was days ago, before then weeks had passed between visits.  He would
have to deal with the prisoner himself.  He needed to prepare.

A tickling under his nose woke Robert with a sneeze.  The moments between
wakefulness and dreams did not remind him of where he was, or what his
detriment were.  He snoozed for a minute longer, luxuriating in the lines
of sun that shone through the lumber that roofed the barn, and warmed his
tired body.  He sat up wiping odd pieces of straw from his arms and chest.
Sleep had done him well, he felt refreshed, and clear, even his foot ached
less.  Only then did his groggy mind realise his error, he had slept too
long and was now stuck in the barn in the middle of the day.  He perked his
ears to listen for any hostile noises, all seemed quiet.  His stomach gave
a loud grumble.  He was hungry, got up for the survival kit that had to
have some chocolate left in it and noticed that his flight suit was gone.
He looked down over the edge to see if it had dropped to below, but he only
saw that the ladder was gone too.  In its place on the floor of the upper
deck was a tray.

Robert's entire body became icier than he was when he wore the damp flight
suit.  He started to tremble faintly, and could suddenly not breathe.  He
was scared.  For the first time since he crash landed in the meadow the day
before he felt real fear beyond fear, it was terror.  The enemy had him,
not only did they have him, but they also had all his clothes.  He saw his
emergency kit next to where he slept.  His eyes darted to the briefcase, he
looked around; no one was watching him.  He went for the briefcase and was
thinking of a way to destroy the contents before his captors got their
hands on it.  Eating it was the first option he considered, but realised
the maps, codebooks and inventories could easily feed a family of eight or
more.  He remembered the safety matches and was about to strike the first
when the stacks of dry hay around him nagged about his own infernal death.
He could not destroy it.  It was stupid of him to have brought the
briefcase with on the mission.  He would never have thought that the
briefing materials he was taking to another officer who had access to the
strategy room would end up behind enemy lines because he had forgotten to
drop it off.  And now he was stuck with it.  He could at least hide it.

Escape seemed very improbable when his stomach growled again, his thoughts
returned to the tray.  He was a prisoner and there was no telling what his
future held.  He needed sustenance, and if his circumstances dictated, the
enemy provided.  There were two bowls, one was filled with what looked like
watery oats and the other contained a boiled egg.  On the tray lay a large
fuzzy peach, perfectly ripe in the late summer.  There was also a ceramic
mug with lukewarm tea.  He brought the tray back to his nest in the hay and
sat down cross legged and naked.  The spread did not say much for German
cuisine, but war time made things difficult for everybody, and out here in
the countryside it was no different.  He picked up the spoon and tasted the
oats.  It was not sweet, he tasted herb in it, but his tummy did not object
and soon he felt better.  He even felt his concerns about captivity drift
away.  He ate all the food and took most of the bitter tea.  It was nice
and warm in the barn, a smile came to his face and he felt like laughing.
Finally Robert's senses caught up, he recognised the herby taste, and the
bitter tea.  He reached for the survival kit.  The morphine was gone.  He
didn't mind.  Fluffy clouds of happy feelings wrapped themselves around his
brain as he curled up in the hay and drifted off to a dreamless sleep.

Jurgen paced around the little house in anticipation.  He had spent most of
the morning doing so and had very little sleep planning his day.  He did
not tell his grandmother about the man he held prisoner only a short walk
away from the house.  He even snuck the extra food away; she was a dear
person, but the task at hand was beyond her, and he felt it was to be left
to soldiers and men.  He was neither, but had to step up to it nonetheless.
He considered lacing her tea with some of the opiate as well, but knew she
could not interfere either way.  Where muscle challenged, brains prevailed.
The youth group had fallen short of teaching Jurgen about interrogation.
They never even thought that thirteen year olds would take prisoners, let
alone have the capacity to question them.  In the absence of training
Jurgen simply did what he thought was the logical next step, now that he
had immobilised the prisoner, size and strength did not matter.  The pilot
could surely kill him, rape his grandmother, and take what he wanted before
burning it all to the ground and running for the front.  No, he had to be
restrained, and if he knew anything of value, be interrogated.  Jurgen did
not anticipate compliance.  He picked up a satchel in which he had
collected things from around the house and yard.  He expected to need them
later.

"I'm going for a walk," he said to his grandmother.  She was sitting at the
kitchen table, looked up from her sowing, smiled at him and wished him a
pleasant one.  He walked straight to the big barn.  He opened the latch
quietly and closed the door behind him.  He listened for sounds from the
top, all was quiet, a ruse to surprise him, he wondered.  Surely the
prisoner realised that this would be expected.  He moved the ladder back
with a loud clunk.  Still no movement came from above.  He slipped his
knife between his teeth again, and climbed to the top.  The tray was gone
and the man lay spread-eagled atop the hay, like a bull to sacrifice.
Jurgen was still cautious; he studied the naked figure as it lay by his
feet.  The prisoner had a young, handsome face, his hair was not trimmed in
a military style and had some hay stuck in it.  His cheeks were covered in
two days worth of stubble.  He had big arms, and a muscled chest.  He had
some short trimmed hair on his chest and large nipples.  His stomach was as
smooth as his backside, and lay now depressed in the relaxation of sleep.
It was muscled too.  Jurgen did not want to look at the man's penis, and
purposely averted his perusal to the prisoner's legs and feet, but the dick
was like a magnet.  He could not not look.  It was the first time he had
seen a dick that was not his own, and in his young eyes it was enormous.
It also looked different, there was no foreskin.  Could the man be a
Semite?  Weren't Semites to be unattractive? Jurgen went down on one knee
and reached for the man's arm.  He poked at it in an attempt to wake him
up.  When this did not work he slapped his chest with and open hand, the
man still did not wake, even if a large red handprint surfaced where he
struck.  The prisoner was completely out of it, Jurgen dared to touch the
body again, this time softly.  He was going to have to touch the man at
some point, and now was a good time to familiarise himself with the
terrain.  At first he only ran his hands over the soft skin.  The prisoner
was obviously strong; then he touched the large nipples.  They were dark
and had a bit of hair around them.  He pinched one to see if they were
fragile and sensitive, like his.  To his surprise the nipple rose up and
became hard.  His hand rose involuntarily to his own, he pinched
unconsciously and cringed at the sensation.  Jurgen's nipples had recently
become very sensitive and a bit swollen.  They were little shallow cones on
his flat chest, and rubbed uncomfortably against the tight uniform shirt.
It was time to get to work; he got up and went down the ladder to fetch a
big coil of rope from below.

When Robert became aware of his discomfort his mind had no interest in
waking up, only to be more comfortable, but he could not move.  That woke
him up.  At first he realised he was not lying down anymore.  He felt hazy,
like he had smoked some pot, but was getting less high every moment.  He
opened his eyes.  He found himself kneeling in a nest of hay. He could not
stand up; every time he tried he was held back by a noose around his
throat.  Behind his back the noose was tied to a broomstick that was tied
to his ankles, keeping his feet a steady distance apart.  His elbows were
forced high behind his head, and his hands were tied to the noose behind
his neck as well.  He was further suspended from the rafter that supported
the roof above him, keeping him from falling over.  He tugged at the knots
that bound him and found them very secure, without hurting.  They were of
solid rope, but were soft and cottony, not like the harsh, scratchy rope he
was used to.  He became very conscious of the fact that he was not going to
get out of this; the icy fear crept over him again.

"If you struggle the knots will only tighten more," a sweet voice said from
behind him, it bore a heavy German accent.  Robert was not sure that he
heard right, was it a boy's voice speaking to him?  He tried to twist his
head around to see.  The ropes held him immobile.  He looked where he
could. On the wooden deck in front of him were a folded cloth, a horse
whip, and a lit candle in a short metal stick.  It was dusky outside, the
sun was not shining as brightly and cool air touched his skin.  He was a
bit stiff from the position he was in, but he did not hurt.  The hay kept
his hard knees off the harder floor.  He was buck naked.

"There is nothing you can do but accept your fate and cooperate," there was
a tone of determination in the young voice.  Clunking steps circled around
Robert and the boy he saw the day before stepped into the candle light, and
among some lit lanterns.  He was still wearing the brown and black uniform
Robert saw the day before.  Was it possible that this boy, the one whom he
had watched for much of the day before, on this out of the way little farm,
had outwitted him into his current desperate situation?  It all made sense,
the easy trap in the barn, the lost morphine, bitter tea and dreamless
sleep; the boy was alone and could not apprehend him, he was beaten by
brains!  Robert looked at the boy.  He was too pretty for even a girl.  His
hair was clean and parted neatly on the right side.  Comb streaks were
still visible in the even strands.  A lightening blue right eye peered from
below a low fringe, his left eye obscured entirely.  His jaw line descended
an elegant curve; a shallow cleft split his smooth chin.  His cheeks were
red, as if he was blushing; its natural rouge complimented the soft pink of
the boy's lips.  It was a beautiful boy, who was alone on a farm only God
knew where.  Robert's fear became less icy.  The uniform, even if a symbol
of a terrible ideology, looked great on the boy.  It was obviously too
small and fit the lad's frame like a glove.  He was slim, yet strong.  He
wore a belt with a shoulder strap; from it hung a pocket knife.  Despite
his very uncomfortable position and his exposure, Robert found himself
enjoying the look of the lad.  He felt his dangling dick twitch. He asked
the boy;

"What's your name...?"

"I will ask the questions!" Jurgen cut him short.  He felt his cheeks
glowing red, his heart was beating in his throat.  Jurgen could not
remember being this afraid in his entire life.  Even given that the man was
his prisoner, he was still a heartless invader that would stop at nothing
to destroy what he and his people stood for.  He surveyed the body that he
faced.  It was harder now that the man was not sleeping in relaxed pose.
Instead the awkwardness of his restraint made his muscles even more visible
and defined.  His biceps bulged roundly, framing the strong face.  The
prisoner looked at him intently from below a low brow.  His short curls
gave him a romantic look, and his features were classic, angry.  His
armpits were exposed.  The prisoner had good hygiene habits; his armpit
hair was trimmed, just like his chest and pubic hair.  His pecs were huge
plains of stubbled skin crowned by two big areolas, and in the evening air,
hard pointed nipples.  A hard six pack rippled to a thin waist, strained
backward by the shortness of the rope that crossed his back.  His upper
legs bulged under their own strain, and between them his dick was at half
mast.  He had restrained the prisoner, now he needed information, the best
way to get information was through intimidation, or that was what logic
dictated.  He reached into the pack and brought out a notebook and a
pencil.

"What is your name?" he demanded from the prisoner.

"Now wait just a minute, who you think you're talking to?" Jurgen
anticipated resistance, not stupidity.  In his boyish voice he explained;

"I don't know who I'm speaking to, that's why I asked your name.  Answer
the question!"  Robert realised that made sense, this was some smart kid,
and he introduced himself;

"I'm Robbie, what's your name?"  The question annoyed Jurgen, he said
again;

"I'm asking the questions, you must answer them, or accept the
consequences."

"My name is eat shit you little Kraut!" Jurgen was afraid for this moment.
He had never hurt a human being in his life before, and now that he had to
do it he was not certain that he could, he decided to not think and just
do.  He reached for the horsewhip, clenched his teeth and swatted hard at
the prisoner's torso.  If it was played at a tennis match it would have
counted as a superb back hand.  Instead there was a fierce welt searing
across Robert's sternum.

It was as if he was cut with a blade.  It felt like the little shit meant
business, this was not a game.  He heard the question again and replied;

"Steinmann, Robert, Second Lieutenant, U.S. Air Force, Number 2482734/836"
Jurgen noted the information in the notebook.  When he handed over the
prisoner he wanted to give them a full report.

"Where do you come from?" came the next question.  Robert remembered the
mantra;

"Steinmann, Robert, Second Lieutenant, U.S. Air Force, Number 2482734/836",
the man seemed to have recovered from his previous encounter with the swat.
Once again he quite regretfully swung the thin stick with a little leather
flap at the Robert's chest.  He recoiled fiercely and hit hard against the
ropes that suspended him.  The fear had returned.  Sweat had started to run
down his face and chest.  The welts were not bleeding, but the stung
remained, he glared at the boy, and answered the question, there was
nothing useful in what the boy was asking.

"I was shot down not far from here, I took shelter in you barn, you caught
me."  Jurgen made notes of what he said.

"How many planes was in the group you were flying in?" the questions
started to become serious, and Robert realised the risk.  He tried to
return to the mantra, and genuinely feared the consequences.

"Steinmann, Robert, Second Lieutenant, U.S. Air Force, Number 2482734/836"
Jurgen looked at the prisoner, intimidation tactics, he remembered.  Jurgen
took his shirt off.  First he dropped the shoulder strap to dangle by his
side, then unbuttoned the sleeves and every button starting at the top.
Robert saw as the tight shirt fell open. It exposed white skin; the boy's
beauty was not restricted to his face.  He had skin as pale as early snow,
two swollen caps in soft pink topped a flat tummy with a shallow belly
button, and the smooth flatness below the belly button formed a V that
disappeared in the boy's hosen.

"I don't want to stain my shirt with blood," Jurgen said in his iciest
voice, he saw the prisoner was scared, but his dick was as hard as rock.
He reached for the folded cloth and pulled at it slowly.  His hand revealed
a plethora of tools and paraphernalia that promised severe pain and
suffering to those that was subjected to them.  Jurgen had added most of
the objects simply because they looked scary; he had no intention of using
them, neither could he imagine what could possibly be done with most of it,
what was most evident though were the objects that he did intend to use,
and one of these were a pair of fine pliers he had received from his
grandmother as a gift.  They were her late husband's, and Jurgen was sure
his grandfather never intended for his tools to be used in such a way.

"It will be easier for both of us if you just answer the question," he said
with what he thought was his most menacing voice.  He picked up the pliers
slowly and studied them as if it was the first time he saw them and had no
idea what they were.  "How many planes were in the group you were flying
in, and what was your destination."  Still holding the pliers he stepped
closer to Robert.  With much less gusto Robert replied:

"Steinmann, Robert, Second Lieutenant, U.S. Air Force, Number 2482734/836,"
a faint trembling in the back of his throat.  He had no clue that the
threat of injury or death was a great aphrodisiac for most mammal species.
The idea that one's imminent demise would spur ones body into a last ditch
attempt at procreation did not surface in his conscience at all.  Instead
he was simultaneously scared for his life, and turned on by the beauty of
the boy so much that he could feel his dick strain against its own skin
with its hardness and veracity.  He looked down at it and saw it pulsating
unsupported and in mid air.  He looked up at the approaching boy, some
hideous tool in hand.  Even the two swats the boy delivered to his chest
was excruciatingly good.  At least he was still alive, and that was
something to be said being behind enemy lines.  When he felt the icy cold
of the pliers brush his nipple he was tempted to cower and cringe, instead
he looked at the boy's blue eyes quite defiantly:

"Steinmann, Robert..." the severe pinch of the pliers shot from his tit to
his cock like a spark of electricity.  Instead of a wail of pain, a grunt
of pleasure escaped from his throat.  Robert did not understand his
experience; he was in genuine danger and every conclusion about his
situation invoked mortal fear of pain and death, but his body wanted more.
He was grateful; his mind was fucked up, his body was horny, but if it took
this weirdness to survive this exquisite interrogation, and if he could
hide the potent information from his captor he had to go with it.  He had
closed his eyes in resignation and prepared for more.  An equally delicious
pain pinched at his other nipple.  Inadvertently more sounds of pleasure
came from him, and he looked up appreciatively at the boy and the beauty of
his young body.  If only the boy would torture his cock...

Jurgen was confused.  Here he was trying to exact pain and fear on someone
who was doubtlessly in his complete control, yet the prisoner seemed to be
almost enjoying the torture.  This was an incredulous situation.  He had
threatened with dire consequences and blood; still it appeared as if the
man wanted him to do these things.  Surely his methods were not severe
enough and the man was mocking him, even looking at him and his bare chest
lewdly.  He felt disarmed, and impotent.  There was no option, the
intimidation tactics were not working, and he had to come through on his
threats, which even he himself thought were empty.  He dropped the pliers
and picked up the knife, he promised blood and blood he would deliver.  He
touched the blade threateningly while looking at the prisoner.  The
prisoner stared back, almost daringly.  The act of cutting a person seemed
abhorrent; he was a civilised human being.  Such behaviour was expected of
lower orders, not superior races, yet extreme circumstances called for
extreme acts.  Just like the youth group had taught him how to tie the
excellent knots that secured the man into his vulnerable position, they had
taught him how to keep his blade almost surgically sharp.  Almost
mechanically he lifted the blade to the prisoner's bicep.  The prisoner's
eyes were fixed on the blade as it approached his unblemished skin.  Jurgen
bit his upper lip and wanted to close his eyes.  Courage left him at the
last moment, he turned the blade flat, and instead of cutting into the
muscle the sharp point scraped across the bulging skin.  The man grunted
again.  A thin line of scarlet trailed the point of the knife.

The burning sensations pulsed through Robert again and again as the angelic
tormentor scraped shallow gashes in his skin, all over his upper arms and
torso.  Blood trickled from some of them.  His body was overwhelmed by the
many physical sensations.  The swats across his chest still stung, his
nipples ached from the ministrations of the pliers, but the scrapes burned
for longer, and he still felt the unbearable strain in his dick.  He so
wanted it touched, even if painfully.  He saw the boy throw down the knife
in frustration, decidedly opting for the burning candle.  He knew what the
boy was thinking; the moment their eyes met he dropped his own and looked
at his dick.  Was he crazy?  Did he just make a suggestion to the boy?  He
closed his eyes in disbelief.

Jurgen was outraged, the man was mocking him, without flinching he dripped
wax on the prisoners pulsing cock head.  He was nearly frightened by the
loud groan and shudder that shook the muscled body.  It was almost
beautiful.  It was only then that Jurgen realised his own teen dick was
hard and straining in his tight shorts.  He felt suddenly shy and wanted to
turn away from the prisoner to hide the shame, but the irony of the flinch
dawned on him too.  Here he was with a naked man at his mercy, touching his
body as if it was his property, and his property had a hard on, surely his
own erection was of no consequence.  He shifted his focus back to the man's
engorged penis.  It was crusted in little pieces of smooth wax.  He reached
back into the cloth and brought out a short piece of twine, deftly tying a
tiny noose at each end.  He stepped back to the man and went down on his
knees.  To reach he kneeled between the man's large knees.  The boy was
close to his prisoner, heat radiated from the large body.  He could feel
the man's breath on his face and looked up.  The man was watching him
intently, almost reassuringly.  Somehow his reluctance to touch the man's
privates left him.  At first he brushed at the crusty wax to clean off the
battle-ready organ.  The man seemed to cherish his young touch.  At first
he just reached around it with his fingers and held it. He was mesmerised
by its vivacity.  It was hot and alive, too thick for his fingers to meet,
and getting harder as he held it. The man smiled. Insolence!  He pulled the
one little noose over the man's dick and fastened it at the base.
Instantly it restricted the flow of blood from the man's penis; the huge
dick became even larger.  He reached for the man's balls.  They hung low in
a smooth sack, the size and shape of small chicken eggs, like the ones they
grew on the farm.  They were heavy as he slid one, then the other through
the noose at the other end of the short string.  He tightened it too,
giving Robert's scrotum the appearance of a purse.  The string had created
a handle entirely attached to Robert's groin.  Jurgen yanked at it hard,
and the prisoner quaked.

Robert really wanted to cum.  He felt how the boy tortured his body and
became aroused.  He felt as the boy singed his dick and he wanted more.  He
felt as the boy handled his organ with his tiny hands and tied it up as he
himself was tied up.  He was not afraid; the boy was too beautiful to be
harmful, surely these atrocious acts from someone so innocent looking could
not hurt him.  Besides, he had brought all of this upon himself.  He placed
himself conveniently into the Messerschmitt's sights and pulled into enemy
fire.  He leapt of the plane without looking, spraining his own ankle.  He
did not avoid human habitations; he should have kept guard, and moved on
sooner.  He should not have eaten the food.  He was a fool and a coward.

"I tell you everything I know if you get me off," he heard himself say, and
he meant it.  The boy understood and smiled.  Inadvertently he had, instead
of bringing the man to the edge of pain and fear, brought him within sight
of ultimate pleasure.  The promise of pleasure was so great that the man
would be a traitor for it.  He leant back for the pliers and grasped
delicately at a hardened nipple again.  He pulled and simultaneously
reached for the man's dick, jacking it slowly but deliberately.  He knew
what the man was after.  After all he himself had one too, and even if he
did not care to do it frequently, he did yank at his own member sometimes,
and he knew of the fun ending and the sticky white stuff.  He had even done
it right there where they were right then.  The man had already stopped
breathing, and was flushing red in his comically contorted face.  He was
close to the end, and still Jurgen had no useful information.  He dropped
his hand abruptly.  A disappointed sigh came from Robert.  He looked at the
boy frustrated, and questioningly.

"Tell me everything you know, now!"  Jurgen wanted his own satisfaction
first.

"Behind you, in those bales," the man shrugged his chin to point, "a
briefcase." Robert's brain stopped working according to the little logic it
ever had.  His dick was now giving the orders.  Jurgen was surprised, and
wary.  He did not trust the ease with which this man gave away his secrets,
but no harm could come from checking.  He found the briefcase, and its
compromising contents.  He did not understand most of the papers charts and
maps, but he instinctively knew that they were important, and very useful.
He had to hand them over to the authorities at the earliest opportunity.
He was jubilant!  As if the day could not be better he heard the familiar
if rare sound of a motorised vehicle.  It has been days since they had any
visitors, even of a military kind.  He rushed to the barn wall and hugged
it close, peering into the evening outside.  It was the SS, an officer in
his own car, a truck load of what appeared to be troops in a bad state of
affair, and a motorcycle with side car bringing up the rear.  It was as if
they were sent to collect the information he had so creatively found, and
take over the prisoner.  He leapt up, forgetting Robert's sorry state,

"It's the SS!", he said, pulled on his shirt and hastily tucked it in his
shorts.  He felt his own dick was still hard and gave it a quick tug
exposing the head from under his foreskin.  He grabbed briefcase and
practically flew down the ladder, out the barn door.

Robert became nauseas, he wanted to cry, he had betrayed his side for a
lousy hand-job that never got to the end.  He had not even popped a nut,
and now, now he was to be handed over to the big boys, and he felt it
guaranteed that they would not be half as much fun as the boy was.  He
already looked a wreck.  Blood was drying on his torso from the many small
scratches the boy had carved into him. Welts and bruises were showing, and
his softening dick was slick with pre-cum. And so he was to die.  He did
not care to hear the slow ascend to the hay deck.  In the same way he never
heard the motorised unit drive away.

"I told them I have nothing to report," the young voice startled him and he
looked up.  The angel had come back alone.  In his crossed arms he clutched
the briefcase.  He looked at the man and returned the case to where he had
found it not ten minutes before.

"I could not, we had an agreement," he came closer to Robert as he took his
shirt off, "if you collaborated I'd get you off," he stepped behind Robert
and started loosening the knots behind the prisoner's hands, "and if they
took you away I'd not be able to keep my end of the bargain."  Robert felt
the ropes drop away one for one.  He rubbed his wrists and ankles, and
strained standing up. The rush of blood back to his limbs was almost
painful and pins and needles flushed nearly every where.  But his concern
was not for his discomfort, the boy had released him.

At first they just looked at each other.  Jurgen was not afraid.  He knew
his prisoner understood the mercy he had been dealt, and the lust in his
green eyes did not warn the boy of his escape, or harm.  Robert placed his
hands on the boy's shoulders and pulled him closer.  He had not realised
how he had longed to touch the boy, and now that he did his fingers
confirmed the softness that he thought he saw.  Jurgen did not object as
Robert's hands slid down his slim arms and around his back, pulling him
closer until their bodies touched.  A feverish heat radiated from the man
and warmed the young boy.  Sweat and blood streaked him as he felt the
man's dick harden yet again, pressing against his stomach.  He lifted his
face, closed his eyes, and tasted as Robert slid his tongue between his
lips, lifting him up by his buttocks and pulling him down in the scratchy
hay.  He too felt his own penis strain against the fabric of his uniform
shorts, and as he straddled the man now reclining, let his small hands rub
over the welted and irritated skin.  He pinched the large nipples one last
time with his bare finger and laid down full length, on top of his
prisoner.  As they kissed again Jurgen felt the man push his hosen down
exposing his butt to the night air.  Robert rubbed his back again and
allowed his fingers to trail into the boy's crack, fingering it up and
down, feeling its softness, and the rising of goose-bumps all over the
unblemished skin.  In one movement he rolled them over and looked down at
the boy.  He brought his face closer, but instead of kissing the soft pink
lips he licked at the small dent in the boy's throat.  He unbuttoned the
tan shirt and licked lower and lower, softly titillating the boys chest,
and finding the little nipples, swollen with hormones of early adolescence,
careful not to hurt him.  He stroked the boy's tummy with his nose and
smelled the salt of a long day in his belly button.  He found the naked
dick, impressive for such a young kid, and partly covered with an intact
foreskin.  He licked at its full lengths teasing a shudder from Jurgen's
body and slipped it between his lips, exposing the shiny head.  The
sensation overwhelmed Jurgen.

"Please don't, it hurts." Robert hesitated for a moment and moved his
attention to the hairless sack that rested high and tight at the base of
the boy dick.  Without resistance he spread Jurgen's legs and licked at the
sweet space below the boy's balls.  It tasted of sweat, and he loved it.
When he lifted his legs and flicked his tongue at Jurgen's hole another
shudder ran across the milky body.  He lifted the boy's knees and licked
harder, concentrating at the most intimate of spots.  Soft moans came from
Jurgen as he bathed it with spit and warmth.  Roberts own dick screamed for
attention, he reached between his own legs and grasped at the twine that
was still imprisoning his slick cock and aching balls an tugged at it hard.
It was slippery with pre-cum, and his lust for the boy had suddenly become
his prime objective.  He raised his body to face the boy again, looked him
in the eye, and without saying a word made clear his intention of entering
the young ass.  Jurgen wanted to protest, but the welts and scrapes and
swollen nipples flaked with wax guilted him into compliance.  The man
raised his knees for him.  At first he felt pressure at his entrance and
was not afraid of what might be, but with a quiet grunt Robert pushed his
dick into Jurgen's ass.  He wanted to scream with agony as his sphincter
was forced open to an extent it had never been before, but his mouth was
filled again by the man's tongue, and no sound came out. Robert did not
intend to show any mercy to the boy that had tortured him not too long
before, but he was not to bring needless pain either.  He waited for the
boy to relax around his dick, languishing in its tight, pulsating warmth.
Jurgen's dick had gone soft again, and Robert found himself stroking it
with two fingers, reminding the boy that it was supposed to feel good, and
soon the boy realised it did.  A fullness pressed against what he knew was
the inside of his dick, and with the slightest motion from the man hovering
over him more pleasurable sensations rippled through his ass.  When Robert
was sure the boy did not ache any more he started slowly, but forcefully
thrusting his dick into the boy, retracting it again nearly all the way.
With each inward thrust the boy anticipated the searing pain, but instead
his entire crotch and ass wanted more.  Soon he bucked and writhed under
the sweating man, quietly urging him on.  Robert too was surprised at the
ecstasy of the sex.  He had never done such a thing with a boy, nor with
another man, and was amazed that the sensation far surpassed what he had
ever felt with a woman.  He relaxed into an easy ride and leaned into the
boy who tried to lift his butt higher at each thrust, attempting to put
maximum pressure on the inside of his dick.

Jurgen had orgasmed before, but always at his own hand and never from the
inside.  It was as if he had already started cumming, but there was no
liquid, and the end seemed delightfully far away, but it wasn't.  Abruptly
the muscled hulk above him tensed up and held still, then started thrusting
as if life itself depended on it.  The boy felt the flush of liquid inside
him and without expectation his own dick let loose with a volley of spurts.
Gobs of white splattered his throat, then his chest, then his bellybutton.
Some more streams flowed from him freely, running over his stomach in
little rivulets down his sides and dripping into the dry hay.  He was
sated, but the man was not.  Where any other mortal would have found his
dick softening achingly in a depressing opening, Robert's dick was still
choked by the tight twine that kept the blood from rushing out and joining
the circulation in the rest of his body.  Instead his cock stayed rigid
inside the boy and without thinking he started fucking again.  This time
his thrust were lubricated by his own cum, not a drop of which had spilled
from the boy's sphincter.  Jurgen too felt inflamed again.  His dick,
practically untouched found a second breath and hardened yet a gain in the
second offensive.  Man and boy bucked, thrusted, and moaned into the night,
their lust lost in the deserted landscape.  When their second orgasms came
it was as if their previous ecstasy was but a teaser.  There did not seem
to be a difference between pain, and the pleasure of their heavy romp.
Their bodies throbbed, and their minds went numb overcome by the strength
of the sensation.  When Robert finally relented his thrusts, their muscles
quivered involuntarily defeated by their combined effort.

"No more, no more!" the boy begged, and the man agreed.  They fell asleep
clutching at each other, covered in sweat, semen, and blood.

In the morning they burned the contents of the briefcase together.  With a
slight feeling of regret they parted.  Jurgen had provided Robert with what
the little food he could spare, and fitted the pilot out with what he could
find of his missing father's clothes.  Robert followed the way Jurgen had
pointed, in the direction of the western front.  The boy watched as the man
slinked away, never once turning back for a last glance.

The End

Copyright 2009 Sebastian Thomas Oakland
If you'd like to comment I'd like to read `em: Sebastian.oak@gmail.com