Thank you for continuing to read GAMES AT DEAUVILLE. I'm glad you're enjoying it.

I hold the copyright and no portion of this manuscript may be published in any medium other than at Nifty without my express and written permission. With the US Congress pretending to be a medieval religious Prince's court (and jury and executioner), it's best that only those over 18 in the US, 16 in the civilised world read this novel.

I would like to refer you to my other story appearing on Nifty: DARK PRINCE that is in the scifi/fan folder.

Nifty can always use operating capital. Please use your credit card and help keep Nifty free.


Dave MacMillan





Gisele von Kys pursed her lips as she watched Major Urnazy leave. She turned towards the squat Sûreté agent and forced a smile to her face. "Isn't that like every army in the world?" she mused in heavily accented French. "Leaving before the real work is done and leaving it for the security forces to do-"

Pelletier chuckled as he fingered his collar. He saw her watching him and managed to look apologetic as he shrugged. "It is very warm, Comtesse - and the laundry used too much starch in my collar again."

Gisele nodded. "We shall need to be out anyway, Herr Pelletier. The Obersturmführer and I need to see this minister's estate-" She shrugged. "We need to know how to get away quickly, once we've carried out our mission. I can't imagine that you'll want to remain here afterwards, either."

"Comtesse, it is always good to be familiar with the terrain one must walk," the Frenchman said.

"Do you know how to find Minister Reynaud's château, Monsieur Pelletier?" Schmidt asked. The man nodded.

"Then, you'll drive us there now," Gisele told him as she pushed herself from her chair. "I'd like to work out how I'm to escape the huntsmen with their rifles."


"What is that?" Gisele demanded, pointing over the seat towards a single stone building off from the road.

"It appears to be a barn," Schmidt mumbled, avoiding her hand as it shot past his face.

"It appears to be abandoned, Comtesse. Shall I pull the car in?" Pelletier asked as he began to slow down and did so without waiting for her reply.

Gisele stood beside the car. She glanced towards the road less than ten metres from where she stood and back to the weather-beaten side of the barn. "How far from here is the château?" she asked both men. "Five kilometres perhaps?"

"It is almost four kilometres to the Minister's house from here, Comtesse," Pelletier answered.

"And how far to the woods where Urnazy will take Lord Petersholme hunting?" she asked.

"Perhaps two kilometres," the Frenchman answered.

"There'd be sufficient time for me to make it here from the woods and then get away cleanly from any of the Englishman's fellow hunters, yes?"

Pelletier shrugged. Schmidt guessed at Gisele's thoughts - he nodded and straightened nearly imperceptibly.

"Good. Now, I want to see the inside of this barn."

She began to lead the two men towards the entrance on the side of the barn. "We'll also develop a contingency plan while we're here, in case it becomes unfeasible to kill the Englishman while he hunts."

She stood in the entranceway and allowed her eyes to adjust to the darkness inside. From the smell, she knew it was used to store hay. Like the Junkers did in Prussia.

Schmidt and the Frenchman stood behind her, waiting for her to tell them what she wanted. She pulled her greatcoat closer around her against the cold of the barn and stepped inside.

The barn reminded her of the stables at Schloß Kys. The Englishman had left her for dead there. It'd be fitting if this became his funeral pyre. She smiled at the thought.

"This will be where we'll bring him."

"I thought we were going to shoot him in the woods - while he's hunting," Schmidt grumbled.

She pivoted then and faced the two men, her hands going to her hips. "We are developing a secondary plan, Obersturmführer - in case Pelletier and Urnazy are unable to give me a clear shot at him." She turned to the man from the Sûreté. "Pelletier, if you and the Obersturmführer have to kidnap him and bring him here, how long would we have before they found this barn?"

"The farm workers would know of it, of course," the Sûreté man mused. "But they would not know which direction we'd taken - I would say an hour at most, Countess."

"And how far to the Belgian border from here?"

"By car?"

She nodded.

"Two hours would push it if you take the route national. Three more likely."

Gisele von Kys turned and peered deeper into the interior of the barn. This would be where that meddlesome Petersholme would take his last breath. It was the justice that he deserved - for what he had done to her.

She took a deep breath and started back towards the entrance. "I'll see this woods now," she said as she strode towards the door, passing the two men.

* * *

Once they were on the road again and driving towards Deauville, Schmidt turned in his seat to look back at her. "Gräfin, it will be much better if we kill the English Baron while he's hunting," he said, meeting her gaze. "Kidnapping him will mean a much greater danger for all of us. Even if we are lucky enough to succeed, some of us will be captured, if not killed-"

"Better to die by a bullet," Pelletier grumbled from the driver's seat. "If captured, any of us would meet the guillotine. Only Urnazy would face a firing squad - because he's army."

"Why would it be easier simply to shoot him?" she asked, keeping her voice even so that the men would think she was actually considering their opinions.

"Because the men on the hunt will be spaced out and in the woods," Schmidt told her. "There will be gunfire all around - so the shot that brings him down will not mean anything to them immediately. The marksman will have time to escape before the Baron's death is even discovered."

"And because it will take the hunters more time to realise that one of them did not shoot him," Pelletier added. "Especially with Urnazy pointing a finger at each of them." He shrugged. "Both of you - and I - will be in Deauville before anyone becomes wiser. And we'll be on the Paris train before they think to look in the town. Major Urnazy and the Dauphin return to Colonel de Gaulle's corps and resume their duties. All of us escape suspicion and the Englishman is dead. That is what Berlin wants, is it not? A successful but quiet little assassination?"

"Of course it is," Gisele answered. She could not tell the damned Frenchman that his life did not matter to Berlin - or even that Schmidt was expendable. And, while Berlin would be unhappy if Urnazy was killed, she didn't care what happened to him either.


"I'll expect to have you report this evening, Monsieur Pelletier, on the plans you and the major will have made this afternoon," she told the Frenchman as Schmidt stepped out of the car and held the door for her. "Come to my room at 2100 hours." She slid across the seat and stepped out in front of the Normandie before the man from the Sûreté could answer.

"Attend me in my room," she told Schmidt over her shoulder as she started up the steps.

He caught up with her. "Gräfin?"

"There are things that must be done, Stefan - things that I cannot do as this Petersholme knows me by sight." She paused on the top step and, looking over her shoulder, smiled at him. "You need instruction, Junge," she continued sultrily, "and I will provide it."

She stopped by the desk and ordered cheese and bread sent to her room, along with a bottle of wine. As she marched to the lifts, Schmidt gulped and followed her.

Gisele had decided that her subordinate was naïve. It was the only explanation she could accept for Schmidt's failure to respond to her hints. He was a virgin and he was in her hands, to teach.

He would fall in love with her, of course. She'd have to be careful about that; she was sure that the Reichsführer would be unhappy otherwise. But Schmidt would know what a real woman was like, and she was certain that, when they had returned to Berlin, he'd only want Rubensesque women.

* * *

"Tonight, you'll need to explore this verruckte village for us," she said as they entered her room. "Shut the door, Stefan."

"What should I search for?" he asked, closing the door and turning back to face her.

"The English Baron and his party. Major Urnazy will be with them if he's to be there in time for tomorrow's hunt." She smiled at him seductively. "You'll be able to find them - just look for them at the casino and any cabarets Deauville can boast of."

A knock at the door brought a temporary end to Gisele's instruction. Schmidt opened it and stood back as a waiter wheeled in a trolley. Gisele sat at the table and waited for him to serve her. Schmidt crossed the room and took the chair opposite her.

She smiled at him. "Take off your jacket," she told him after the waiter had left. "Make yourself comfortable." She took the loaf of bread and tore it.

Returning half to the dish for him, she told him: "It's fresh, Stefan - do you smell it?"

He nodded.

"There is nothing more heavenly than fresh baked bread-" She licked her lips with the tip of her tongue, just enough that Schmidt would see it and get the idea that she was interested. "The only exception I can think of is sex."

His hand stopped in mid-air, nearly to the bread dish. His face flushed and Gisele smiled as his ears flamed dark red as well.

A naïf, definitely. A young virgin. And he was hers - to have and to teach. Her heart throbbed as she wondered how long it would take to get him undressed and into her bed.

"Pour the wine, Stefan," she told him and cut a large slice of cheese for herself. She was already wet. She could imagine him moving in her. She could feel his naked buttocks under her hands as he drove into her. She stifled a moan.

First things first. She frowned as her duty to the Reich again became paramount in her thoughts. "Tonight," she said, her voice hardening, "while Herr Pelletier bores me with the minutiae of our little hunt tomorrow, you'll allow yourself to be young and carefree, Stefan."


"You'll visit Deauville's night spots and enjoy yourself." She smiled. "Of course, you will search for Petersholme and his party."

He brought what remained of the loaf of bread to his own plate and cut a small slice of the cheese. "If this Urnazy doesn't meet them, or does so only later, how will I know them?"

"They will be young and speaking English, of course. There won't be many Englishmen in Normandy this time of the year."

"I don't speak English."

"Perhaps they'll speak French then as they'll be with this French pretender's son, but with horrid accents. Besides, you'll recognise English if you hear it. It's like Dutch - a bastard version of the Herrensprache."

Schmidt nodded as he tasted the cheese. He swallowed. "And what will I do once I have found the Baron, Gräfin?"

"You'll note who his companions are and what they do together - but concentrate on Petersholme."

He cut another slice of cheese. "But I don't speak English-"

"I want to know as much as I can about my quarry, Stefan. I want to know of any companions I will need to be prepared to watch for tomorrow in the woods. I want to know of any distinctive mannerisms, anything I need to watch for. One does not simply march into another country and execute a man - not if one wants to return home with one's head attached to one's body. Verstehst du?"

He shuddered and nodded.

"Good. You'll be my eyes and ears tonight, Stefan." She pushed her chair back and stood. "This afternoon, however, I think we'll satisfy our other senses, yes?"

"Other senses?" he gulped, looking up at her.

"Have you known a woman yet, Stefan Schmidt?" His gaze fell to the table and he turned the colour of beetroot before her. She knew then that he was a virgin.

"This afternoon I will teach you," she chuckled. "Learn well, Obersturmführer, and you will never be alone in your bed again. Come," she said, rising and moving towards her bed.


Gisele von Kys sprawled across the rumpled sheets and wondered how she would ever convince herself to get up.

She was sated. Stefan had indeed been a naïf, a resistant one even - at first. But, like any youth, he was erect before his trousers were past his feet. He was endowed. And, best of all, he stayed erect.

She touched the areole of her left breast with her fingertip and wondered at how sensitive it was. She definitely was going to have to teach her Obersturmführer to alternate between both breasts next time. He had suckled, tongued, and even bit her through all three bouts of rutting sex - and it had always been the same breast. It would take at least a week before it again felt normal.

She had been foolish to wonder if he a warmer Bruder, like her late husband and that Jorsten boy. Stefan Schmidt performed quite adequately with a woman.

She grinned and licked her lips. Yes, quite adequately indeed.

She realised that her bedroom had grown dark and sat up. That squat little man from the Sûreté was coming to report at 2100 hours. And she would need to bathe and eat before that. She did not want to reek of sex when he arrived, though she could imagine what he might be like in bed.

She giggled. "Yes. That could prove interesting. Pelletier was nothing to look at; he could not even hold a candle to Stefan. Still, there was something to be said for the experience that an older man brought to a coupling. And French men were supposed to be the most adept in the world at giving a woman pleasure.

She giggled again as she pushed off the bed. This trip to France might well prove to be one that she remembered most fondly. She would definitely keep Stefan now that she had pulled him out of his shell, but that was no reason for her not to enjoy all that France had to offer as well.

* * *

"Cow!" Stefan Schmidt hissed under his breath as he soaped the wet flannel. He lifted his hips in the bath water and began to scrub his pubis.

He had known what the damned bovine wanted from the first day that he reported to her after graduating SS officer training school. She had been so obvious then, and she continued to be obvious. Well, she had finally got him. He hoped she was satisfied with his performance.

It was just as well that the Gräfin had assumed that he was a virgin, inexperienced in the ways of sex. He had hoped that the charade would save him from her bed. As it was, however, it had provided him an excuse when he bit one of her breasts and the other little gaffes he'd committed.

At least, he'd managed to keep his erection before and during their sex. He chuckled at that. It had been no small feat. He'd had to imagine that her quim was the small perfect arse he'd speared so many times at officer training school to keep his erection.

He wondered how his former sex mate was doing in his first duty assignment in Prague. He missed their sex. The man had been as insatiable as the Gräfin, but so much more enjoyable. There had been many mornings that he'd had to report to first roll call without a bit of sleep because of him. He had a warm place in his heart for the man - the man had been the first to let Stefan mount him.

He shook off the memory. He was a new German, the future of Germany now by virtue of being an officer in the Waffen-SS. And the new Germany allowed no room for warme Bruder. He glanced down at his erection and smiled.

Maybe it didn't. But he still got harder and lasted longer for a good looking man than he did for any woman. He was still surprised that he had been able to penetrate the Gräfin, she was so fat and ugly.

He chuckled that she had somehow convinced herself that he was an innocent virgin to tutor, like he was a chick learning to peck at its mother's side. He would have to find a way without being found out to look at his own dossier once he was back in Berlin. Apparently, Ralf Riet had protected him after all. It had been so hard to know when to trust the man. But it had still been the Gauleiter who lured him into sex with men that first time.

His fingers tightened around his erection and began to stroke as he shut his eyes to remember that time better.

He had been twelve the summer of 1929 when he met Gauleiter Ralf Riet for the first time. He and his friends were at the summer camp that the Party provided for the boys of Essen, even if their parents couldn't afford to pay for it. And, despite his voice breaking and climbing up and down the octaves to embarrass him, it had been fun to be in the country with his friends.

They had been divided into Kameradschaften and, by the third day of camp, his squad had meant everything to the boy Schmidt had been, cementing the bonds of friendships. It had helped that his friends were there beside him.

That first week, each squad competed against other squads in everything. They ran races, played football, boxed, and played war against each other; the winning squad always was allowed to be first - at meals, at swimming, even at washing up. The most important thing for each boy was for his squad to be stronger and better, faster and smarter than every other squad of boys.

Schmidt had excelled from the beginning. It wasn't that he was stronger, faster, or smarter than the other boys. He just didn't like to lose. He didn't want to be like his father or the other men in his neighbourhood who did not have jobs and who lived off their women or the churches. He did not want to be the last one to eat, getting only the dregs that would have been thrown out except for the losing squad. He did not want to wash in cold water late at night and still have to wake at five hundred hours for their morning run. He had excelled; it had been his only option.

He had carried his squad into the winner's circle every day after the first one, often by his own effort alone. His friends in the squad followed him, quickly idolising him and making his success theirs as well. Boys his age in the other Kameradschaften hated him, but Stefan Schmidt didn't care.

The Gauleiter had come to camp after their first fortnight. The winning squad was to be presented to him and allowed to join the Deutsche Jungvolk, their uniforms provided free. The Jungvolk did everything, just as the older Hitlerjugend did. Every boy in Essen looked up to them when they marched by.

He and his friends had never thought much about being in the DJ; it was for middle-class boys, boys whose fathers had jobs and money to spend on their sons. The Deutsche Jungvolk was an impossible dream for them.

But, suddenly, it had become possible. And the Hitlerjugend afterwards, when he turned fourteen.

When they had won, they were allowed to eat dinner at the Gauleiter's table. They ate as well as the Gauleiter too; and the kitchen had outdone itself to honour the Party chief. Schmidt had been impressed. He knew he would do anything to become important, like the Party official.

The Gauleiter returned to Essen that night and invited Stefan to join him. Alone. Of course, he was being taken home to spend the night with his mother and the driver would return him to camp in the morning; but he would be alone with the Gauleiter for the two hour drive. He had two hours in which to learn how to become an important man like Gauleiter Riet.

He never reached his home that night. He spent it with the Essen Party leader in his bed, learning to be important. He also learnt that his body was attractive to the man.

Soon, he learnt that there were other men like Gauleiter Riet, men who were members of the Party and who did not want their preferences for pubescent boys known. They paid well for both his body and his silence. And the few women who had availed themselves of Riet's services had been the sweet filling inside the torte.

He stroked himself faster now; he was almost to his orgasm. He groaned as he began to erupt.