Red Velvet Radio

[Miltone]

Introduction
Before there was a Johnny English, before there was a Simon Templar, before there was a James Bond, before there was even His Majesty’s Secret Service, there was Rodney Dangle, “Lieutenant” Rodney Dangle, special agent of the Crown. Though the other agents who came later became well known and their accomplishments publicized in popular fictional and biographical accounts, the exploits of Lt. Dangle during World War II became legendary touchstones amongst those in the British secret service. Often when impossible situations thrust themselves upon British Intel Services, there was a popular saying, “What would Dangle do?”

Dangle first saw service in the late 1930s, engineering a series of clandestine operations in Germany and Italy that nearly averted the start of the war. But once war became inevitable, Dangle served with dignity and aplomb, cunning and stealth, verve and suavity. It was in the months prior to Operation Overlord that his finest work was done. This part of his story began early spring 1943. His hush-hush-hush mission (triple hush was the highest level of secrecy!) was to infiltrate the resistance movement in occupied France and set up a black propaganda cell that would broadcast to the occupying German forces titbits of rumour, innuendo, and nonsense, all with the intent of undermining German morale.

Dropped off under cover of night by a British submarine off the coast of Brittany, Dangle made his way stealthily to a small French town, Château de Pleut des Manteaux. With his fluent, accent less French, his gift of gab and charming personality, Lt. Dangle, using the name Jacques Granbranche, ingratiated himself to the local vintner in a most celebratory way. But I get ahead of myself …

Please follow along as Why and Yours Truly tell a story of gaffs and laffs and some general fooling around behind the scenes of occupied France … feel free to PM either of us with comments or questions!

IC: Lt. Rodney Dangle, Special Agent of the Crown

It had been raining all night when Rodney … err, Jacques appeared on the doorstep of Monsieur Cheville Ouvriere. The wizened old vintner had lost many of his best workers during the war and it was only with great effort that he was able to keep the occupying Germans happy by delivering ample amounts of his wares to Captain Rindfleischpacker, commandant of the German garrison.

“Who are you, coming out on a night like this?” asked the old man, eyeing the tall muscular but quite drenched Dangle, standing at his door.

“I am Granbranche, Jacques Granbranche of Cherbourg,” Dangle said. “I was told by a Monsieur Libérerlèvres that you needed help with your winery.”

“Hmm, you have, have you?” Monsieur Ouvriere snorted. “You couldn’t wait until morning but instead got me out of bed in the middle of the night to ask for work? I’ve half a mind to send you away …”

“But sir, it is cold and rainy tonight,” Dangle went on, using his startling blue eyes to help plead his case. He needed a cover and this one had been well-researched by Department. He couldn’t afford to blow it now. “And I haven’t any place to stay. Could you not take me in, just for the night? And should you decide in the morning that you do not need my services, I shall leave.”

“Fair enough,” said the old man taking pity on the handsome young man with torrents of rainwater dripping off his beret. “Come inside, dry yourself off, and make yourself comfortable for the night. But I must warn you of one thing.”

“What would that be, kind sir?” Dangle said, stepping inside the vestibule and wringing out his hat.

“Just keep away from my daughter,” the old man warned. “You can sleep in here,” he went on, indicating a large cavernous room, sort of looked like a study or library where the remnants of a fire still sparked. Monsieur Ouvriere returned a few minutes later with some blankets as Dangle had stoked the fire and got it blazing again.

“Merci, monsieur,” Dangle said as Ouvriere handed him the blankets.

“Oui, oui,” the old man muttered. “But just remember …”

“Oui, monsieur,” Dangle interjected. “Stay away from your daughter.”

Monsieur Ouvriere grunted and turned away to leave the room. The blazing fire cast a warm glow in the room and Rodney stood before the fire and removed his wet clothing. He looked himself. There were numerous hunting trophies mounted on the walls and was lined with several bookcases filled with countless books. Just as he stepped out of his last scrap of drenched clothing and the heat of the fire began to warm his bones, he heard a stirring at the door. He turned toward the sound and saw a girl, a beautiful girl, a beautiful young girl.

“Oh, mon Dieu!” she exclaimed. “Who are you?”

“I am Granbranche, Jacques Granbranche of Cherbourg,” Dangle admitted, suddenly aware of his nakedness by the ravenous look in the girl’s eyes. “I have come to help out with the winery. And you are?”

“I am Evie, daughter of Ouvriere,” she said moving away from the doorway and into the room. She was a tall lithe girl, with long blonde hair that fell well below her waist and large blue eyes. Her light gauzy nightgown barely concealed her large full breasts and the delicate patch of light hair between her legs. “And I can see Monsieur Granbranche that you are truly blessed with a ‘grande branche’,” she giggled, her eyes never leaving sight of his thick hard rod as she moved toward him. “I could not sleep tonight and came down to find a book to read, and now I find you. How fortunate for me.”

Dangle grinned and reached for his damp trousers.

“Oh, don’t bother, Monsieur,” Evie said as she stepped up to him and took the sodden britches from him. “You must let these things dry out.” Dangle watched as she spread his clothing out before the fire, the glow of the fire revealing her supple curves through the thin fabric of her filmy gown. “You see Monsieur, the weather here has been very cold and rainy, and one must either wear dry clothes or none at all.”

“But I … errm, you …” Dangle said as she moved toward him, her trim and firm curves silhouetted in the light of the fire.

“Oh, I am a silly girl am I not?” she replied and in one quick motion pulled her nightgown up and off over her head. “Now is that better?” Evie rubbed her young firm body up against Dangle, her hand taking hold of his impressive turgid manhood. “Oh, monsieur! It just keeps getting better and better!”

“But your father warned me about you,” Dangle said with a gasp as the blonde woman sank to her knees and stroked his imposing cock. “He said I should stay away from you.”

“But, Monsieur Granbranche, it is only for your own protection that he says that, for I am how you say, insatiable? If you spend the night with me, you will be of little use in the vineyard the next day.” She stroked his long thick member and took it deep into her mouth, as deep as she could.

“Oh, the things I will do in service of my country,” Dangle whispered as she began to bob her head back and forth, her long silky blonde hair brushing against his belly and thighs.

“Mummphh … urmmph … sluuurrrrppp,” she replied.

When morning came, the fire had died down but Dangle and Mademoiselle Ouvriere, were still going at it, her trim body mounted atop his magnificent tool, bouncing madly up and down.

“Oh, Monsieur Granbranche! Oh, yes! Yes! Yes! I am cumming again! Yessssssssssss!” Evie called out. Her screams of joy and pleasure greeted her father when he opened the door to the study.

“Evie!” shouted Ouvriere.

“Papa!” exclaimed Evie.

“Monsieur!” cried out Dangle as his massive tool exploded up deep inside the animated French blonde, bringing a string of animalistic grunts from him and his paramour.

“Oh, Monsieur!” exclaimed Ouvriere.

“Oh, Jacques!” cried out Evie.

“Oh, Ouvriere!” shouted Dangle, disengaging little Evie from himself. “I can explain, kind sir.”

“Papa, so can I,” Evie cooed as she slid down Dangle’s body and began to clean his tool with her expert tongue.

“No explanations!” Ouvriere shouted. “I warned you to stay away from her, Granbranche! Now, you will have no choice but to take on this job and prove that you can deliver everything on today’s packing list without falling asleep!”

“Oui, Monsieur,” Dangle said, reaching for his now dry clothes. “Straightaway!”

“Slurrrp … mmuummpphh … slurrrpp!” said Evie. The she looked up at her father. “I like this one, Papa. So we can keep him?”

“Oui, mon petit chat doux,” Ouvriere said in a resigned voice. “But he must prove that he can please you at night and me during the day.”

It ended up taking all day and every ounce of strength he had for Dangle to make all of the deliveries that had been scheduled for the day. He drove the ancient team of horses and the large heavy wagon throughout Château de Pleut des Manteaux and the surrounding countryside. The stops included the officer’s club at l'Hôtel Chaud Rouge that served as the German headquarters. Dangle made note of this particular customer on the route, one that he was certain would be vital to his operation at some point. His last delivery of the day as night had nearly fallen was to Le Club Léger Bleu, an old house that Dangle quickly deduced was of ill repute.

“All deliveries have to be approved by Madame Conty,” said the coarse burly man at the back door.

“And she is where?” Dangle asked, his voice as tired as his body.

“She is indisposed at this time,” was the reply.

“But I must see her,” Dangle protested. “Otherwise I will lose my job and I need this job, I really do.”

“You may try, but Madame does not like to be disturbed,” the large man replied, his heavy brow stern and furrowed.

Dangle slowly made his way through the house, somehow managing to resist the charms and attentions of the girls in the parlour and the upper floors as well. Although there was a sweet little petite blonde girl about whom he made a mental note. Whenever he inquired as to Madame’s whereabouts, the response was to point toward the ceiling or rooftop. Thus he followed the stairways upward and explored each floor, asking for Madame Conty, until finally he reached the upper floor and what he thought could be no more than a simple garret apartment. Dangle could see light seeping out around the cracks of the door and heard the sound of a voice, a very soft sweet and sexy female voice.

“And regarding those nasty rumours,” spoke the voice. “The murder victim is ... well, a well known Frenchman from Court de Cercueil. He was found dressed as a maid, complete with stockings and garter belt and frilly white apron ... one stocking had been forced down his throat. The body was found in a room at Le Club Léger Bleu that had been rented by a high ranking visiting German Officer … you could set your own interpretation to those facts, but we all know who visited our humble village the day of the murder …”

Dangle had managed to pick the lock on the door, turned the handle and pushed into the room. Seated at a simple table on which a small wireless transmitter hummed, a small shapely woman sat before a microphone. She wore a masque made of red velvet and lace. Her long dark hair cascaded down past her shoulders and down her back. She was dressed in a sheer red bustier, stockings and heels, and the daintiest little pair of French-cut knickers he had seen since Paris four years ago.

“Madame Conty?” he said softly as he clutched his paperwork. She looked up at him with a surprised expression, but when her eyes settled on his crotch she smiled and waved him over.

She continued to read from the pages on the table in front of her while Dangle approached and set his papers on the desk. Without missing a word of her broadcast, Madame Conty nodded her head and looked over the papers he had produced. Then she placed her hand over the big silver microphone.

“Wait until I’m through,” she whispered. “Then I’ll sign for you, all right?”

Dangle nodded calmly outwardly but inwardly was greatly pleased with his discovery. The resistance had already set up a radio cell here, and it was surely one through which he would be able to carry out his agenda of deceit and disinformation. The Madame began to read again, looking over at Dangle from time to time. The Madame was a young woman, quite short too, perhaps very pretty though it was difficult to tell conclusively with her masque obscuring her face. She was blessed with a narrow waist, but a good-sized bosom and curvy hips that were all very much on display, and Dangle found her irresistible.

As he stood beside her, Dangle let his hand wander over her bare back and shoulders, comb through her long black hair, and trace the outline of her bustier as it followed the contour of her breasts. She seemed not to object, and in fact encouraged it by running her hand up Dangle’s pant leg and grasping his freshly aroused manhood. What was it about a petite French brunette that never failed to connect with his libido?

“And now, my sweet listeners, we come to your favourite part of our little broadcast tonight, Story Time Theatre,” she said, her voice adding another layer of sexiness. “Now as you recall, from where we left off last night, the sweet innocent German maid, Inga, has just been discovered by the tall strapping French land baron, Monsieur LeBaron, as she attempted to smuggle some of his priceless artwork out of the country …”

Dangle stood behind the madam and began to caress her ample breasts as she raised her arse from the chair and rubbed her curvaceous bum on his throbbing manhood. She leaned forward, her elbows on the table, her mouth kissingly close to the microphone. Dangle loved the sound of her voice, so delightfully throaty and sensual.

“‘Just what do you think you are doing?’ Monsieur LeBaron demanded as he held Inga captive, his strong hands exploring the creamy fullness of her young bosom,” read Madame Conty. “‘I was just taking inventory of your collection, Monsieur LeBaron,’ the quivering young Inga replied.”

Dangle freed Madame’s breasts from the confinement of her bustier, his fingers taking charge of her engorged nipples. His hands kneaded her tender firm flesh and tweaked her taut nipples. For her part, the Madame began to push back more firmly, guiding her ample but firm bum up and down along the ridge of Dangle’s stout member.

“‘And just where do you think you were taking my priceless collection?’ Monsieur LeBaron asked, his hands probing underneath the jumper of her maid’s uniform and plying their magic on her firm young breasts. ‘No where, Monsieur LeBaron,’ said the supple Inga as she submitted to the touch of the masterful Frenchman,” read Madame Conty.

Dangle found he could no longer contain the monster growing in his britches and moved to free his impressive manhood. It sprang free and popped between the cheeks of Madame’s arse, bringing an impromptu moan from Madame. Dangle wanted to ingratiate himself to this valiant freedom fighter and knew exactly what to do.

“‘Oh, Monsieur LeBaron, you are so strong and so handsome! What do you plan to do to me?’ The strong and powerful Frenchman pushed the innocent young German maid toward the dining room table and bent her over. ‘I am going to do what any free Frenchmen would do to a German maid who would dare to steal from his country,’ replied the handsome land baron,” read on Madame Conty.

The Madame placed her hand down between her legs and rubbed Dangle huge member against her sex. Dangle could feel the heat and moisture from her sex rain down on his magnificent tool.

“‘Are you going to have your way with me?’ young Inga asked in a voice filled with fear. ‘No, no, my dear, I am going to have much more than my way with you,’ replied the handsome and bold Baron. ‘I’m going to show you how a Frenchman treats a woman worthy of his abilities.’ He pressed forward, young Inga collapsing onto the dining table, her tender firm breasts flattened against the hard wood. Her jumper was roughly pulled up, her panties tugged down, and the breath of the Baron washed over her virgin ass.”

Faithful to the story, Dangle dropped to his knees and fumbled with the Madame’s garters, popping them free so that he could lower her dainty knickers. The Madame giggled as his breath splashed over the cheeks of her own arse. She moaned loudly as Dangle kissed her sex and parted the furry folds of her centre with his tongue and lapped at the moisture that had been building.

“‘Mmm, yes, oh yes!’ cried out young Inga. ‘Make me feel whole … make me feel alive … make me feel like a French woman! Oh, God, yes!’” read the Madame as she felt Dangle’s tongue blitz her folds. She was slowly succumbing to Dangle’s erotic blandishments and substituted her own responses in place of the young girl in the story …

 

[Why]

Madame Conty...

Another introduction

The crowds that had gathered to watch the march past of the “Old soldiers,” were slowly drifting away as dusk fell on Arromanches. Queen Elizabeth II had watched the march this 6th of June, resplendent in a lilac dress suit with matching hat. Though one of the old comrades sitting on the bench looking out over the red sunset-tinted sea had commented that the Queen’s hat looked like a corgi had sat on it.

His female companion retorted that he would not know haute couture if it attempted a rear entry.

He replied he would and sardonically added that the Queen’s hat was indeed “high” if fact it was a down right tower and had frightened the seagulls.

The silver haired lady sighed and crossed her still trim ankles and looked out over the beach. A group of young women walked passed dressed in shorts, so short you could see their bottom cheeks and t shirts that were barely a band round their bosoms. The mature lady sighed again and said “Young women to day, so shocking.”

“What?” Her male companion replied and moved his sunglasses down his nose to have a better look at the group of lovelies then glanced strangely at his female companion.

“Yes, shocking, they have no allure, no finesse no je ne sais quoi, mystery. A man likes a woman to be mysterious, part of her unknown.

Her male companion sat up and looked hard at her.. “I seem to remember…..”

“If you recall I always wore a masque.”

Spring 1943

The seemingly sleepy village of Château de Pleut des Manteaux and the surrounding countryside, was not so much asleep as resting after a hard night. The war was being fought against the occupying Bosh by the resistance here but not by the bomb or bullet.

The headquarters of this small group of freedom fighters and lovers of Belle France was Le Club Léger Bleu, an old house on the edge of the village. The shutters were painted white, the paint peeling. A huge wisteria grew up and along the front of the building, its lilac blooms scenting the spring air. Golden trickles of light tumbled out of the open windows, accompanied by the talk and laughter of the brave resistance fighters as they got on their backs and did their bit under the pumping loins of the Bosh.

The leader of this cell was one Madame Claudette Conty, this was her house of repose, of carnal delights. This evening Claudette had been delayed by the late cumming of a rotund German officer with a taste for the whip. Now breathless, her ample chest heaving under her tight fitting sheer red bustier she fumbled with the key to the small garret high under the eaves of the roof. She let herself in and locked the door behind her, then switched on the covered light. Soft filtered beams of light bounced off Madame Conty’s creamy skin as she bent down and removed a cracked floorboard. Carefully she pulled out a radio transmitter and placed it and the large silver microphone on the table.

“Well, here goes… just hope.” Claudette whispered to herself her engineer had been murdered last week. Since then she struggled to manage herself. It was her duty, to France.

She settled herself on the narrow chair. She opened the drawer on her left her fingers lingering on the length of the barrel of the revolver, then wriggling her curvy rear she began, lowering her voice and mimicking Marlene Dietrich. The Bosh loved it. She gave details of the shortage of wine, the refusal of the senior German commander in the area to allow stocks to be moved from his Château and distributed to the deserving German private soldier.

Then she began on a topic closer to home, Renée, her radio engineer had been murdered. That he had freely gotten into to the maid's outfit she did not doubt. But he was not one for putting stockings in his mouth. He was strangled, the bruises on his throat said that and he had fought his attacker. As to the motive Claudette was in no doubt that some one was after her station.

She cleared her throat and continued, her body stiffening as she heard the lock on the door click back.

“And regarding those nasty rumours. The murder victim is ... well, a well known Frenchman. He was found dressed as a maid, complete with stockings and garter belt and white apron ... one stocking forced down his throat. The body was found in a room that had been rented by a high ranking visiting German Officer … you could set your own interpretation to those facts, but we all know who visited our humble village the day of the murder …”


“Madame Conty?” A rich masculine voice asked. Claudette looked up her eyes widening in surprise and her hand reaching down and stroking the shaft of the revolver in the drawer. Who was this? Her eyes looked him over lingering on the bulge in his trousers. She smiled, pleased that she had lost none of her allure and continued reading from her improvised script as the man walked forward and placed the delivery papers from Monsieur Ouvriere. She nodded covered the microphone whispering; “Wait until I’m through. Then I’ll sign for you, all right?” Would he do so, she hoped he would, she needed to get this broadcast done, then deal with him, perhaps if she made it a bit more interesting. She licked her red lips, pouting them slightly and continued.

The man stood beside, his hand wandering down her back then tracing the edge of her bust. Oh yes he will stay Claudette thought and sighed and ran her hand up his leg grabbing at the bulge. Well! Her eyes widened. Is this real? We shall see?

As Madame Conty became her tale of lust and the power of France the man moved behind her and began to caress her breasts. Claudette leaned back into the embrace, enjoying the familiar tightening of her nipples. She stood pushing her dainty rear into the now throbbing contents of his pants and leant forward on the desk, though one hand was never far from the gun in her drawer and her voice continued to tell her tale.

The stranger’s hands freed her breasts and Claudette bit back a groan, it would not do yet to utter such in her tale. It was manners to continue to reciprocate so Claudette pushed her rear hard against the very growing rod attached to the man behind her. Suddenly it came free and bounced against her arse cheeks. “Ohhhhhhhh…” So big? She reached between her legs, her hand having to stretch wide to grasp the very stout member, and rubbed its throbbing head along her damp sex.

For a moment she lost her place in the story she was reading, then continued and found to her delight the stranger had decided to act out the part of Monsieur LeBaron. She heard him go down on his knees felt her knickers slide down and Mon Dieu! His tongue! It lapped, teased. Claudette began to bounce on her heels, the stiletto tips beating a tattoo. His breath wafted round her swollen folds, making her shudder. His teeth nipped at her clit, making the bud harden and demand more.

Claudette swore and bit her tongue “Monsieur LeBaron, oh, yes.. I cannot…. Yes… Oh…” Inga was near swooning as Monsieur LeBaron brought her virgin body to the point of ecstasy He stopped and stood. Inga begged, “please I would… no… yes please… more… do more….” “Now my sweet tasting Inga I show you the glory that is France.” LeBaron moved forward and lowered his huge length onto Inga’s tight firm buttocks.

Claudette’s guest obliged and she swore again, moaning loud into the microphone as the organ throbbed against her pale skin. Monsieur LeBaron slowly ran his purple head, triumphantly down Inga’s gushing slit to claim her for France. He pushed at her opening.

“Arrrrrrrrrrrr”. Claudette squealed at the large head of her guest tried to squeeze into her. Mon Dieu! So large! She felt her walls protest, then give, then clench as his length pushed in. “You are sooo arhhhhhhhhhhh” she cooed into the microphone.

“For France,” Her male guest replied and pushed himself deeper.

“More there is more…. Arrrrrrrrrr…” Claudette’s eyes widened along with the walls of her sex. She inched her bottom up and more of this man slid into her. He began to move in her, his thick rod becoming thicker as he pounded away. His hands clung to her rounded buttocks, helping her move closer till he was buried up to the hilt in her sweet, slick folds. “Yes…. That’s it…. Oh…. Never…. Arrrrr……..” Claudette was in the throes of a tremendous orgasm. Her bottom bucked, she screamed , begged him to ram her harder, faster. Her guest obliged adding his own cries to her. The table rocked, the microphone wobbling.

Monsieur LeBaron I am cumminggggggggggg” Cludette screamed in character as she felt the “grande branche’” explode in her and her companion lean onto her back, his breath rasping against her flesh. She reached out a trembling hand and switched off the microphone and reached for her gun.

She shuddered and tried to collect herself. Her “lover” moved back slightly, his long member slipping from her with a slick plop. She half turned and pointed the gun at the dark haired man with the still half erect, throbbing member.

“Now Monsieur, you will have to convince me as to why I should let you live, more reasons that that I am afraid.” Madame Conty’s gun pointed now at the implement between the man’s legs. It would be a shame she thought, he was soooo….. endowed. But he had broken in here and heard her broadcast. He could be a spy for the Bosh.

 

[Miltone]

Lt. Rodney Dangle, Special Agent of the Crown

With his britches at his ankles and his proud English cock still standing at attention, Dangle held his hands aloft and eyed the small curvaceous woman in the red velvet and lace masque. Her ample bared bosom heaved mightily as she trained the long barrel of the handgun upon him. She was eyeing him closely, actually, she was eyeing his long hard member closely.

“Madame Conty,” Dangle began. “I am Granbranche, Jacques Granbranche of Cherbourg. I have come to help Monsieur Ouvriere at his winery. I am not to return until I have delivered every thing on the list and have it all properly signed for. Your kind and gracious staff informed me that only you could sign for the delivery, so I came up in search of you … I am sorry if I disturbed you, but you looked so appealing, and your voice, your words, most irresistable.”

“Another unfortunate victim of Mademoiselle Ouvriere, no doubt,” laughed the Madame. “They come and go there in such short order. Such a free spirit she is. I have often offered her employment, but she prefers to freelance her wares. C'est bien dommage!” She strode up to Dangle confidently, her eyes drifting up from his rigid manhood to look him in his steely blues eyes. As she neared he could see the glimmer of her large doe like brown eyes beneath her red masque. She seemed young for having such an occupation, but her dewy complexion was belied by the stern wizened approach she took in questioning Dangle.

“Who sent you to Ouvriere?” she asked, no demanded, smiling devilishly as she ran the nose of the gun barrel along the length of his impressive erect member. The heavy blue veins throbbed as she drew the cold steel along his cock still rouged from their liaison, still glistening with the accumulations of their lust.

“I was sent by Monsieur Libérerlèvres … from Cherborg,” Dangle replied as he glanced down at the curvy little woman. Her heaving bosoms had yet to be returned to their snug resting place inside her bustier. The flush of her arousal was still evident on her cheeks and neck and chest and the taut puckered appearance of her nipples. The scent of her sodden sex titillated his nostrils.

“Monsieur Libérerlèvres you say? From Cherbourg, just like you?” she said, circling Dangle slowly. She suddenly reached out and around Dangle, grasping his large heavy nut sack and squeezing it. Dangle winced but didn’t let on. “I have been to Cherbourg many times, Monsieur Granbranche, and know that there is no man within 100 kilometres of Cherbourg with your … ‘generous’ endowment. And I would know these things, believe me.”

“I believe you … But I swear, Madame,” Dangle said coolly, letting the little woman gently explore his magnificent apparatus with her hand. “I was sent by Monsieur Libérerlèvres from Cherbourg.” Dangle shivered when the cold steel of the gun barrel was thrust between the cheeks of he arse, the tip of the barrel pushing against his nuts. Dangle knew that this was one tough little crumpet. And the way she fondled his goods was keeping him embarrassingly at attention. Should he reveal himself to her? Could she be trusted? He glanced back over his shoulder at her, leant his head toward her and said slowly, in perfectly French accented English, “Your bloomers were wet before sunset.”

Her hand stopped moving and withdrew from his throbbing manhood. The gun barrel was pulled away as she sauntered around to stand a step or two in front of him, her free hand on her hip, her other hand holding the revolver on him.

“I have heard of Monsieur Libérerlèvres,” she said knowingly, then in delightfully French accented English, she said, “All fish smell like that!”

“Drunkard out of Whiskey by Morning,” Dangle replied.

“The Pain in France is mainly in your Pants,” she said quickly.

“A Beautiful Dress makes no Sense … unless it Inspires men to Remove It,” Dangle replied.

“The Full Moon Rises Orange in the East,” she responded.

“The Largest Tool is Useless to one who knows Not How to Use it,” Dangle added.

The saucy French Madame tossed her head to the side, and said, “A True Mechanic knows Where to Put His Tool.

There was one last line to this little game and Dangle knew the gravity of it as he spoke calmly, “The Angle of the Dangle is Proportional to the Heat of the Meat!”

“Ahh, so then it is true, monsieur,” the little Madame said excitedly, finally lowering her revolver. “You are the agent for whom we have been informed to be on the look out.”

“Yes, Madame Conty. Jacques Granbranche, at your service,” Dangle said with courtly bow.

“I do not suppose Monsieur Granbranche,” she said softly, approaching him and running her fingertips along the length of his mighty manhood. “That since we have already ‘introduced’ ourselves that you would care to tell my your real name.”

“Only if you show me all of your pretty face, Madame,” Dangle replied.

“Jamais!” she laughed and gave his steely tool a squeeze. “In this war, the smart ones can never reveal their true identity.”

“Now that you have finished your interrogation, Madame,” Dangle said. “May I dress myself and have your signature on the delivery papers.”

“I’ll sign those papers, but no, you must not dress … not just yet,” she replied, brandishing a pen and signing the delivery papers.

“So what is it that you wish of me, Madame?” Dangle asked, very aware of being naked from the waist down, and still standing at full attention. “It is late and I must be back to the winery else they think I have run away. Madame?”

 

[Why]

Madame Conty

Madame Conty and not even begun her interrogation of Jacques Granbranche. She had merely established he was no danger to her radio station. She leaned over the table, presenting her tantalizing rear to her visitor as she signed the papers. The fingers of her right hand drummed on the cold metal barrel of her revolver for a second, then she slipped it back into the drawer.

“Madame, I need too.”

“Yes… but not yet, I need to establish some things first.” Madame Conty replied as she carefully packed her radio back in its hole in the floor. She stamped her foot twice on the wooden floorboard making her exposed breasts jiggle. She then turned with a smile, adjusted her mask and walked towards the half naked Jacques.

“What, do you need to establish, Madame, I thought… “Jacques began as his hands for some reason tried to cover his half erect tool.

“Well,” Claudette began, gently taking hold of Jacques’ hands and removing them from the vicinity of what she wanted to inspect. “Let us state what we have already established.” As she spoke she placed Jacques’ hands on her shoulders and angled her face up towards his. “ You are the agent we were expecting, non?"

“Oui,” Jacques said and began to rub his thumbs on Madame’s neck. Claudette gave a small sigh and arched her shoulders, delighting in the touch.

“You survived a night with Mademoiselle Ouvriere and still had the strength to work a whole day for her father?”

“Oui,” Jacques fingers were now tracing down her collar bones and onto the mounds of her breasts. The angle of dangle of his “branche” had also changed and it was brushing against Claudette’s stomach.

“Tell me Monsieur Granbranche, do you know anything about Radios? My engineer was murdered I need assistance.” As she spoke Claudette’s fingers began to carefully undo Jacques, shirt.

“Indeed..”

“Bon,” Madame then began to gently push Jacques back, he took a few steps then his legs hit a old day bed, against the wall. “Sit.” Jacques frowned, then slowly smiled and sat. Madame straddled his lap, his tool throbbing upright between them. Claudette glanced down at the hot member then smiled a wicked smile. “Now the most important thing I need to establish.”

Jacques’ fingers had now strayed down to Madame’s nipples and were tracing a figure of eight round the taut, deep red flesh. “I need…” Claudette sighed and leaned into his caress. “To establish,”

“Yes… errrrrrr….yes…” Jacques answer became half groan, half plea as her small hand dropped and began to massage the tip of his rod.

“Can you keep you mind engaged, while on the job? Or do you Monsieur, like all men disengage it when this,” her fingers curled round his wide girth. “Is in play..”

“How can we establish that..” Jacques whispered…

“Say your seven times table.” Claudette said and stood pushing his hands off her breasts. She opened Jacques’ legs and dropped to her knees. Her left hand cupped his large balls, the right stretched round his shaft and her small red lips parted to take the growing end between them.

“One seven is seven,” Madame’s tongue licked out and touched Jacques' tool, running down the swollen head.

“Two sevens are fourteen,” Jacque said calmly as her lips opened and took him in

“Three sevens are twenty one,” her teeth gently rubbed as they slipped down his throbbing member.

“Four sevens are twenty eight,” Claudette’s hand tightened the fingers tracing the veins on Jacques shaft as they closed.

“Five sevens are thirty five…” Jacques voice deepened as Madame began to bob, up and down, running her soft, velvet mouth over his engorged flesh.

“Six sevens are, are…forty two.” He stuttered as she removed her mouth and blew across the damp tip, watching through her mask as his flesh twitched.

Seven sevens are forty nineeeeeeee.” Madame’s tongue flashed out and licked the droplets forming on the glistening head before her.

“Eight sevens are fifty six, fifty six.” Madame bent her head again and took a huge percentage of Jacques branche into her mouth, slurping and moving up and down.

His hands moved over her shoulders “nine, nine sevens are…. Sixty three.”

“Bon,” Claudette murmured against his shaft and tightened her small hand.

“Ten sevens are seventy.” Jacques said in a rush as Claudette let his tool slip from her mouth with a loud plop.

“Now… a poem…” Claudette said, her eyes twinkling behind her mask as she stood and straddled him, rubbing his glistening member against the damp folds of her sex.

 

[Miltone]

Lt. Rodney Dangle, Special Agent of the Crown

“A poem, Madame?”

“Oui, a poem,” she responded, grasping his thickened rod firmly and dragging the head back and forth along her channel of love. “Something classic and not too extemporaneous for I wish to test how well you perform under pressure.”

”Very well, Madame, wishes a poem,” Dangle said, rocking his hips upward as she manoeuvred the head of his throbbing member toward her hot and damp entrance. As he felt his impressive manhood part her folds again, he spoke slowly and deliberately. “Madame shall get a poem.” Dangle clenched the cheeks of his bum and thrust his imposing implement up into the liquid velvet of her willing sex, eliciting a sharp gasp and a deep sigh from the little woman. “I presume that you are familiar with the Fifteenth Century poet, François Villon?”

“Oui, Monsieur Granbranche,” the Madame replied. “Very much so.” She rested her forearms on Dangle’s shoulders and ground her little body against his lap, rubbing the tips of her diamond hard nipples against his chest and clenching her warm wet tightness around his long thick hardness. “Recite, sil vous plait.”

“Very well, Madame,” Dangle said, beginning to rock his hips and bounce the Madame’s petite body on his lap while she rode his hot thick pole. “I shall recite from the original text … please excuse the jargon.”

“Uhhnnn, oui, monsieur!” the Madame cried out as she wiggled her way up and down Dangle’s surging stick of joy.

“La Ballade Des Dames De Temps Jadis,” Dangle grasped the firm cheeks of her bum and began to recite.

Dictes moy ou, n'en quel pays,
Est Flora la belle Rommaine,
Archipiades ne Thaïs,
Qui fut sa cousine germaine,
Echo parlant quant bruyt on maine
Dessus riviere ou sus estan,
Qui beaulté ot trop plus q'humaine.
Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan?

“Oh, Monsieur Granbranche … don’t stop … sil vous plait! Don’t stop!” the Madame urged. Dangle had drawn his hands up over her backside and reached around to cup the fullness of her ample bosom, kneading the soft tender flesh as he quickened the pace of his deep thrusts into her sweet love box and continued his recitation.

Ou est la tres sage Helloïs,
Pour qui chastré fut et puis moyne
Pierre Esbaillart a Saint Denis?
Pour son amour ot ceste essoyne.
Semblablement, ou est la royne
Qui commanda que Buridan
Fust geté en ung sac en Saine?
Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan?

Dangle paused to maintain his breathing. The urgent bouncing of the little Madame in the masque was bringing a healthy sweat to his forehead, but Dangle was equal to the task. He also took the moment to suckle the taut rosy tips of her luscious jiggling breasts, drawing each one deep into his mouth and grazing his teeth over their puckered texture before letting it pop free from his mouth.

“Monsieur … Granbranche … please … Plus! Plus! Plus! Don’t stop! I want it all!”

Dangle continued his recitation in a perfect 15th Century French accent.

La royne Blanche comme lis
Qui chantoit a voix de seraine,
Berte au grand pié, Beatris, Alis,
Haremburgis qui tint le Maine,
Et Jehanne la bonne Lorraine
Qu'Englois brulerent a Rouan;
Ou sont ilz, ou, Vierge souvraine?
Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan?

The little Madame was fast approaching a cosmic orgasmic earthquake and Dangle had to admit that he was not far behind her, yet he knew there was one short verse remaining to his recitation. As the tenseness in Madame Conty’s body continued to build, her arms clung tightly to Dangle’s shoulders, her spasaming font of wetness stroking his impressive tool relentlessly in near delirium.

“Oh, oui, Monsieur Granbranche!” she cried out heatedly. The old day bed creaked and squeaked and groaned loudly and had begun to move across the floor from their energetic liaison. “Ahhhnnn! Ahhhnnn! Ahhhnnn! Oh, oui!”

With a final frenetic flurry of long hard deep thrusts, Dangle took the little Madame Conty over the crest of the hill, pounding her tight wet sex with his tall hot baton.

“May I be permitted to finish, Madame?” Dangle asked, feeling his own surging climax reach amazonic proportions.

“Mais oui, Monsieur!” the Madame cried out in the throes of her sumptuous orgasm. “Finish as you please, Monsieur! Ahhnnn! Ahhhnnn! Ahhhnnn!”

Dangle rolled the firm little body of the Madame over onto her back and held her spread legs up as he finished the poem and readied to unleash his colossal load up deep inside her.

Princesse, n'enquerez de sepmaine
Ou elles sont, ne de cest an,
Qu'a ce reffrain ne vous remaine:
Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan?

Dangle let go of her legs and their bodies became an orgiastic mélange of arms and legs, hot fevered kisses from hungry lips, and the last tingling primal thrusts as his seed spilled force. Dangle kept his composure, allowing himself only the slightest little growl as he felt his sack empty completely into the receptive and petite Madame Conty.

“I do believe that we have melted that snow of yesteryear,” the petite Madame remarked with a chuckle. Dangle laughed politely.

“So, do I pass the test?” Dangle asked as they slowly drifted back to earth from their sweaty flight to the stratosphere.

“Only one little thing, Monsieur,” said the Madame who sported a small frown. “I commend you on your powers of concentration, but at the beginning of the last stanza, you said, ‘Princesse, n'enquerez de sepmaine Ou elles sont …,’ when the line should have been, ‘Prince, n'enquerez de sepmaine Ou elles sont …,’ or did I not hear you correctly?”

“I hope that you will forgive me that little personalizing,” Dangle said trying to make amends. “Given the charm of my present company, in reciting to you I thought it inappropriate to call you a Prince for you my dear shall never be confused with being a man. You are most certainly a Princess of Love.”

“And you are a most kind and attentive gentleman, Monsieur Granbranche,” Madame Conty replied with a delightful laugh. “I forgive you that little transgression.”

As they looked about themselves, they noticed that the daybed had been manoeuvred into the middle of the room, bringing a chuckle from them both.

“So do I qualify to serve as your engineer?” Dangle asked as they slowly separated and the Madame curled down to cleanse his remarkable tool with her expert tongue.

“Monsieur, you obviously have all the necessary credentials,” Madame Conty replied, stroking his notable implement. “And then some!”

“So when do I start, Madame?” Dangle asked.

“I believe you already have, Monsieur,” she replied. “And you may call me Claudette. We are all on a first name basis around here.”

“Very well, Mad—er, Claudette,” Dangle said as he gathered up his britches. “Now if you don’t object, I must return to the house of Ouvriere lest he think that I have run off with his wagon full of wine.”

“Knowing Ouvriere as I do, he would be more upset about losing his team of horses,” Madame Contry remarked. “In this country, wine is cheap, but a good team of horses is hard to come by.”

Dangle laughed and took his leave, but not before accepting a long wet deep goodbye kiss from the Madame.

“Until our next broadcast, tomorrow,” the Madame said.

“À demain, Claudette,” Dangle replied, taking the Madame’s little hand and kissing it gently.

He found the team of horses still hitched to the empty wagon and led them back up the hill toward the winery of Ouvriere. He wondered what sort of reception he might find there and what the next day might bring …


OOC: For the benefit of those readers whose command of French fails them, the following is a translation of the poem used in this post.

The Ballad of the Ladies of Ancient Times
By François Villon c.1461

Tell me where, or in what land,
is Flora the fair Roman girl,
Archipiada, or Thaïs,
who was her match in beauty's hall,
Echo who answered when one called
over rivers or still pools,
whose loveliness was more than human?
Where are the snows of yesteryear?

Where is Héloïse, so wise, for whom
Pierre Abelard was first unmanned
then cloistered up at Saint Denis?
For her love he bore these trials.
And where now can one find that queen
by whose command was Buridan
thrown in a sack into the Seine?
Where are the snows of yesteryear?

Queen Blanche, light as a lily,
who sang with a mermaid's voice,
Bertha Bigfoot, Beatrice, Alice,
Arembourg, heiress to Maine,
and Joan the good maid of Lorraine
whom the English griddled at Rouen;
where are they, where, O Sovereign Virgin?
Where are the snows of yesteryear?

Prince, don't ask me in a week
or in a year what place they are;
I can only give you this refrain:
Where are the snows of yesteryear?

 

[Why]

Madame Conty

After Monsieur Granbranche’s departure Claudette sat for a moment collecting her thoughts as well as her breath. He would do very well, she had plans for Monsieur Grandbranche. She sighed and left the room, locking the door behind her.

After washing, and brushing her thick dark hair, the Madame of the Le Club Léger Bleu retired for a few hours, but only a few. She was woken by her faithful maid Yvette. The mature woman tutted and fussed as she placed a tray of hot coffee and petits pains for Claudette on the small table by the side of the large bed.

“Do not fuss Yvette.” Claudette said as she sat up and pushed her hair out of her face. She smiled and flung back the covers, stretching her well shaped legs. Then picked up a knife and began to coat the bread with a layer of butter.


“I do not fuss Madame, I worry. You take too many risks.” As she spoke the maid began to lay out a somewhat large black dress and what looked like small pillows with laces attached.

“It is necessary for France,” Claudette replied as she bit the bread. Her eyes narrowed as she realised it was later than she realised. She would be late and the Germans hated that. Then she smiled. Bon, then I shall be very late.

Yvette shook her head and moved her mistress’ tray and began to help her dress. For by night and most of the week Claudette Conty was The Madame of the Le Club Léger Bleu but three days a week she was Isobel Detrop, scrubber of floors at the German headquarters the l'Hôtel Chaud Rouge. It was while on her knees with a brush and bucket, Madame Conty picked up lots of information.

Once she had completed her morning ablutions, Madame Claudette tied the “pillows” round her small frame, thickening her waist, hips and bosom. She then put on a long thick cotton petticoat, over which, with Yvette’s help she put a black dress, buttoned high under her chin. Her hair was scraped back and pushed under a thick hairnet and a pair of brown horn-rimmed glasses balanced on her finely made nose... She was now one very rotund, plain, bespectacled frustrated old maid.


Soon Claudette was mounted on her bicycle pedalling through the village. She passed Monsieur Cheville Ouvriere’s winery. As she did she slowed and glanced in the yard. Monsieur Granbranche was assisting Monsieur Ouvriere in loading that day’s deliveries. The daughter of the house was hanging out of her bedroom window a pout marring her pretty face.

Claudette rang the bell on her bicycle and blew both gentlemen a kiss. Her front wheel wobbled and she swore “Merde!” She wove her way across the road, zigging and zagging and pushing at the now slipping padding round her bosom. As she did a sliding turn on the gravel, into the yard by the side of the l'Hôtel Chaud Rouge Claudette glanced back. Monsieur Granbranche was standing watching her a mixture of surprise, confusion and amusement on his face. Bon, she thought he did not know me.

Most of the morning Claudette spent on her knees scrubbing the scuff marks made by the German’s boots on the marble tiles of the various rooms on the ground floor l'Hôtel Chaud Rouge. As she worked slowly outside the half open door of the salon she heard voices. It was Captain Rindfleischpacker and his wife Ilsa. Claudette pushed the door slightly so she could view the couple.

Ilsa was sitting by the open door to the small garden, her long legs crossed and a frown on her near perfect complexion. Near perfect except for the fact the woman had a small black mole on the side of her nose. “Witch,” Claudette muttered as the woman asked her husband for a light, wiggling the cigarette in its long holder at him.

The tall, blonde well built man, (who looked as if he had been poured into his uniform it fitted so well) sighed, lent over and flicked his silver cigarette lighter and held the flame to the cigarette. Some how as he straightened the flame of the lighter caught a wisp of his wife’s blonde hair. She screeched; a string of German, French and English profanities pouring from her mouth. Her husband sighed again and pulled at the bottom on his jacket.

Once she had removed the singed fragments from her blonde hair Ilsa said “I know you don’t like the idea, but it is for the fatherland, we need to know what happened at Le Club Léger Bleu.”

“We know what happened, a man dressed as a maid choked on a stocking.” The Captain sighed, “And besides I doubt if any there are my type.”

“ It was murder; we know that, that whore on the radio knows that. We need to know if the General was involved or if perhaps the man in the maid’s outfit was part of the resistance.”

“There is no resistance around here Ilsa,” The Captain laughed as he tormented his wife. “You could join me at Le Club Léger Bleu tonight, Madame Conty is supposed to be very obliging

 

[Miltone]

Lt. Rodney Dangle, Special Agent of the Crown

Monsieur Ouvriere was waiting for him when Dangle returned up the hill to the winery.

“So you have completed all your deliveries?” Ouvriere asked pointedly.

“Oui, monsieur, all of them, see?” Dangle said in his perfectly accented French as he handed over the clipboard with the delivery papers all signed as required.

“Hmm, most impressive,” Ouvriere commented as he flipped through the papers and noted each signature. “Even the elusive Madame Conty … she never signs anything.” Ouvriere looked up at Dangle. “I can only imagine what you might have done to get her to sign.”

“Well, sir, it was very easy, you see, she was bent over and I …” Dangle began to explain, but Ouvriere cut him off.

“I don’t want to hear about it,” the old man said, waving Dangle off. “There’s some supper for you in the kitchen if you’re hungry.”

“Merci, Monsieur Ouvriere,” Dangle said appreciatively as he followed the old man inside. “Are there any special instructions this evening?”

“Regarding?” the old man asked gruffly.

“Regarding your daughter,” Dangle replied.

“What you do to keep my daughter occupied is not my concern tonight, just so long as you are ready for your deliveries in the morning.”

“Very well, sir,” Dangle replied.

The night was spent with the lovely Evie Ouvriere perched enthusiastically upon his impressive tool in infinitely varying positions while he pumped her for information about movements of German troops nearby the village of Château de Pleut des Manteaux. Being the sort that she was, there wasn’t a man within a hundred kilometres of whom she didn’t know the whereabouts. Her information was going to be most invaluable and Dangle entered each titbit into his photographic memory.

When finally her father called up the stairs for Granbranche, Dangle responded by shouting down, “Coming, Monsieur Ouvriere! Coming!” As if on cue, Dangle then obliged the Mademoiselle Ouvriere by allowing his extraordinary apparatus to explode copiously over her impressive bosom and belly, leaving her to look like a most appetizing Danish … er, French pastry. After a huge breakfast, Dangle went outside to join Monsieur Ouvriere in loading up the wagon.

“Don’t be gone all day,” the Mademoiselle called down to him with a pout. “I will be missing you all day long.”

Just as Dangle blew her a kiss he heard the sound of bell ringing and looked out toward the road where a rotund woman was pedalling past and blowing a kiss. Such friendly people in this village, Dangle thought.

“Who’s that?” he asked Ouvriere.

“Oh that ... Madame Detrop, a scullery maid at l'Hôtel Chaud Rouge … certainly not your type.”

“So I can see,” Dangle said looking back as Ouvriere handed him a heavy case.

“Be careful of this one,” Ouvriere warned. “It is a special order for that very same hotel by request of the German commandant, Captain Rindfleischpacker. He is a very fastidious man … if one is to know what I mean … fastidious.”

“I shall be most careful,” Dangle replied warily. It was a couple hours later when Dangle’s concern was to come into play. He had led the wagon team down the hill to the village and managed the first deliveries admirably before arriving at the read of l'Hôtel Chaud Rouge.

“Leave that here with the rest,” the prissy sommelier remarked when Dangle went to unload the special order. The eyes of the slight little man roved up and down Dangle’s physique.

“Pardon, monsieur, but I have express orders to deliver this to Captain Rindfleischpacker and no one but Captain Rindfleischpacker,” Dangle said strongly.

“Are you absolutely certain?” the sommelier lisped. “There isn’t a single thing that the Captain can do that I cannot. Trust me … I’m good!”

“I’m sure you are, my good man,” Dangle replied. “But I have my instructions.”

“Very well,” the little sommelier hissed. “But don’t blame me for not warning you.”

Dangle unloaded the crate of wine onto a small cart and was led through the back of the hotel and toward the freight elevator. Once up to the top floor, Dangle was told by the fey sommelier, “Down the hall and the only door on the right. Good luck, handsome!”

As he wheeled the cart down the hall Dangle nearly ran over the scullery maid. Such a load she was, all stout and frumpy, and certainly in the way. Barely excusing himself he rapped at the only door on the right side of the hall. A few moments later the door swung open and a tall lanky blonde woman appeared.

“May I help you?” she purred.

“I have a special delivery for Captain Rindfleischpacker,” Dangle announced.

“Are you sure that it’s not for me?” the woman asked. “I am Frau Ilsa Rindfleischpacker.” She stepped from behind the door, revealing her pale hourglass figure encased enticingly in a merry widow made of expensive black lace that was obviously not of Aryan origin. Her long legs were wrapped in priceless black silk the likes of which were not available in France or Germany Dangle was sure. Over her shoulders rested a long sheer black robe. The woman looked him up and down with her ice blue eyes, her eyes lingering obviously on Dangle’s most strategic parts.

“I have been asked by Monsieur Ouvriere to deliver this particular case to the Captain only,” Dangle insisted.

“Why must you Frenchmen always be so fussy about your wine?” she replied and swung the door open wide enough for Dangle to enter with his cart. “Follow me.”

Dangle followed her, mindful of the tantalizing way that her hips swiveled showing off the firm cheeks of her trim bum. Were it not for his escapades with the insatiable Mademoiselle Ouvriere the night before, Dangle might have found himself all too willing to compromise himself with the Captain’s wife—Ilsa she had said.

“Hans … Hans!” Ilsa called out as she led Dangle to the back room of their suite. “There is a special delivery for you.”

Standing at a desk was a tall German officer whose insignia told Dangle that this was the Captain and Kommandant of the German garrison. The Captain and his wife now spoke in German, fortunately a language that Dangle has mastered as far back as his years at Eton, so that he understood their every word.

“Ach, mein Gott!,” the Captain crowed as he hurried over to Dangle. “You can leave us alone now, Ilsa,” the Captain remarked, putting his arm around Dangle’s shoulders and leading him over to the buffet table. “I just love special deliveries!”

“But I saw him first, he’s mine!” Ilsa said in a resigned voice. “Besides Hans, he is here to deliver the wine.”

“I’m sure he is, but look at him! A finer Frenchman I have not seen … and I have seen a lot of Frenchmen in the past three years, believe me,” the Captain chuckled.

“Just don’t break him, Hans,” Ilsa warned. “I get him after you.”

“We’ll just see about that, Ilsa … if there is anything left of him,” the Captain chuckled, starting to lead Dangle over to the couch.

“Excuse me,” Dangle said in his apologetic French accent., pointing toward the case at his feet. “Monsieur … the wine?”

“I have many deliveries today, and I must …” Dangle began but was interrupted by the Captain.

“Oh to hell with that,” the Captain said in thickly accented French. “I want to know more about you.” He escorted Dangle to the couch and turned to his wife. “Ilsa, you may leave us now.”

“Remember I get him next,” Ilsa said closing the doors behind her, leaning over as she did so to display her fetching array of cleavage.

“So tell me where you came from Monsieur … Monsieur … what is your name?” cooed the Captain who couldn’t seem to take his hands off Dangle.

“Granbranche … Jacques Granbranche of Cherbourg,” Dangle replied.

“And how that name fits you so,” said the Captain in his fumbling French, his hand gliding lightly over Dangle’s chest and down over his stomach, his Aryan eyes focusing on the bulge in Dangle’s lap. “I can tell that just from here.”

“Monsieur … Capitan! Please!” Dangle protested, removing the Captain’s hand from his body. “I must complete my deliveries or else I lose my job I hope you understand.”

“I hope you understand … that I am Captains Hans Rindfleischpacker, Kommandant of the German Garrison, and my word is law,” said the Captain, his voice growing sterner. His hand returned to Dangle’s body, moving swiftly down from his chest and over his belly toward the prodigious lump in his lap. “Now let me show you just how French a German officer can be.” With that, the Captain’s hand darted toward the button fly of Dangle’s britches, his lips smacking loudly.

“But Capitan … I must protest … I am not that kind … you must understand,” Dangle protested trying to escape as the Captain quickly parted Dangle’s britches and fished inside for the object of his obscure affection.

“Ach, mein Gott! I do understand,” the Captain cried out when he located Dangle’s throbbing monster, and yanked it stiffly out into the open.

“But I don’t like men!” Dangle shouted jumping up from the couch and trying to tuck his throbbing implement back into his britches.

“But I do and I love Frenchmen!” the Captain cried out. “Please let me show you what a Frenchman I can be!” He smacked his lips hungrily but Dangle had to draw the line somewhere. When he pulled open the door, in tumbled Frau Rindfleischpacker, who had apparently been listening at the keyhole. She fell at his feet and grabbed at his pant legs to keep from sprawling completely onto the floor. The strength of her grip as she tried to pull herself up yanked Dangle’s britches down and his magnificent member was revealed for all to see.

“Oh, there is a god!” Frau Rindfleischpacker cried out when she espied the rigid tool waggling at her face. She smacked her lips and immediately reached for the big pink steel rod. “And how I do love Frenchmen too.”

“But he belongs to me!” the Captain insisted, coming to stand by the doorway where his wife knelt before Dangle stroking his large fat implement.

“Not any more, Hans,” Ilsa remarked, her warm firm hand stroking the impressively hard love muscle. “Possession is nine-tenths of the case in a court of law!”

“Wait!” Dangle said trying to extricate himself from the situation. “You people are mad!”

“But we are also in charge around here!” the Captain replied, patting Dangle on the cheek and then kissing it. “Now you will do for my wife as she pleases or I will see to it that you are never heard from again!”

Dangle took in a deep breath as he felt the warm velvety lips of the captain’s wife encircle the monstrous head of his proud manhood. “The things a patriot will do for his country! I don’t see what else can happen that hasn’t already!”

At that point the door leading to the water closet opened and the frumpy scullery maid appeared, mop and pail in hand. She looked at Dangle, then the Captain, then the Captain’s wife, and then back to Dangle, her expression changing not one bit.

“Lavatory is all clean, ma’am, just as you requested. Will there be anything else?”

“That will be all,” the Captain said hastily. “Now if you will excuse us.”

The voice of the maid muttered all the way down the hall and out the front door.

“I must be going too.” Dangle insisted as he attempted to extricate himself from the eager mouth of Ilsa.

“But we are not finished with you,” the Captain protested. “You will stay until we are finished with you.”

“Murphhh muffle slurppple,” moaned the Captain’s wife.

Dangle leaned back against the door way and felt Ilsa’s mouth creep down along the prodigious length of his magnificent rod. He groaned and grumbled and was nearly an hour late to his next delivery.

 

[Why]

Madame Conty

Claudette, in her disguise of Madame Detrop had watched the Germans’ Blitzkrieg on Jacques Granbranche of Cherbourg with gathering amusement. In fact her metal bucket had rattled like a tin can in her hand as she strove to keep from bursting out laughing.

Ilsa considered herself an expert in the use of tongue and lips, but, Claudette shrugged her shoulders, the woman gobbled and chomped like a toothless widow. No finesse, no technique, sloppy and slobbery. Claudette also noticed as she watched through the crack of a door down the hall, that Ilsa did not manage to get Jacques Granbranche’s branche so grande as she herself had.

Though Claudette grudgingly admitted that might have something to do with the Captain standing there with his trousers open and his hand on his German machinery. And Claudette also admitted that the Captain’s piston was not bad, and the gentleman, though his preferences were slightly different did not object to the odd forage into foreign territory.

Not so Granbranche, damn him. He will have to pretend. The Captain had obviously taken a great liking to him. They needed to winkle information out of Rindfleischpacker. For France one must be prepared to sacrifice.

As she was tackling a very stubborn scuff mark on the turn of the front stairs Granbranche hurried past her, his foot licking her bucket and sending it toppling down the stairs. “Merde!” She swore and threw her rag after him.

“Pardon.” Jacques said not even looking back as he dodged round two officers and out the front door.

“Tradesmen should use the rear entrance! “ Claudette cupped her hands and shouted after the fast departing figure.

“He has gone?” Captain Rindfleischpacker asked wistfully from the top of the stairs.

“Oui monsieur,” Claudette got to her feet and waddled down after her bucket.

“Shall I ever see him again…” The Captain said as he drifted back to his quarters.

“You shall if I have anything to do with it…” Claudette chuckled under her breath.

Claudette arrived back at the Le Club Léger Bleu by 6.00pm. Yvette had a mistress’ bath ready. As Claudette lay down and sank into the warm water, her amble frontage bobbed on the soapy surface, the nipples looking like twin periscopes. She sighed and reached for the glass off wine Yvette was holding.

“Look at your hands madam, they are rough and you have broken a nail.” Yvette scolded and prepared madam’s clothes

“For France,” Claudette sighed and sipped her wine. “To night all is ready for our guests?”

“Yes, the chef has prepared Coquille St Jacques…..”

Claudette snorted inhaling a mouth full of wine and rose to the surface on her bath coughing and spluttering through her laughter.

“Madame?”

“Nothing Yvette, pray continue…..” Claudette said and stood, her firm body, pink and rosy under the layer of soap bubbles.

“Langue de Boeuf avec champigons, Poulet grille sauce Diable, pommes vapeurs. Haricot verts, platau de formages.”

“Bon… the private saloon?” Claudette placed down her empty wine glass and took the towel offered her. Slowly she dried herself with gentle strokes of the fabric.

“Is ready…”

The entertainment..?”

“Err… the costume for the monsieur Granbranche, I have not measured him, only caught a glance at him… besides he might not agree?”

Claudette dropped her towel and walked from the tin bath in front of the fire to her large four poster bed and looked at the can-can dancers’ costume, Her fingers flicked over the layers of petticoats and she smiled. “He will agree! It is for France! I ruin my hands and nails for my beloved country; he can dress in a dress! We need five dancers to do this correctly and we must make sure the Captain has something to interest him” Claudette picked up the pair of lace covered panties and imagined monsieur Granbranche’s branche straining against the fabric… “Oh la-la” she whispered and felt her sex grow damp.

 

[Miltone]

Lt. Rodney Dangle, Special Agent of the Crown

Despite his unintended delay at the German hotel, Dangle was able to complete his rounds faster than expected. As he led the horses and wagon back through the village toward the hills and the winery, he passed by l'Hôtel Chaud Rouge and observed the Kommandant, Captain Rindfleischpacker, inspecting the guard, apparently about to send them out on their daily patrol. He noted the time, the number of men, their armament, and all other details he could manage with his furtive glance. The handsome Captain was dressed in his finely tailored dress uniform, strutting about, calling out orders sternly. Dangle laughed to himself when recalling that very same Kommandant earlier in the day, on his knees begging and pleading to fellate the mighty member that resided between Dangle’s legs.

Monsieur Ouvriere was most pleased to see him return with the horses and wagon, and had some additional chores that needed Dangle’s immediate attention. He had been cleaning out one of the vats and the pump had broken down. Ouvriere’s simple-minded and bumbling helper, Claude Nul, had managed to suck the mophead into the hoses and the pump had overheated.

“You seem so good with your hands, Granbranche,” Ouvriere said. “Can you take a look at the pump and see if you can repair it?”

“D’accord!” Dangle replied in his perfectly accented French. Squatting down in the courtyard outside the winery building, he looked over the pump for a minute or two before devising his plan of repair. “Just as I thought,” he muttered to himself. Just as he was about to rise up and head toward the tool shed, a tall willowy figure sauntered through the courtyard heading toward the barn. It was Evie wearing a light white dress. Her lack of underclothing was most evident.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said in passing, flouncing her long blonde tresses over her shoulder.

“Afternoon, ma’amselle,” Dangle called out.

She came over and hovered over Dangle, the outline of her shapely body evident through the sheer white material of her dress.

“I’m going out for a ride,” she said haughtily. “Too bad you are so deeply occupied, otherwise you could join me.”

“I’ve joined with you quite enough the past few days,” Dangle replied smartly.

“Well, so you have,” Evie laughed. “And most successfully I presume. Well, I am off,” she said and then trotted toward the horse barn, the seductive sway of her ass unmistakable. She soon emerged atop the fine palomino stallion that Dangle had admired previously.

“I think she likes you,” Claude said, his voice filled with excitement. “She sure is pretty.”

“That she is,” Dangle said.

It took nearly an hour for Dangle and Claude to repair the broken pump, but with the right tools and by luck of finding a pair of replacement bearings, they had the motor humming and the pump attached. They were briefly entertained by the reappearance of Evie having exhausted the proud palomino. After she had returned the horse to the barn, she strolled through the courtyard, her head held high, scarcely noticing Dangle and Claude.

“You’re sure you got all the rags out of this hose?” Dangle asked Claude.

“Oui, oui, oui!” the simple-minded Claude replied.

“All right then,” Dangle called out, switching on the pump motor. The lines gurgled and surged snaking around on the courtyard as the water pressure surged through them. Suddenly the main line leading from the tank they were draining whipped up in the air and the motor began to whine loudly. “Sacre bleu!” he cried out.

The hose flew up into the air and burst loudly sending a huge shower of wastewater up into the air followed by a clump of dirty rags and sponges. Seemingly unconcerned by what they were doing, Evie had been ignoring them and was caught in the shower of rancid water, bringing a screaming shout from her. Dangle and Claude began to chuckle, but an actual real laugh was brought out when one of the rags fell onto her head with a plop.

“Arrrggghhh!” Evie screamed as the men rushed to her side. “Look what you’ve done! You imbeciles!”

“I’m terribly sorry, Madamoiselle,” Dangle said, taking her by the arm and pulling the sodden rag from her head. “Claude, get some towels right away!” While Claude ran off to the winery to fetch some towels, Dangle examined the drenched Frenchwoman. “Are you okay?” he asked earnestly.

“Can’t you see? I’m wet to the bone,” she replied, her blue eyes livid with rage.

“So I can see,” Dangle remarked, noting how the sheer material of her dress clung to her shapely body as if it were a second skin. “So I can see …”

“I want to know what you are going to do about it,” she said in a most demanding voice.

“Well, the very first thing will be to get you out of these wet clothes,” Dangle said, seeing Claude come running up with a pair of small towels. Dangle began unbuttoning the dress and pulling the wet garment from her drenched shoulders.

“This is all that I could find,” Claude shouted apologetically. As he handed the towels to Dangle, he stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes large as saucers.

Dangle stripped the wet dress from Evie’s body and tugged down her drenched panties. He began to try and dry her fine young naked body with the small towels. She stood tall, her arms outstretched to her sides.

“Here take this, Claude,” Dangle said. “Help me.”

Claude stood in a daze, gazing at the tall supple curves presented before his virgin eyes.

“Come on Claude, help me, all right?” Dangle called out as his towel clad hand passed over Evie’s face and neck and shoulders. “Claude!”

“Oh, oui, monsieur …” Claude said as he timidly took back the other towel and dabbed lightly at the gorgeous perfect body of the young French girl.

“No, Claude, like this,” Dangle said, his hand firmly passing the towel over Evie’s right breast, feeling the rosy pink aureole grow taut and the nipple become erect.

“Oui, monsieur,” Claude said, his timid hand daring to touch Evie’s left breast. Soon, Claude’s hand was avidly circling the girl’s left breast and the right one too.

“You have to pay special attention to certain places, Claude,” Dangle said, running his towel down to Evie’s nether reaches, eliciting a sharp moan from the mademoiselle. Claude’s hand followed and soon Evie’s belly and thighs were as dry as her breasts, though the same couldn’t be said for her sex.

“Oh, don’t stop!” Evie cried out when Claude took away his hand. Claude quickly replaced it bringing another deep moan to her throat.

“Well, I can leave you two alone to finish up,” Dangle remarked, remembering how late the day was getting and how he should be checking in with Madame Conty at Le Club Léger Bleu. He didn’t want to be late for their evening broadcast, especially when it was Storytime.

“Wait! Don’t go, Jacques,” Evie called out. “Why don’t we all go up to my room so we can finish what we’ve started?”

“But Mademoiselle, you really don’t need me,” Dangle replied. “I am sure that Claude is well outfitted to help you reach your conclusion satisfactorily.”

“Oh, Jacques,” she cooed as she ran her hand over the bulge at the front of Claude’s britches. “I think you are right! Come with me, Claude.”

Dangle went to the room he had been given to wash and change. It was early evening by the time he reached Le Club Léger Bleu. He was surprised by his cordial greeting and how he was ushered quickly to a special dressing room next to the salon. He was glad to the see the Madame in the masque but had to stifle the urge to embrace her when he noticed her maid present.

“So Madame, are you ready for your broadcast?” Dangle asked eagerly.

“Monsieur Granbranche,” she replied with a sly grin. “I have something much more … how do I say? … interesting for you tonight.”

“Interesting? Pour moi? Whatever could that be?”

“You see, monsieur,” the little Madame said strolling over toward him, everyone of her womanly wiles conspiring against him. “I have a special entertainment planned tonight for my very special guests.”

“Special entertainment … yes,” Dangle said, enjoying the touch of her little hand on his chest and the press of her delectable bosom against his arm.

“You see, we are going to be visited by the Kommandant of the German garrison and some of his highest ranking staff members,” the little woman said, cooing into his ear and rubbing his back. “And I want to be sure that they all are entertained, such that … well, you know how men can be when they have had too much wine, too much song, and too many women …”

“Yes, but what would that have to do with me?” Dangle said, obviously confused by what she was saying, though not by what her hands were doing to his prodigious tool as they traced up and down its imposing length.

“I could place my prettiest girl up there on the stage and it would not attract the Captain’s attention one bit, if you know what I mean,” the Madame said, her hand pushing into the pocket of his britches, and her fingers then curling around his rigid apparatus. “But you have just what I need to distract the Captain.”

“But, Madam, I … I cannot,” Dangle protested.

“Yes, you can,” the little Madame insisted, giving his monstrous manhood a healthy tug. “You have exactly what is needed!”

“But, Madame! I cannot do anything with a man!”

“I’m not saying that you have to do anything, monsieur, just keep him entertained.”

“But … but … but …”

“But nothing!” The Madame said adamantly. “There is a war going on and we must all do our part. I hate the boche as much as anyone and would otherwise never think of having one touch me … but we all must make sacrifices for the cause …”

“Sacrifice, you say?” Dangle said, stalling. He had succeeded on joining up in this little cell of resistance and dare not so anything that would blow his cover or spoil his operation. “Well, if you insist, Madame …”

“Oh, merci, monsieur!” Madame Conty exclaimed.

“But on one condition,” Dangle added.

“And what would that be monsieur?”

Dangle looked down at the little woman and raised his hand to take a tour of her prominent physical features, especially her prodigious bosom that was barely contained underneath the filmy silk of her gown.

“That you allow me the pleasure of sharing your company once your little affair is over,” Dangle said, giving her rock hard nipples a final tweaking.

“You drive a hard bargain,” she replied, her hand rubbing firmly against his hard bargain. “But all right. Vivre La France!”

“Vivre La France!” Dangle echoed.

“Now Yvette,” said the clever little Madame. “Please show Monsieur Granbranche the costume he must wear tonight.”

Standing by the closet, Yvette held up the extra large sized chorus girl outfit, complete with lace panties.

“Nooooooo! Nooooooooo! Noooooooooo!” Dangle howled.

But later when the lights in the salon went down and the curtain rose up, there was Dangle just off stage, adjusting his costume. Damn! Could they have made these dman things any smaller?!! he muttered tugging at the little lace panties, trying to obscure his magnificent masculine member. He turned to the girl beside him, who looked much more appealing and desirable in her sexy little outfit.

“Tell me the truth … does my bum look fat in this?” he asked, flouncing the frilly skirt that surrounded his hips.

 

[Why]

Madame Conty

“Tell me the truth … does my bum look fat in this?” he asked

Claudette glanced at Monsieur Granbranche’s lace covered derriere and whispered, “non.” She pulled at the top of her red bustier and adjusted her red velvet mask.

“Non?” He whispered back as the Yvette placed the needle on the bouncing, spinning black disc on the gramophone. The maid then wound the handle. The music began slowly, picked up speed and tempo and was lost in the thunderous applause from the waiting audience.

“Non,” Claudette said again adding, “You do know the Can-Can..” She ran her eyes over Jacques. His bustier was deep blue and showed off his fine manly chest, the curly dark hair lining the neck edge. The matching blue silk skirt was full, with layers upon layers of frilly white petticoats underneath. Though he had pulled a hole in his fishnet stocking and did not stand well in his high heels. (the shoes turned over) Claudette hoped he would not fall.

“Of course, I have seen it at…”

Madame Conty tapped his wrist as she took hold of it. “Seeing is not doing…” With that she pulled him on stage.

As the glare of the lights hit her so did Yvette’s mumbled words. “Rear is fine, front….not enough fabric in France to cage that for long.” Madame Conty forced her burst of laughter into a fixed smile and raised her right leg high , rotating only the lower half, which of course caused her derriere to wobble. This lacy, curvy structure was in full view as she and the other girls held their full skirts aloft.

Cries, claps and the banging of tables with beer glasses greeted the chorus’ entrance. The Kommandant, Captain Rindfleischpacker and his guests were delighted. None more so than the Captain himself, as he became aware of the identity of the tall “girl” with the hairy bosom, footballer’s knees and the large implement straining the silk and lace at the front of the panties

“Mein Gott!” The Captain swore and stood hands going to his hips as he watched the performance. “More,” Faster” he called and clapped running a hand through his fine blonde hair.

“Claudette glanced into the wings at Yvette and nodded, the maid wound the handle of the machine. The needle on the record skipped and began again, but twice as fast. Claudette clicked her fingers and the girls as one did a “pigeon wing” for the male guests. This brought their amble busts (Though none was as ample as Madame’s) into play by leaping forward and throwing the shoulders back, while “carrying” bringing one leg up against the cheek and hopping slightly on the other.

The Madame glanced sideways and watched Jacques left leg come up. She smiled, then winced; the large masculine member in his lace panties moved and strained as if it had enough of being tied in. She wasn’t the only one that had noticed, it seemed more eyes were on the contents of Granbranche’s panties than any one else’s. Claudette huffed; she was not jealous of course she was not.

The Captain, a little worse for wear, because of the consumption of Monsieur Ouvriere best red wine, had plunged to his knees at the edge of the small stage. Here the captain alternately clasped his hands to his chest and sighed, then tried to touch the ankles of Monsieur Granbranche.

On the third attempt the Captain’s right index finger was crushed under Jacques' high heels. “Arrr……. I am wounded… See…” The Captain cried and held up his damaged bloody finger for all to see. “Love… for love….” The cry turned into a deep sigh and the captain wrapped his dripping finger in his spotless white handkerchief. He hugged the wounded digit to his chest as if it was a lover’s token.

As the troupe bent over and showed their bottoms to the appreciative audience Claudette hissed sideways at Jacques “You did that on purpose?”

“Moi?” Jacques' face was a mask of false innocence, “He just got in the way.”

“We need to get him into bed…”

“What?”

“Get him there, tease and….” Claudette’s words were cut off as the troupe moved off to the right and each girl flashed her bottom and turned. They then twirled their lifted lower legs and squealed.

“Don’t think….” Jacques hissed as he bumped into Claudette, his hand somehow grabbing her rear to make sure he had her attention.

“You agreed!” Claudette said. “ For France.”

“I did…” Jacques gulped and flipped his skirts high then low. Claudette tried not to giggle. He seemed to be trying to hide both his bulge in the groin area and his face at the same time. She looked forward. The Captain had acquired another glass of wine and was blowing wine wet kisses in Monsieur Granbranche’s direction and winking so much it looked like he had developed a nasty twitch.

Madame’s small troupe did not have the finesse of the ladies of the Moulin Rouge, but they were more enthusiastic. They were doing it for France, their country. The girls now lined up for the grande finale. Claudette yelled ran forward and opened her legs; down she went in a perfect “splits” Jacque followed. His yell was accompanied by the sound of ripping fabric as the front of his panties gave way.

“Oh…. Magnificent!” The Captain cried and started forward both hand reaching out to claim his heart’s desire.

“Its impossible…” One of Madame’s girls said before her eyes rolled back in her head and she fainted. Claudette tutted, the girl had no stamina

“Too little fabric” Yvette remarked as Monsieur Granbranche heaved himself from the floor holding the full skirts over his dangling member.

“Come to me!” The Captain called as he scrambled up on to the small stage. He forced his way through the milling girls towards his target.

Jacques did the opposite and exited stage right the captain on his heels and a swearing Madame on the Captain’s. Monsieur Granbranche charged up the narrow stairs, along the corridor and began to climb up to the next floor. Sadly he, being tall and in a rush had forgot to duck. Bang! His head slammed into the beam. Backwards he tumbled, stunned; right into the arms of the Captain.

“Oh my Love…” The Captain cried as he fell backwards with his arms full of Granbranche right into Madame.

“Help!” Madame Conty squealed as she disappeared under the weight of both men.

 

[Miltone]

Lt. Rodney Dangle, Special Agent of the Crown

The Captain’s arms were wrapped around Dangle like an octopus’s, clutching him in all the wrong places. Dangle struggled to clamber to his feet, pulling the Captain up with him.

“Madame Conty, are you all right?” Dangle asked, fending off the Captain’s lewd advances with one hand whist helping the little Madame to her feet.

“I am quite fine, Monsieur,” she replied, attempting to stuff her prodigious bosom back into her small red bustier. Of course, Dangle’s gallant attempt to assist her only inflated his own remarkable physical attribute that was being relentlessly fondled by the drunken Captain Rindfleischpacker.

“Monsieur, I must have you … I must!” crowed the German Captain in his guttural accent.

“Madame, you must help me … you must!” Dangle hissed softly but with a severe urgency.

“Monsieur, I cannot help you … I cannot!” replied the Madame having successfully straightened her undersized costume and her red masque.

“Please take me to your room so we can at last know heaven!” wailed the Captain.

“Where is a room so I can turn out his lights?” Dangle asked.

“Don't you dare,” the saucy Madame answered. “Follow me.”

She led the men to a plush room on the second floor “I have the Kommandant to entertain, Monsieur,” the Madame said to Dangle before closing the door behind her.

“But Madame!” Dangle cried out when he saw that she had left him alone with the heartstruck Captain.

“But Monsieur!” the Captain cried out in desperation.

Dangle had to think fast. He had managed to fend off the Rindfleischpacker but did not know for how long. He knew there were ways to address the Captain’s predilections but none that he was prepared to undertake—he was not a Navy man after all. Then he thought of a plan. He rummaged through the night stand and found just what he needed.

“Now, mon cher Capitaine, come with me the bed, I have a surprise for you,” Dangle said, trying to sound as fey and light as possible.

“Now you are talking, you great French cucumber!” cooed the Captain.

“Sit down like a good little German commandant,” Dangle said, patting the overstuffed mattress. “And close your eyes. I have a surprise for you.”

The Captain sat obediently and giggled like a schoolboy. “I just love surprises!”

Dangle produced a heavy silk scarf and began to wrap it around the Captain’s eyes.

“But what are you doing? I won’t be able to see your magnificent tool,” the Captain complained loudly.

“The blindfold merely improves the other senses, mon cher Capitaine … the sound, the feel , the taste …”

“Oui! Oui! Vivre le taste!” the Captain glowed, his hands reaching out to Dangle, fumbling beneath the tangle of petticoats for his mighty member. At last he found it just as Dangle had completed blindfolding the captive Captain. Dangle winced when the Captain gave it a healthy tug. “Vivre le feel!”

“Now, mon cher Capitaine, I want you to take off your clothes,” Dangle said trying to infuse his voice with a light aire.

“But … but … but …” The Captain burbled.

“I’m taking off my clothing,” Dangle said, pulling off his skirt and some of the petticoats and tossing them at the Captain.

“Oh, goodie!” the Captain tittered and began at once to strip off his dress grays.

Each bit of clothing that Dangle removed he tossed at the Captain and watched as the fey Nazi sniffed it and rubbed it over his body. When he finally pulled off the torn lace panties, Dangle dangled them near the Captain’s nose. The Captain grabbed them and buried his face in them. He eagerly reached for Dangle and grasped his incredible erect manhood.

“Ooo, la, la!” the Captain sang out and he stroked Dangle and then smacked his lips.

“Ah, ah, ah, mon cher Capitaine, Dangle warned, backing away from the German. “I have a special surprise for you, but I need to retrieve it … I’ll be right back …”

“Hurry, my love,” the Captain called out as he made himself comfortable on the bed, his own manhood a pale impression of Dangle’s.

Dangle dashed out the door naked and moved along the hallway quickly, opening doors. There were surprised screams from the girls and patrons as well as Dangle interrupted their corrupt liaisons in various stages of undress and climax. When he encountered a couple intertwined in the Porbandar Reverse Entrance, Dangle made a mental note. So that is possible after all! he thought. Thought that was only an impossible drawing in the Kama Sutra! When he opened the next door he found exactly what he was looking for, a tall heavy set girl lying idly on her bed.

“Mon dieu!” she cried out and nearly fainted upon seeing a naked Dangle at the door.

“Your name?”

“What?”

“Your name!”

“Savienne,” she answered.

“Come with me, Savienne,” Dangle said, leaping into the room and taking her by the hand. “You must come with me and do exactly as I say … this is for the your country, mademoiselle!”

“Mais oui!” she responded, hurrying behind him.

“All right, here is the plan,” Dangle said as the stood outside the door to the room where the Captain remained. “Inside is Captain Rindfleischpacker. I want you … I need you to … to … to service him, but you cannot speak … understand? Do not say a word ... simply follow my lead …”

“So um, just what do I get out of it?” the girl asked, her eyes locked on the healthy length of kielbasa dangling between his legs.

“A healthy share of whatever is in the Captain’s pocket,” Dangle offered. When she balked, he sweetened the deal. “You can have the entire share!” When she remained reluctant to agree and reached out to fiddle with his grand manhood, Dangle had no choice. “All right, all right, you may have me … but only once you have satisfied the Captain, agreed.”

“Mai oui!” Savienne squealed.

Dangle opened the door and Savienne entered with him. “I have your surprise for you,” Dangle called out. He motioned for Savienne to stand still while he grabbed another other silk scarf and began to tie the Captain to the bed.

“But … but … but …” the Captain spluttered.

“Do you want your surprise or not?” Dangle said teasingly.

“But of course!”

“Then you’ll let me finish,” Dangle said, securing the Captain to the bed with a final heavy knot. He reached for Savienne and led her to the bed, maneuvering her down between the Captain’s legs. When she looked back at him, Dangle made a crude gesture that left little doubt as to where her mouth should go. She looked down at the Captain’s miniature little erection and back at the grande member Dangle was sporting. Dangle put his finger to his mouth calling for her silence and then pointed toward the Captain. She may have been a whore, but she was certainly not dumb. With a shrug she took the Captain’s miniscule manhood in her large mannish hands and began to lick and suck like a good little French whore.

“Oh, my sweet man!” the Captain bellowed, his body thrashing as Savienne fellated him expertly.

Dangle bent down near the Captain’s belly when Savienne let the Captain’s minute member slip from her mouth. “All the better to serve you, mon cher Capitaine!”

Standing beside the plumb Savienne as she worked over the Captain, did have an effect on Dangle as well, especially when Savienne maneuvered her large fleshy bum toward his magnificent 10. With a quick hand he lifted her gown and saw that she was quite ready for him. Without giving away a thing, the large fleshy woman took in every inch that Dangle had to offer, the sensations of which she instantly transformed into her manhandling of the Captain’s manhood. And so they went at it, a lovely little pax de trois until he Captain was writhing and thrashing about the bed ready to explode. Savienne lifted her head from him and pumped him for all she was worth, never missing a single stroke of Dangle’s superlative piston.

“Oh, my sweet man!” the Captain cried out as he began to erupt all over himself. “Mein Gott in Himmell!”

“Me too,” Dangle said, pulling out of Savienne and stroking himself madly. “Me too!”

Savienne moved aside and watched as Dangle coated the bound and blindfolded town commandant with his thick slick seed. The German Captain writhed and wriggled as he was lacquered with the slick thick semen nearly from head to toe.

“I really hate to come and run, but I must be off,” Dangle said with only the slightest trace of apology.

“But … but … but …” the Captain protested, his pathetic boner waggling as he struggled against his bonds. “What about me?”

“I’ll send one of the girls in to help you,” Dangle said, giving Savienne a wink. She courtsied and winked back, mouthing a sweet, “Merci!” She had already located the captain’s pants and was rifling through them for his money.

“But monsieur! Monsieur!” the Captain called out.

“But, mon cher Capitaine, the Second Act is about to begin!” Dangle grabbed his costume and ran from the room, Savienne right behind him. While the Captain shouted and begged for him to return, Dangle stood outside the door and whispered to Savienne, “Thank you, my dear! Give him a minute or two and then go in a free him up.” He gave her a deep wet kiss and then hustled down the hallway. He prayed that there wasn’t a second act!