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From: punchinello@pulperotica.com (Punchinello)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 3 Aug 2003 22:51:42 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} Behind Enemy Lines (MF,FM,reluct) Pulp Story!
Date: Sun,  3 Aug 2003 20:10:03 -0400
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Behind Enemy Lines

Monique and Alan Surat had a dangerous mission in German-occupied
France, perhaps dangerous in more ways than one....



DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. If you are offended by sexually
explicit material or are under the age of 18, stop reading now. This
material cannot be reproduced for commercial purposes without the
consent of the author.

MORE PULP EROTICA AND ART AT http://www.pulperotica.com!


Behind Enemy Lines
(MF, FM, reluct)
By: Punchinello


France, 1941

Monique and Alan Surat slipped quietly out of their little flat and
down the rickety staircase outside. On the sidewalk, they put their
arms around one another and strolled affectionately down the
street--out, perhaps, for a quiet evening on the town.

It was a quaint little flat. It lay in a pleasant section of
town--pleasant, but by no means wealthy--above a boulangerie in the
little French farming town of A--. The moment she had first seen it,
Monique Surat knew it would be the perfect place for her and Alan.

It was ideally located, and had the privacy they wanted. And the smell
of fresh-baked bread every morning would be warmly welcome, especially
since the owners of the boulangerie were also the landlords of the
flats above and generous to a fault with their wares. DuCoin was their
name--Maurice and Claudine--and, still in love after 30 years of
marriage, their hearts were full of joy for the young lovers.

But Monique and Alan Surat were not young lovers. They were Allied
spies.

Although they played the roles of newlyweds, as a matter of fact and
circumstance they could hardly stand one another. He was actually
Simon Broyhill, a brash, bold sergeant major in the British Army--an
explosives expert--handy with the French language from boyhood
holidays, but no native.

She was Jeanine Graseau, the daughter of Belgian immigrants,
beautifully fluent in French, and a member of British
Intelligence--with the rank of captain.

Broyhill had been furious at having a woman behind enemy lines,
engaged in covert demolitions, and had been very vocal about it. The
fact that Jeanine Graseau outranked him made Broyhill even more
furious. It meant that she would receive and interpret their orders;
she would determine their course of action. All he would do is set and
detonate explosives.

But General Wellsey had been adamant. This was an extended assignment,
not a commando raid. To avoid detection, 'the team' must blend in to
the native population. And to blend in, they had to seem to be an
ordinary household of Frenchies. That was his term: 'Frenchies.'

It galled Broyhill even more that Jeanine Graseau was such a prude.
She made it clear from the start that they would not be sleeping
together in any capacity. Worse, she seemed to tease him with
half-glimpsed views of her in a state of undress--relaxing half-asleep
in the flat, her dress riding provocatively high on her creamy thighs;
changing clothes in front of him, expecting him to avert his gaze;
even washing in the morning with the bathroom door ajar.

She was gorgeous, with a generous, curving bosom that spilled out of
dresses and filled out sweaters; a narrow waist; and slender legs. If
Jeanine had been less beautiful, Broyhill might have been able to
ignore her. But he couldn't. He could only relish the moments they
were together in public, when he could pull her to him and squeeze her
like a lover. If he got too friendly, she would hiss in his ear,
smiling all the while.

On the street, the 'ordinary household of Frenchies' turned a corner
and separated without a word to climb quietly into their aging panel
van. That night, with the help of a pretty little thing from the
French Underground, they were on their way to assassinate a Vichy
collaborator and a Nazi officer.



Petille, she called herself, the pretty little thing, with her long,
spindly limbs, pointed breasts, and stringy black hair--but pretty,
definitely pretty. She had all the elegance of a spider. She took a
liking to Simon Broyhill immediately. She spoke slowly and quietly,
directly to him--never to Jeanine. She obviously sensed Broyhill's
nerve; he exuded it, oozed it. It galled Jeanine that Simon had that
effect on people, that easy camaraderie of people who could trust each
other to kill if necessary. Jeanine didn't share that camaraderie with
Simon, and she knew it. And she didn't share it with Petille, but for
a different reason.

When Jeanine was out of the room, Petille said to Simon in French,
<<She is beautiful. Do you sleep with her?>>

<<No,>> Simon had answered flatly.

<<Pity,>> the girl had replied, gazing absently after her. <<I would,
if I were you.>>



Petille took up a position on a hilltop with a German Mauser
bolt-action rifle. Simon and Jeanine pretended to change a tire on the
road below. The moon hung in the sky in a crescent quarter, silvering
the landscape with a pale glow.

A little French car pulled alongside the panel van--the collaborator.
Petille's information about his meeting with the Nazi officer was
correct. Petille felt nothing as Broyhill wrapped an arm around the
man's neck and cut his throat. At that distance, she couldn't even
hear the man's gurgling scream, couldn't even see the black-red blood
spurt out of his neck.

Jeanine was already in the car, driving it around the corner, behind a
stand of trees. Broyhill struggled with the man, eventually clubbing
him with the butt of his dagger and shoving him into the shallow,
watery ditch behind the van. The weeds and the van would hide him well
enough for now.

Jeanine was hurrying back. Already there were lights coming down the
road--a German staff car.

<<You bastard!>> Jeanine shouted shrilly. <<You stupid pig! How could
you let this happen?!>>

<<I'm fixing it! Shutup!>> Broyhill growled. The headlights fell on
both of them. The staff car's brakes screeched.

<<Stupid! Now we are in trouble!>> the woman hissed.

<<You there! What do you do?!>> the Nazi demanded in rough French.

<<I've got a flat,>> Broyhill said, casually turning away from the
van.

<<The stupid fool has a flat! We're stuck out here!>> Jeanine bawled.

<<Shutup! Shutup! I'm fixing it!>>

<<Go away from here! You cannot be out at night!>> The staff car was
open, the officer was the only occupant, but dragging the man out of
it would be difficult.

<<It's freezing. I can't believe the weather. How could you let this
happen?>>

<<Shutup! I've had enough!>> Broyhill barked. <<Stop screeching at
me!>> He had the tire iron in his hand.

<<Enough! Stop!>> shouted the Nazi.

<<Pig!>>

<<Get in the van!>> Broyhill raised the tire iron.

<<Don't hit me! How dare you?! You pig! You're drunk!>> Jeanine backed
away in terror, putting the staff car between them.

<<Put down the club,>> the Nazi said firmly. His Luger sidearm was
level with Broyhill's chest.

<<Oh my God!>> Jeanine gasped.

Broyhill backed away, toward the van, laying down the tire iron. The
Nazi opened his door, rose out of the car, always maintaining his
steady aim at Broyhill's heart.

<<Fix the tire,>> the Nazi commanded. Broyhill turned away warily.

POW! The loud report split the quiet night. The Nazi's face registered
shock. BANG! BANG! Two lesser shots, from behind. Broyhill swung the
tire iron and knocked the Luger out of his hand. But it was already
over. The Nazi staggered forward, the pistol falling out of his hand,
blood blooming under his gray blouse. POW! BANG! His other hand
clutched his eye, blood spurting between his fingers, blackening his
soft leather glove. He fell with a thud at Broyhill's feet.

Jeanine moved to the van, looking up and down the road. Petille
half-rose, surveying the area as well. "You cut that close," said
Broyhill, heart still pounding in his chest.

"He's dead, isn't he?" Jeanine argued.

<<You should have shot him in the head,>> said Petille, coming down
the hill. <<I couldn't take the chance with my first shot.>>

<<I wanted a photograph,>> Jeanine snapped, pulling a camera out of
the van. <<You've ruined his face.>>

<<Better than letting him put a hole in Alan.>>

"We need the proof, Alan," she said, switching to English again,
ignoring Petille.

"I'll get you proof," Broyhill snarled. "I'll cut off his goddamned
Nazi head and mail it back to London!"

The camera flashed like lightning.



The next night, when she returned from an evening by the radio with
her neighbor, Madame DuCoin, Jeanine came into the darkened flat to
the distinctive sound of lovemaking. She heard the soft moans of a
woman--Petille, no doubt--and the ragged grunts of a man--Broyhill for
certain. Each moan was coupled with the moist slap of flesh on flesh,
gradually becoming faster and more insistent.

<<Oh, oh, yes, Alan. Harder! Ooh, more!>>

Jeanine went boldly to the door, but stood for a moment, peering
through the crack at the lovers.  For a long moment, the moonlight
alone illuminated the pale, naked form of little Petille, straddling
Simon's muscular thighs, rocking roughly back and forth and moaning in
wordless pleasure. Broyhill's hands grasped the firm round globes of
her backside, squeezing them gently with each mutual thrust.

Jeanine felt her knees go weak and the warmth of animal desire spread
through her pelvis, moistening her tight slit. She tugged at the
collar of her blouse unconsciously, wet her lips, and stroked her
aching cunny.

<<Ooh, ooh, ooh,>> Petille cried, arching her back, plunging roughly
on Broyhill's cock. At last, Broyhill gave a heavy groan and held
Petille's small body to him, arching up to meet her, stabbing into her
with the full length of his prick.

<<Yes! Oh, monsieur! Yes! Ooh! Ohh!>> the girl cried.

Jeanine opened the door and snapped on the light, revealing the scene
in garish detail--the red flush of Simon's skin, the bead of sweat
down Petille's narrow back.

"Get out!" growled Simon, but Petille stopped entirely and hung her
head. In spite of Simon's protests, she rose slowly, revealing his
thick, wet, red prick.

<<I told you,>> she said quietly to him.

"What in the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" Jeanine demanded.
But she was astonished by the muscular torso Simon displayed. He was
as fit a soldier as ever there was, thick and firm across his belly, a
delicate sprinkling of hair across his chest. His wet prick was
shocking.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" Simon countered, covering
himself. Petille passed casually in front of Jeanine to get to her
clothes. Her thick pubic bush was moist with both their juices.

"I am your superior officer, sergeant major!"

<<Keep your voices down,>> Petille said firmly, pulling on her
panties. It snapped them both to attention. <<Or argue like husband
and wife--and in French,>> she continued, slipping her dress over her
head. But she had already taken the wind out of their sails. Jeanine
and Simon merely huffed in anger and glanced around the room, avoiding
each other's gaze, glaring at the furniture.

<<No one will think anything of it,>> Petille went on, picking up her
shoes and brushing past Jeanine. <<It happens all the time in
France.>>

"I cannot believe you would jeopardize our cover story like this,"
Jeanine grumbled as the girl left.

"It might have helped make people think that...make them think we
actually have sex now and again, for God's sake," Simon stammered.

"That's your excuse?! Damn it, Simon."

<<In French,>> Petille said again over her shoulder. She closed the
door firmly behind her.

<<You aren't really my wife, you know,>> Simon blundered. <<I would
think you wouldn't care.>>

<<Oh?!>> Jeanine huffed. <<You arrogant bastard! You think I'm
jealous!>>

Petille slipped out of the flat and down the stairs into the dark
night.



A few days later, in the Rue de la Rive, Simon and Jeanine had lunch
at a little café. It was the first day they had gone out together
since they had met Petille. Their waiter was a thin but handsome local
boy who looked Jeanine's way more than once.

When the waiter walked by, Jeanine reached out to stop him. <<Yes,
Madame Surat?>> He knew her name.

<<More wine, please,>> she said demurely. But her hand slid behind him
and up the back of his thigh. Broyhill pretended not to notice.

When the boy left, he turned to her, his voice a coarse whisper. <<Are
you stupid? Are you insane? Everyone can see you!>>

<<It happens all the time in France, remember?>> she shot back.

<<You crazed bitch.>>

<<Go to hell, Alan.>>



The next day, Broyhill and Jeanine drove the panel van out into the
country. In the designated spot, they found the explosives Petille had
arranged. Broyhill was in his element now. He tore the packages apart,
sizing up his trove, evaluating the timers and blasting caps.

"We've got what we need here."

"We'll do it in the midst of the bombing tonight," Jeanine decided.

Broyhill shook his head. "That's too soon. I need time to set all the
charges in a sequence."

"Hang the sequence, sergeant major. It's a bombing run on the
munitions dump. There'll so much blowing up no one will notice our
little show."

They argued the merits of being meticulous, but Broyhill couldn't sway
her mind. And she was mostly right about the bombing run. If they
waited an extra night, the explosions would be more suspicious.



That night, as the shifts changed at a little factory in the country,
the couple pulled their bombs from the back of the panel van. They
watch out of the corners of their eyes as German soldiers unloaded
workers from trucks that had come from the city and prepared to load
the weary workers who were finishing their shift. They were disguised
as workers themselves, in grimy coveralls and boots; Jeanine wore a
heavy hat to shade her face.

"They'll take cover out of the factory when the bombs start, won't
they?" Jeanine asked, setting a bundle into the wheelbarrow.

"I hope so," Broyhill replied. The couple casually walked around the
building and its sandbag perimeter, wheeling their deadly bundles. The
bombs were made up to look like bits of machinery and junk. Their
hearts pounded as they went.

"What if they stop us?" Broyhill asked quietly.

<<We're delivering salvage parts,>> Jeanine said.

They went a little further, nearly to the building. Piles of ruined
and rusting machinery offered ample spots to hide the time bombs. The
soldiers seemed to notice them. <<Go back to the van,>> Broyhill said.

<<What? We're nearly to the building.>> She pushed on.

Broyhill went a little farther to be out of sight of most of the
soldiers. He reached into a bundle to set the timer. "What time?" he
asked.

"Zero two fifteen."

"Are you sure? The raid won't last long."

"No promises. Set them later. The Germans might believe it if bombs
keep going off after the raid, but not if they blow before."

Broyhill set the first one and placed it among the rubble. They
started to move off. Just then, in the distance, they heard a German
shout. "Keep going," Jeanine said. "I'll see."

Broyhill moved on and set another and another, placing the time bombs
among the bits of old farm equipment, the weeds, and around the corner
among some discarded fieldstones. Suddenly the air was filled with the
panicked wail of an air raid siren. "Fuck!" the dark-haired man
exclaimed. Just then, around the building, came the old panel van.
Jeanine was driving through the field. "What time is it?!" he
demanded, pulling open the door.

"Zero one thirty! They're bloody early!" she shouted.

0130: The air raid was early. The buzz of British Lancaster bombers
filled the sky. By the time the bombs started falling, Simon and
Jeanine knew why: a heavy storm had moved in, and the bombers wanted
to beat it.

As the first bombs fell in the distance, Broyhill set the last of his
time bombs, now for just a few minutes ahead, and the couple tore off.
The sky lit up with fire and smoke from the bombing--not close enough
to endanger them, but not close enough to cover their sabotage either.

When they hit the road, Jeanine pulled off her cap, letting her dark
hair fall free, and shouted, "Take the wheel!" Just then, the first of
Broyhill's bombs lit up the sky with a deafening roar and carried
parts of the factory into the air.

Broyhill took the van's steering wheel and let Jeanine slide under
him. They switched places smoothly, and Jeanine slipped into the back.
She peeled off her coveralls and snatched at her dress. Broyhill drove
like hell's coachman, but he stole glances in the mirror to see the
beautiful woman's breasts swaying heavily in her white brassiere, her
silk panties clinging to her round posterior. "Keep your eyes on the
road!" she commanded.

The rain came down in a single sheet and began beating the van and
soaking the dirt road. Behind them, German soldiers were taking to the
road. Jeanine cursed, looking out the back windows of the van, still
half naked and clutching her dress. "Jesus Christ, they're onto us!"

"They saw us tear off like hell!" Broyhill unzipped his coveralls and
peeled them down to his waist as he drove. Underneath, he wore a
peasant shirt and trousers.

"The side road!" Jeanine shouted, coming forward again. Broyhill
punched the brakes and skidded the van nearly sideways to make the
turn onto the little side road. Jeanine fell sideways into his lap,
her bare flesh pressed against him, tits heaving against his shoulder.
He clutched her involuntarily; she was soft and warm. "Hands off," she
warned.

"Where does this road lead?"

"Who cares? It gets us off the main road and behind those trees!" She
went to her knees and squirmed into her dress.

They raced for the cover of the trees, swerving suddenly. "Shit! This
road is already turned to mud!"

"There's a farmhouse!" Jeanine squealed. "Put it in!" They pulled up
the drive and around the side of the dark little farmhouse. They
abandoned the van among some trees a little ways away. Jeanine
snatched up her hat before they rushed toward the nearest outbuilding
in the pouring rain.

A German military truck raced toward them, skidded to a halt in the
mud and rain.

In the cover of a lean-to, half-hidden in a pile of hay, Simon and
Jeanine watched as the truck off-loaded a few soldiers. The truck
moved on as the soldiers rushed to the cover of the barn to begin
their search. The saboteurs huddled together, soaked and chilled.

Two Germans passed by a window. One stopped, looking out toward the
lean-to outbuilding. He waved another over. Jeanine laid her hat
aside, and pushed back her long, dark hair. "They can see us," she
said. Simon sat back.

Jeanine climbed on top of him, straddling his thighs. "What are you
doing?" he asked, incredulous.

"What does it look like, idiot? The only people who would be out here
on a night like this would be lovers."

"Lovers?" he repeated blankly.

Jeanine smoothed his hair adoringly. "Shut your bloody mouth and kiss
me," she growled. Then she bent and kissed him hard--a closed-mouth
kiss without heat or passion.

"Christ, let's do it right," Simon growled back. And now he took her
head in his hands and pulled her to him, kissing her full and hard
with an open mouth, biting softly, tonguing urgently.

She pulled away. "Fuck!" she breathed.

"Is that next then?" he joked.

"Fuck you, Simon," Jeanine cursed. "They'll move off soon enough when
they're satisfied we're harmless. Kiss my neck." Simon kissed her
throat and nuzzled her warm, slender neck. Jeanine let her head roll
around as if overcome by the pleasure, but actually she watched the
Germans out of the corner of her eye.

They hadn't moved. In fact, they were watching quite intently. "Shit,"
she said. "They've got field glasses."

"Oh, Christ!" Simon grumbled. "I suppose they'll have a pint and watch
the show."

Jeanine bent her head to him again. "They're watching closely. It will
have to be good, you shit."

"Twat," he snapped back. They kissed again, hard and hotly, grinding
their pelvises together through their restrictive clothing.

"Pull off my blouse," she ordered. "Maybe if they catch a glimpse of
tit they'll push on."

"Fat fucking chance of that," Simon mumbled, tugging at Jeanine's
blouse, pulling it over her head. Off came the blouse, displaying a
pair of luscious tits wrapped in white lace. It was followed almost
immediately by her brassiere. Jeanine's large, soft, pointed breasts
hung before Simon, nipples sharp and eager.

"Jesus, you have beautiful tits," he breathed.

"Shut up and suck them, you bastard." They ground their pelvises
together some more while Simon licked and suckled at Jeanine's
nipples. The beautiful woman tossed back her head and moaned softly.

"What are they doing?" he murmured between licks.

<<Don't stop,>> she sighed. <<Suck my nipples.>>

"What are they doing now?" he repeated more gruffly.

She growled and tossed her head around, glancing at the Germans as she
did. She stared hard into Simon's eyes. "They're watching us get off,
you jackass. What do you think?"

"Shit!" he snapped. "And my dick is aching!"

"Then whip it out, stupid! They're expecting it!" She barked.

"You fucking little bitch," he growled, fumbling with his trouser
buttons. She was tugging his pants down before he knew it, underpants
and all.

Simon's prick was half-stiff and angry red in the half-light. Jeanine
massaged it briefly before assuming the mounted position again. "Ohh,"
she cooed and moaned, grinding her panty-clad pussy against it. "What
a marvelous prick, Simon, you son of a bitch."

"We'll have those knickers off next, you little whore."

"Fuck you," she said. "There's no need for that." Then, in French,
<<Oh, darling! I've waited so long! Make me yours tonight!>>

"Oh, yes--you know how badly you want it." He held her firmly against
him as he ground his stiffened cock into the wet crotch of her
panties.

"You fucking shit," she growled, and kissed him hard several times,
biting his lip.

"Ow! You little cunt! I'll teach you not to nip!" Grasping her hips,
Simon pushed her away suddenly, so that she hung in mid-air for a
moment, and snatched at her flimsy panties under her skirt. They
ripped apart as she fell back on top of him, and he jerked them away
entirely with one strong hand.

"You goddamn son of a bitch!" Jeanine growled, and she pulled his hair
and banged his head.

But it was too late. There was nothing hard under Simon's head to bang
it against, and he already had complete control of her hips. He pulled
her down firmly on top of him again, though she bucked wildly at
first. After a moment of sliding and struggling, Simon found the niche
to force her down fully upon his big cock, her warm, wet cunt sliding
down on it like a glove.

"Oh fuck!" they groaned together.

Jeanine tore open Simon's shirt and began fucking madly, her big tits
bouncing against her chest as she pounded down on Simon's cock again
and again. Simon thrust up against her, drilling his dick deeper and
deeper into the beautiful woman's cunt with every powerful push.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" Jeanine gasped. "Fuck me, you bastard!" she
hissed.

"Take it deep, you bitch, you little cunt. Take it inside you where
you always wanted it!"

<<Love me, darling! It's so good!>> She begged in French, collapsing
against him. "You lousy bastard! Jam your cock inside me!" Her red-hot
lips sought his, and their two mouths came together in a passionate
soul kiss, their tongues entwining, grappling desperately.

"Oh, fuck me, you shit! You slut! You little Belgian twat! Take it
like the cunt you are!"

"Shut up and fuck me, Simon, you cock! Make me come and shut your
fucking mouth about it!"

"Beg for it, you bitch. Beg for it like the whore you are."

Jeanine moaned plaintively and gasped, <<Yes, darling. Fuck me,
please! Oh Christ! Don't stop!>>

She bent and took his kiss again, sucking his tongue eagerly, pressing
her breasts against his bare chest. "I'm going to come, Simon, you
fuck. Make me come, you darling bastard."

"Christ, I'm coming. I'm coming hard inside you."

<<Fill me up, darling! I'm coming! Ah! Ah! Ah! Yes! Oh yes!>> And
then, desperately, "Fuck me, you bastard! Fill me up!" The waves of
orgiastic bliss poured over them as they came together, furious and
lusting, mad with desire and loathing.

At last, they collapsed together in the moonlight, sweating,
exhausted, completely drained of lust and anger, disheveled and nearly
naked, like animals.

"Oh fucking Christ," Simon breathed. Jeanine said nothing, but she
stole a glance at the Germans who had been watching. Slowly, they
began to pick up and move, nudging each other lasciviously and
gesturing lewdly. Their truck had returned.

"We fooled them," she said.

"The fuck we did," Simon murmured.

Jeanine chuckled. "I mean they're moving off. We're safe."

"Thank God for that."

Jeanine rolled off him, feeling his softening prick slip out of her
with a sticky tug. Brushing her hand through her lustrous hair, she
groused, "You ruined my silk knickers, you bastard."

Simon laughed. At last, Jeanine laughed with him.



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