Operation Paramour Ch. 01

Operation Paramour: Component 01

Approximately 45 kilometres southwest of Orleans, France

August 8, 1942

0338 hours (local)

The Lancaster bomber flew at its maximum speed in total darkness, the pilot keeping his bird as low to the terrain as he dared. There were no stars out tonight, all of them were hidden behind an overcast sky. When the co-pilot looked upwards, he could make out the faint lighting in the clouds where a full moon was said to be behind. Anti-aircraft flak and tracer rounds, guided by radar and searchlights, was being sent upwards all around the horizon in a search to hit enemy aircraft, but nowhere near the bomber’s position.

The Germans, the co-pilot decided, were making sure that no bombers coming from Britain would make it to their targets tonight. The fireworks going on around them really made it look like Bomber Command was trying to give the Krauts a hard time; some retribution, obviously, for the damage done by the Luftwaffe during the Battle of Britain. He looked back at the instruments for a moment, then towards the pilot. He keyed the intercom system and spoke.

“It’s a perfect night for the boys, eh?”

The pilot looked over at the other man in the cockpit, nodded solemnly, then turned his attention back to the outside world in front of them. “Aye. As long as we can get there.” After a slight pause, the pilot asked: “Navigator, how much longer to this bloody place?”

Static came over the earphones for a moment before a calm voice responded from the nose of the bomber. “Oh, I’d say another two minutes on this heading, then we can swing towards the dropzone.”

The pilot grunted, then told the jumpmaster to inform their two passengers of their progress.

The two men sat uneasily on very uncomfortable metal seats. The area around them—-the hallowed-out, but still cramped, bomb bay-—was filled with the loud droning of the four engines, and was lit in a dim red colour that was barely a cut above useless. The two were dressed in suit and tie, with each holding a suitcase on their laps. Parachutes were strapped around their shoulders, helmets atop their heads as they each left one another alone to think about the task ahead.

Their operational briefing back in London had told them one thing: to cause as much disruption to enemy forces as they could. The “how” and “when” would be left to their discretion unless otherwise stated by communications from headquarters. They were to gather intelligence, conduct limited sabotage, distribute propaganda and spread rumours, lower enemy morale and raise that of the friendly population… basically to give the Germans a hard time during their stay. It was quite a mission for two men, but there was little doubt that they could accomplish their tasks.

The oldest of the two—-the Brit-—was returning to France for this, having escaped through Dunkirk, and already having a mission under his belt from the previous year. The other was a new agent coming from the United States, whose father had run a successful import/export company in France before the war. The new agent, codename Jack, was twenty-three and would be the wireless operator; and the other, codename Percival, would be the organiser at age twenty-seven.

Jack’s job was to simply keep communications going with HQ, while Percival did the grunt work. Both were extremely hazardous jobs, and being caught meant interrogation by the Gestapo, and a bullet to the back of the head or spending the duration in a concentration camp… none of the possibilities carried much appeal. Both of the men were highly skilled in what they were to do; fluent in French, German, Italian, and Spanish; and during the brief time they had known each other, had grown confident in the other’s abilities in the art of espionage.

They had been flying for the passed two hours, drawing closer to their destination. Both were struggling with motion sickness and heavy bricks in their stomachs when the jumpmaster straightened up and put a hand to his earphone. The jumpmaster, after listening for a few moments, spoke loudly enough to be heard.

“Not long now, chaps. You’re lucky that you don’t have to ride this contraption for the return flight.” The man’s friendly words did little to reassure the two operatives.

Time passed by even slower now that they knew they were closer to jumping. Each touched the French-made revolver in their waistbands and the L-tablet sewn into the cuff of their shirtsleeve, just to simply make sure both items hadn’t disappeared. Then they began reviewing their respective cover stories for one last time before stepping onto French soil.

Before they knew it, the light in the bomb bay suddenly brightened to a more useful lighting, but still not enough to ruin the two’s darkness-adapted vision. The jumpmaster helped Percival to hole in the bottom of the fuselage, Jack taking position close behind; both were hooked up to the static-line, and given a thumb’s-up from the jumpmaster.

“One minute, chaps,” the jumpmaster yelled, relaying the message from the cockpit.

The navigator in the nose peered over his map, using a dimmed flashlight to try and make out what he was looking for. The co-pilot was searching for a landmark that they could use to further pinpoint the location of the dropzone, his fingers ready to flip a switch on the instrument panel. The pilot was concentrating on keeping his bird above ground at an altitude of five hundred feet. All of the gunners aboard were peering into the night sky for any signs of German night-fighters trying to intercept them at their low altitude.

Percival sat with his legs dangling outside the aircraft, looking intently at the red light, waiting for it to change. The gusting wind chilled his ankles and calves, but he hardly noticed, only worrying for a mere second that the wind might pull one of his shoes away.

Suddenly, the red light turned green.

“Good luck, lads!” the jumpmaster yelled before giving Percival a slap on the back of his shoulder.

Percival launched himself out of the aircraft, and slipped into the air as the bomber flew on. Legs together, chin against the chest. After a moment, he felt the ripcord pull the parachute out. His hands immediately went to the control handles of the chute, his suitcase falling from his chest, only to hang twenty feet below at the end of a rope. He looked up to see that his parachute had in fact inflated and let out a sigh of relief.

He swung in the wind with the drone of the bomber’s engines receding. His eyes took in the scene around him: it was almost completely black out, with the fireworks still going on atleast thirty miles away. A heartbeat later, he felt the tension on the rope holding his suitcase suddenly give way.

He braced himself.

Jack and Percival had gathered their chutes, and had just finished burying them in a shallow grave, camouflaging it with branches and leaves. They were in a field about half the size of a football field, with trees surrounding it. The two were breathing heavily, but were starting to control their adrenaline.

Both men were looking out for any signs of detection, but their drop had been blind, meaning that there shouldn’t be a reception committee. The sounds around them indicated a conversation between atleast three different dogs. Everything else seemed normal though, but both remained cautious. After all, they had just landed in enemy-occupied territory.

Percival put his fedora on as he whispered in French.

“You know where you’re going, and I know where I’m going. I’ll contact you in a week, and’ll give you another week to reply to my message, and if you don’t, I’ll write you off. If you don’t get my message, you write me off.”

“Relax,” Jack replied.

Percival smiled. “I’ll relax after the war. Good luck to you.”

“Good luck.”

The two men shook hands and silently began making their opposite ways.

***

Wilhelm Jung warmed his brandy gently with each swirl of the snifter as he made his way out of his lavish study and through the halls. He took a draw from his cigarette, and left it between his lips as he listened to the soft whistling coming through the hallways of his chateau. His wife, he knew, was asleep, having retired early after taking a tranquilliser. Most of the servants would also be sleeping by this hour, and he knew exactly who would be whistling.

He fingered his ascot and slowly made his way to the kitchen. Once at the doorway of the kitchen, he saw her.

She stood at the kitchen counter still wearing her maid’s uniform. In fact, she wore a French maid’s uniform because she was, well, a French maid. Jung started at the bottom and worked his way up. Her legs, covered in black stockings, seemed to go on forever until his eyes reached the hem of the skirt going halfway down her thighs. The uniform accentuated the curves of her body, clinging tightly, and his eyes moved slowly up her covered back to the nape of her swan-like neck. Her dark hair, he knew, would go all the way down to the small of her back, but as usual, tonight it was up in a tight bun with only a few loose strands hanging down the side of her beautiful, delicate-looking face.

Jung began to feel his penis swelling as he leaned against the side of the doorway, appraising her body. He took another drag from his cigarette, then brought it from his lips. As the smoke exited his mouth, so did the words.

“You shouldn’t be up this late, Rachel.”

The sound of his voice started the maid, and her shoulders jumped. She quickly turned around and let out a sigh of relief as Jung quickly made his way towards her.

“I hope I didn’t startle you too much, fraulein.”

“I’m sorry, Herr Jung, but you snuck up on me once again,” Rachel said, running her hands down her skirt to smooth it out. Her hands ran up to her hair while she tried to regain some of her composure.

“I’m the one who should be sorry. I should have been more cautious of your emotions.” Jung grinned, taking in the appearance of the woman that he now stood within grabbing distance of.

She returned his grin with a breath-taking smile. “Well, I still feel foolish, Herr Jung. You’re always sneaking up on me, I should be more cautious.”

Jung took a sip from his brandy as he watched her deep brown eyes. She fluttered her long eyelashes and looked at him with exaggerated innocence.

“You don’t require anything at this hour, do you, Herr Jung?” she asked softly, her eyes moving from his and falling down his body.

Jung let out a half-groan-half-moan as his answer. He grinned. “I would only bother you if I did, fraulein.”

Rachel looked at the man’s rugged face, into his piercing blue eyes, then quickly diverted her gaze as she sank to her knees before him. He remained still, only moving to take another puff of his tobacco.

Slowly, the maid untied the belt of his smoking jacket, revealing a bulge in his trousers. She knew what to expect, having done this many times before, but still she feigned surprise. She looked up at him with an astonished look, her eyes wide as they sought his.

“Oh, Herr Jung, you need not to have brung your Luger,” she told him. Her hands moved to his hips as she leaned forward to kiss the bulge.

“Mmm… fraulein, you’ll have to ensure that it isn’t loaded.”

She gently kissed her way along the man’s erection, hidden underneath the cotton of his pants. He was quite aroused, she could feel how hard he was and was enjoying kissing the fabric for the moment. When she heard him take a drink from his brandy, though, she knew it was time to get down to business.

Her hands moved gently from his hips to the front of his crotch; her fingers going to unsnap the six fastens until his trousers were open, revealing his golden pubic hair and base of his shaft. Gently, her small hand reached inside until her fingers wrapped themselves around his penis, pulling it up and out for display.

Now, for a man of Wilhelm Jung’s size and stature, you could expect him to have quite the tool down there, but, almost unbelievably, Jung had a penis that was, when it was at its best, four inches long and had similar thickness to that of a Coke bottle’s neck. Tonight, it was at its best and although Rachel was always disappointed with what she held, she knew better than to act unhappy.

She moaned loudly as she looked up at him with puppy dog eyes, her fingers softly massaging the throbbing shaft of the man, her other hand slipping into his pants to retrieve his swollen testicles.

“Oh, Willi, am I responsible for this?”

“Yes, fraulein,” Jung responded.

Her hand pulled out his testicles, which were amazingly swollen and had pulled into his body. Carefully, the tips of her fingers encircled one of his balls and gently pried at it until his sac had loosened, eliciting a series of loud groans from the man. As she did the same to the other testicle, pre-cum formed at the head of his penis, and she squeezed the shaft.

“You’re so tight, Willi, is anything the matter?” she questioned just before she ran her tongue across his head; one hand squeezing his shaft and the other mildly toying with his balls.

“Ooooh, fraulein.” One of his hands fell down to rest upon the top of her head. She took this cue to open her mouth and let just the tip of his head slide into her mouth, where she nibbled gently upon the mushy tissue. His cock flexed in her soft hand as he groaned, the sounds echoing through the kitchen. She engulfed the head of his cock and slurped forcefully, then released it to encircle it with her tongue once again.

“Mmmm… this is very good, Mein Herr. Do you like it when I suck your big hard cock for you?” Rachel was careful to emphasize the word “big”.

He groaned as she slurped at the bottom half of his head. His eyes rolled back for a moment, patting her head gently. “Ooh, if they only made women like you in the Fatherland, fraulein.”

“But then you would have no need to conquer us elsewhere,” she purred up at him, her hand moving from his shaft and back to his hips. Slowly her mouth sank onto his shaft, her tongue adding pressure underneath as her top teeth gently raked across the skin, until his coarse pubic hair began tickling her nose. He tensed up while she engulfed his cock, both of her hands now fondling his balls, pulling them apart and massaging them individually.

Jung gave his cock a hard flex as it travelled to the back of her mouth, the head lodging itself just into the opening of her throat—-she really had to stuff her face into his crotch to get him this deep. She moaned contently around his shaft while she filled her mouth with saliva. With a loud slurp, she sucked the saliva down her throat, forcing Jung to set down his snifter and lean against the counter behind him. He looked down to watch her as she began to bob her head up and down on his shaft slowly, her drool running down to his balls.

The maid collected the saliva with her hands, using it to wet his sac as she played with his testicles. She squeezed his balls on end with just enough pressure to get an extremely loud moan from him as she slid her mouth down his shaft and gently bit the base of his cock with her teeth.

As her mouth sucked its way back up his shaft, one of her hands came from his balls to grip his throbbing cock while her lips settled just behind the head. The tip of her tongue began to prod at his cock’s opening, persistently trying to force its way in.

Her actions made Jung’s pace quicken, and his breathing became heavier as he held her head to his groin. He moaned loudly as he felt her tongue swirl around the head of his cock, gently flicking it up and down, and the man’s sound turned in to: “Yes, fraulein, that is how you serve the Fatherland.”

She moaned loudly in reply as she slurped hungrily at the head before her mouth descended further.

***

Percival had seen the vehicle’s headlights, and had managed to slip into the bushes alongside the road before the vehicle’s occupants could have seen him. Jack, on the other hand, hadn’t had time as he neared a small village, still about a mile away from the nearest house.

The driver had turned off the headlights before someone could see them from within the town, and the only warning that Jack had had was that of the gravel crackling under the car’s tires. First, he looked over his shoulder as casual as he could, then he slowed to a stop and reached into his pocket for his pack of cigarettes, lighting one as the car approached.

The car slowed as it came closer to Jack, and the three men in the car looked at the pedestrian. Jack in turn looked at them; all were dressed in dark clothes. The armbands each of them wore told him who they wore, and one word shot through his mind: Orpo.

Jack shook out his match and drew in some smoke as the vehicle stopped beside him; he nodded with a tired smile, then continued walking towards the town. The Orpo car remained beside him, travelling at his pace. After a few feet, Jack stopped and looked at the cop in the passenger seat.

“May I help—?”

“You’re out late, aren’t you, messier,” the one in the passenger seat interrupted.

“Yes… what are you up to?” the cop in the back asked suspiciously.

Jack looked at both of them, and waited a moment before responding. “I’ve been travelling all day, had a nap earlier and decided to continue my journey. I had been hoping there was an inn where I could find a room for the rest of the night.”

The Orpo cop in the back asked: “Been this way before, have you?”

“No, not in this area.”

“Where are you coming from?”

“Originally, I’m coming from Marseilles; and I’m headed for Orleans.”

He heard the Orpo in the driver’s seat mumble: “Quite the trip.”

The two cops that Jack could see smiled at him, as if they knew something he didn’t. Finally, after a drawn-out pause, the one in the passenger seat spoke. “You are then aware of the curfew…. What’s in the suitcase?”

***

Jung pulled the maid from her knees to her feet, then spun her around until she was up against the counter. He forcefully bent her forward, eliciting a surprised shriek from her. He then hiked up the short skirt of her uniform. Her naked flesh incited him and his cock flexed involuntarily as he gave one of her buttocks a sharp slap.

“Just like a good whore, fraulein… no panties,” he hissed as he leaned over her, aiming his erection at the folds of her pussy.

Rachel moaned loudly as she felt the head rub up against her moist opening—-she always got aroused when sucking on a cock—-but now, like other times before, Wilhelm Jung was about to see one of the biggest theatrical shows of his life.

With a grunt, Jung slammed his cock inside of her until his pelvis bumped against her rear; his balls, already tight, pushed against her clitoris as his hands gripped her sides. The woman clamped her eyes shut and bit her lower lip to stifle a loud moan that wasn’t there. Eventually though, as the regional Gestapo commander fucked her roughly, she knew that she would have to cry out.

When she did, the loud wail echoed along the stone hallways of the large house, and the maid pushed her ass back towards the German.

“Fuck me, Willi, fuck me!” she screamed, her head turning to look over her shoulder at him.

Jung gave her ass a very hard smack, turning the skin a pink hue; he then brought this hand around her shoulder, grabbing her by the chin to pull her head around so that she was looking forward, away from him. His hand now clamped around her mouth as she continued to scream while he began to fuck her in earnest, their skin slapping together and echoing.

“Fuck yes… take it, you stupid bitch,” he told her through gritted teeth.

The woman squeezed at his cock with the muscles of her cunt, trying to milk the cum from his balls as he rapidly thrust his pole into her. He was sweating now, grunting loudly as he fucked his housemaid in his kitchen. His cock was throbbing hard, almost painful pulses, amplifying the sensations that were spurred on by the tightening vice of her pussy.