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Last Liaison in Lyon
- Thread starter windar
- Start date
No, but there's a Bickford-Smith in Burke's Landed Gentry
Erin hates Nazis, but loves Barb.
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
Was your mind in the lesson distracted by thinking of Freddy, when they told you?Now he tells me ...
windar
Teller of Tales
26.
March 1943, Near the French-Spanish border
Klaus felt as though the gods were smiling on him. He had left the Rhône behind after Avignon and its famous bridge (even growing up in Germany, he had sung that song, “Sur le Pont, d’Avignon”) and passed through Nîmes, with its wonderfully preserved Roman temple, the Maison Carrée, and on past Montpellier. Beyond there, the road more or less followed the Mediterranean coast.
He had just skirted Perpignan, the last major town in France and would soon turn west to climb into the Pyrenees where he would pick up the hiking trail that would take him across the border to Spain.
The weather was fine, warm but not hot, and mostly sunny, despite an occasional passing shower. He could have hit much worse this time of year. It certainly beat shivering in Augsburg or in some bombed out house in Stuttgart. And once he got to Spain, he would meet up with Barta.
Klaus had made good time so far, sleeping in barns or abandoned buildings, eating in the small cafes that one found in every village, usually on the main square next to the Bureau de la Poste or buying what he could find in the boulangeries and boucheries in the larger towns.
The terrain here was flat, along the coastal plain, easy cycling, which had allowed him to preserve his strength for the climb into the Pyrenees and the hike that lay ahead. He had been passed by patrols from time to time, but the French tradition of cycling meant that he presumed that he looked quite ordinary and unworthy of attention, at least so far.
Did that mean that Barta was still at liberty in Lyon? Or making her way by some other means towards the border and towards the rendez-vous that he dreamed awaited them in Barcelona or Gibraltar or London?
Klaus hoped so with all his heart. He couldn’t bear to think of her in the hands of those Gestapo monsters. The little taste he had seen in Stuttgart was more than enough.
His mind imagined her stretched naked on a rack with Klaus Barbie, the mere mention of whose name sent chills down the spine of anyone in Lyon, above her, lashing her lovely breasts with a bullwhip or pressing a button to send an electric current through the brass electrodes clipped to the parts that had given him so much pleasure. To think that he shared a first name with such an evil man!
No, this Klaus, preferred to imagine that she had made contact with those Resistance members who had evaded Barbie and had gotten a coded message to London and was hiding in amongst the traboules awaiting rescue.
Still, he had to be prepared for the possibility that she had been captured. If she had, how long could she hold out? She had told him of her SOE training, the practice sessions in the cellars, the rapes, the electric shocks. But she was their agent and they couldn’t risk killing her or damaging her permanently. Barbie had no such limits.
“Forty-eight hours,” she had told him. That was more or less the most the SOE could expect of their agents to hold out against such fiendish tortures. There was simply no way to know. Klaus had to decide whether to take the well-trodden route that Barta had counselled him to use and hope that she hadn’t given it up, or to look for an alternate route.
He pulled off the road and extracted his detailed Michelin map of the region out of the pocket of his knapsack. There was a route a bit further west of Barta’s that would go through the Col du Puits to the Spanish town of Massanet. It was at a higher altitude and thus had a greater risk of snow and ice and bad weather since it was only March. But it was an option.
As he approached the turnoff for Céret, he stopped and thought for a moment. If they knew about him, they would be watching the main road into the town. He checked the map. There was a back road that led there, which he decided might be safer.
The road climbed, the Pyrenees stretching out to his left as Klaus pedaled hard up the hairpin turns. He was sweating, despite the fact that there was a cool breeze, and breathing hard. But the trip from Lyon had put him in good condition and he was able to maintain a decent pace.
Soon, Klaus saw the first houses of the town up ahead. He thought about Barta and tried to figure out what she would do in this situation. He decided riding into the town that was the starting point for the trail that led over the border might be risky.
He looked around and saw that there was a small hill a little way off the road. He jumped off the bike and pulled it into the forest, hiding it behind some trees so that it would be hard to see from the road, then climbed the short distance through the pine trees to the top of the hill.
From there, peering through the trees, Klaus could look down into the main square. What he saw did not reassure him. There were several trucks, a few marked with what looked from this distance to be swastikas. A good 30 or 40 men in uniforms, both French police and German security forces, were milling around.
Klaus’ heart sank. Such a turnout most likely meant that Barta had been captured, tortured and finally, unable to stand the agony any longer, had told Barbie where she had instructed Klaus to go. And the most likely scenario, once they had what they wanted, was that they had killed her.
Klaus sank to the ground. His Barta was dead. There would be no wonderful reunion, holding her naked body against his in bed, no marriage and life together in America. Tears rolled down his face.
‘What was the point of going on?’ he thought. He might as well go down into the town and tap the first Gestapo he saw on the shoulder and say, “I’m Klaus Schuman. I think you’ve been looking for me.” Of course, they would torture him and kill him as a traitor to der Fuhrer’s glorious Reich. But if that had been Barta’s fate, why shouldn’t it be his as well?
There was a quicker less painful way, though. He reached into his knapsack and dug around, felling for the hard metal. He pulled Olga’s Mauser out and looked at it. Stick it in his mouth, pull the trigger and done.
‘But,’ he thought ‘That would be to betray Barta. She had sacrificed herself for the mission, like a good agent should. And what was the mission? Him and the plan for the ME 262.’
Klaus realized that the only way he could be true to Barta was to continue on, to make it across the border and then to London, to tell the Allies everything he knew about the plane. That was what Barta wanted, that is what she had likely suffered and died for and so that is what he must do.
Klaus got to his feet. He would have to leave the bike and proceed on foot from here on. The roads were much too dangerous, as, here, they would definitely be looking for him. He looked through his knapsack. He had some cheese and sausage and half of a baguette. Not much, but it would have to do if he couldn’t find anything else.
If he read the map correctly, he could make it across to the first town in Spain in a day’s hiking. But it was already late and he couldn’t possibly get there before dark. He would find a place to sleep and leave first thing in the morning.
March 1943, Near the French-Spanish border
Klaus felt as though the gods were smiling on him. He had left the Rhône behind after Avignon and its famous bridge (even growing up in Germany, he had sung that song, “Sur le Pont, d’Avignon”) and passed through Nîmes, with its wonderfully preserved Roman temple, the Maison Carrée, and on past Montpellier. Beyond there, the road more or less followed the Mediterranean coast.
He had just skirted Perpignan, the last major town in France and would soon turn west to climb into the Pyrenees where he would pick up the hiking trail that would take him across the border to Spain.
The weather was fine, warm but not hot, and mostly sunny, despite an occasional passing shower. He could have hit much worse this time of year. It certainly beat shivering in Augsburg or in some bombed out house in Stuttgart. And once he got to Spain, he would meet up with Barta.
Klaus had made good time so far, sleeping in barns or abandoned buildings, eating in the small cafes that one found in every village, usually on the main square next to the Bureau de la Poste or buying what he could find in the boulangeries and boucheries in the larger towns.
The terrain here was flat, along the coastal plain, easy cycling, which had allowed him to preserve his strength for the climb into the Pyrenees and the hike that lay ahead. He had been passed by patrols from time to time, but the French tradition of cycling meant that he presumed that he looked quite ordinary and unworthy of attention, at least so far.
Did that mean that Barta was still at liberty in Lyon? Or making her way by some other means towards the border and towards the rendez-vous that he dreamed awaited them in Barcelona or Gibraltar or London?
Klaus hoped so with all his heart. He couldn’t bear to think of her in the hands of those Gestapo monsters. The little taste he had seen in Stuttgart was more than enough.
His mind imagined her stretched naked on a rack with Klaus Barbie, the mere mention of whose name sent chills down the spine of anyone in Lyon, above her, lashing her lovely breasts with a bullwhip or pressing a button to send an electric current through the brass electrodes clipped to the parts that had given him so much pleasure. To think that he shared a first name with such an evil man!
No, this Klaus, preferred to imagine that she had made contact with those Resistance members who had evaded Barbie and had gotten a coded message to London and was hiding in amongst the traboules awaiting rescue.
Still, he had to be prepared for the possibility that she had been captured. If she had, how long could she hold out? She had told him of her SOE training, the practice sessions in the cellars, the rapes, the electric shocks. But she was their agent and they couldn’t risk killing her or damaging her permanently. Barbie had no such limits.
“Forty-eight hours,” she had told him. That was more or less the most the SOE could expect of their agents to hold out against such fiendish tortures. There was simply no way to know. Klaus had to decide whether to take the well-trodden route that Barta had counselled him to use and hope that she hadn’t given it up, or to look for an alternate route.
He pulled off the road and extracted his detailed Michelin map of the region out of the pocket of his knapsack. There was a route a bit further west of Barta’s that would go through the Col du Puits to the Spanish town of Massanet. It was at a higher altitude and thus had a greater risk of snow and ice and bad weather since it was only March. But it was an option.
As he approached the turnoff for Céret, he stopped and thought for a moment. If they knew about him, they would be watching the main road into the town. He checked the map. There was a back road that led there, which he decided might be safer.
The road climbed, the Pyrenees stretching out to his left as Klaus pedaled hard up the hairpin turns. He was sweating, despite the fact that there was a cool breeze, and breathing hard. But the trip from Lyon had put him in good condition and he was able to maintain a decent pace.
Soon, Klaus saw the first houses of the town up ahead. He thought about Barta and tried to figure out what she would do in this situation. He decided riding into the town that was the starting point for the trail that led over the border might be risky.
He looked around and saw that there was a small hill a little way off the road. He jumped off the bike and pulled it into the forest, hiding it behind some trees so that it would be hard to see from the road, then climbed the short distance through the pine trees to the top of the hill.
From there, peering through the trees, Klaus could look down into the main square. What he saw did not reassure him. There were several trucks, a few marked with what looked from this distance to be swastikas. A good 30 or 40 men in uniforms, both French police and German security forces, were milling around.
Klaus’ heart sank. Such a turnout most likely meant that Barta had been captured, tortured and finally, unable to stand the agony any longer, had told Barbie where she had instructed Klaus to go. And the most likely scenario, once they had what they wanted, was that they had killed her.
Klaus sank to the ground. His Barta was dead. There would be no wonderful reunion, holding her naked body against his in bed, no marriage and life together in America. Tears rolled down his face.
‘What was the point of going on?’ he thought. He might as well go down into the town and tap the first Gestapo he saw on the shoulder and say, “I’m Klaus Schuman. I think you’ve been looking for me.” Of course, they would torture him and kill him as a traitor to der Fuhrer’s glorious Reich. But if that had been Barta’s fate, why shouldn’t it be his as well?
There was a quicker less painful way, though. He reached into his knapsack and dug around, felling for the hard metal. He pulled Olga’s Mauser out and looked at it. Stick it in his mouth, pull the trigger and done.
‘But,’ he thought ‘That would be to betray Barta. She had sacrificed herself for the mission, like a good agent should. And what was the mission? Him and the plan for the ME 262.’
Klaus realized that the only way he could be true to Barta was to continue on, to make it across the border and then to London, to tell the Allies everything he knew about the plane. That was what Barta wanted, that is what she had likely suffered and died for and so that is what he must do.
Klaus got to his feet. He would have to leave the bike and proceed on foot from here on. The roads were much too dangerous, as, here, they would definitely be looking for him. He looked through his knapsack. He had some cheese and sausage and half of a baguette. Not much, but it would have to do if he couldn’t find anything else.
If he read the map correctly, he could make it across to the first town in Spain in a day’s hiking. But it was already late and he couldn’t possibly get there before dark. He would find a place to sleep and leave first thing in the morning.
He of little faith ...
Klaus should disguise himself as a nun, travel to Lourdes, and try to cross the border there!
Wasn’t that done in a movie ... the nun disguise bit?
RacingRodent
Consul
Gotta love this guy .... he’s a straight shooter if there ever was one.
However a crook would have a better chance of getting across the border. So for that matter would a rascally rodent
However a crook would have a better chance of getting across the border. So for that matter would a rascally rodent
Undercover Squirrel 
connoisseurs
Senator
I miss the Nun-SquirrelView attachment 750581 View attachment 750582 View attachment 750583 View attachment 750584 Undercover Squirrel
Harsh Martinet
Consul
Is that a squirrel disguised as a nun OR a nun disguised as a squirrel?View attachment 750608 Saintly looking enough. The Gestapo might question the whiskers and ears, though
Harsh Martinet
Consul
Do we care?
I will NOT feed peanuts to a nun!
windar
Teller of Tales
Nails? On this site that sounds ominous. Oh, you mean those nails! Still, be careful, Wragg...[]
Now you have me biting my nails...
27.
March 1943
I awoke to the foul breath and crushing weight of Fritz, grunting and huffing as he vigorously worked his thick swollen member in and out inside me. I grimaced in pain as it rubbed against my swollen and sore clitoris, and began to thrash about and attempt to strike at him with my fists.
I’d apparently passed out after being shocked beyond endurance by Barbie, and now found myself lying flat on my back on a bare cell floor, being raped by one of Barbie’s two underling thugs. The other, Heinz, stood overhead with his pants down and shirt off.
“Ah, Fritz. See! Out little American whore has come around. Look at her squirm and fight!” he crowed excitedly. “She’s got spirit, yes? Hurry up and finish. I want my turn!”
Pinning my flailing arms to the floor with his massive paws, Fritz’s rhythm began to slow as he built up, with long evenly-timed thrusts, to the inevitable explosion. Stopping him was hopeless, so I let myself go limp and endured the relentless assault until he finally went rigid, holding himself over me on straightened arms, eyes glazed, nostrils flared, before collapsing on top of me, and rolling free.
Heinz was there immediately to take his place, kneeling between my raised and parted knees, poking his long bowed erection at my moist, cum-covered labia. Slipping off target once or twice, he soon found his mark and promptly buried himself inside me with a drawn-out grunt of pleasure. Resting on his elbows and forearms, his hands grasped my hair, holding my head in place while he went to work. I felt my bare back inching along the hard cold concrete as his long powerful thrusts drove me along.
I wanted it over fast, so I started to help, adjusting the angle of my hips, and wrapping my ankles over the calves of his tree-stump thick legs for leverage. We were moving together, our coupling intensifying. I spread my knees and moved my ankles up and locked them above his hips, raising my ass, opening myself wide to him. I felt his balls slapping against my tailbone and heard the squeaking and suctioning sounds of sweaty skin coming together and parting as his chest pressed into mine on the recoil of each long stroke. Moments later we orgasmed together, taut and tight, my finger nails digging into his back as he roared his pleasure.
Withdrawing with a happy grin on his broad face, he said to Fritz, “Alright, we’ve had our fun, back to business. Barbie told us to keep her awake. What do you propose?”
“We could fuck her again?”
“No, we’d best save that for later, don’t you think?”
“Yes, of course. It’s just that she’s such a damn good fuck ... and I envy the way you had her going there, Heinzie! I’d love to have another go at her!”
“Well, you warmed her up for me, Fritz. But, perhaps another time. For now I propose, we take her back to the chamber and have her ride the horse until Barbie and that stuffed shirt from Stuttgart are ready for her.”
I soon found myself back in the interrogation room, perched uncomfortably atop a wooden horse, my arms pinioned behind my back and tethered to the ceiling strappado-like, forcing me to lean well forward. The sharp metal edge of the horse dug painfully and remorsefully into my battered pussy, causing me to keep moving to relieve the pain and somehow find a more comfortable position, which was in fact impossible. My legs were bare, my expensive stockings having been ruined and taken from me along with garter belt and shoes. Weights attached to my ankles prevented any attempt to get off, and added to the downward pressure.
Heinz and Fritz had settled in to watch the show, seating themselves nearby on a pair of folding chairs, where they shared a bottle of schnapps and carried on an animated discussion of the exquisite pendulous beauty of my dangling breasts.
“I’ll bet she’d rather fuck us than ride,” chortled Fritz, wiping his chin with his sleeve as he passed the bottle back to Heinz.
“Perhaps. Who would have guessed an American bitch could do what she just did with me?” replied Heinz wistfully. “But there’s no time. Barbie may turn up any minute now.”
And so they watched and drank in silence as I entertained them with my hapless struggles. That is until Barbie showed up and chewed them out for their drunken and slovenly appearance, while Kriminalkommisar Schwarz watched with a decidedly unamused expression.
The man was on crutches. He had a head bandage under his peaked cap, and a patch over one eye. His skin color was a sickly pale. He obviously had not faired well in the Stuttgart bombing raid, but he’d survived. And it wasn’t difficult to see that his mood was as black as his uniform.
“Ah, Frau Moser, so good that we have this opportunity to meet again,” he growled as he hobbled towards me. “I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed the exquisite pleasure of your company.”
“What? Can’t find anyone willing to spank your fat Nazi ass?”
“Our prisoner apparently can find her tongue when she so chooses,” remarked Barbie evenly as he inserted himself between me and the suddenly crimson-faced Schwarz. “I think we should all get down to making today’s session a most productive one. Heinz and Fritz, do get Miss Moore off that horse, please.
“Jawohl, Herr Hauptsturmführer
Ankles released of restraining weights, I was lifted from the horse and placed on the floor, where I managed to stand unsteadily as they labored to free me of the strappado-like pinioning of my arms. Ruefully I observed the long smear of blood, mixed with a gloppy brew of Fritz’s and Heinz’s ejaculated semen and my own vaginal juices, that adorned its cutting edge.
“What now, Herr Hauptsturmführer?” inquired Heinz.
“Seat her on the chair.”
“Phallus up her cunt?”
“No, I’d say she needs a little rest there. Put it up her asshole.”
“Jawohl, Herr Hauptsturmführer!”
While Fritz moved the specially equipped interrogation chair into place over the central floor drain, and Barbie assumed his accustomed place with his cat on his lap, Heinz picked me up and held me over the chair. Kriminalkommisar Schwarz lingered nearby to watch. Then I was carefully lowered over the out-sized, bulbous head of the phallus until it pressed against my anus. Fritz came to assist, placing his hairy paws on my hips ... and with one terrible swift motion I was impaled on the monstrous shaft. I could feel warm blood spreading on the cold metal seat under my butt as my wrists and ankles were firmly shackled to the chair’s arms and legs.
The pain of impalement was so terrible, I nearly passed out. As my head slumped forward, Heinz grabbed a handful of my hair and snapped it upright to face Barbie.
“So, Miss Moore. Suppose we take up where we left off at the unfortunate close of yesterday’s session. Tell us where we can find Klaus Schumann!”
“Klaus who?”
“Miss Moore apparently thinks she is a comedian. Discipline her, Heinz!”
But before Heinz could react, Schwarz shouted, “Allow me!”
After which he hobbled over on his crutches, looked me straight in the eye, clenched a fist, wound up, swung and hit me in the face so hard he fell over.
I saw stars as my head recoiled from the force of the blow. My nose felt broken ... blood was gushing ... splattering everywhere... all over my chest, tummy and thighs. A sharp metallic taste invaded my mouth.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Schwarz getting himself up off the floor, looking very much embarrassed over his pratfall.
Heinz, who still had hold of my hair, snapped my head back into position.
“Tsk, tsk ... such a mess. Clean her up Fritz.” said Barbie, calmly stroking his cat.
Fritz left, returning to hose me down from head to foot with a jet of icy cold water that left me sputtering and shivering on the hard metal chair. And the phallus up my bottom was getting more and more painful.
“Again, Miss Moore. About Klaus Schumann ... his whereabouts and what SOE hopes to get out of him?”
“I don’t know who you mean ... never heard of him.”
“I tire of this little game. Heinz and Fritz! A shock treatment, please. Miss Moore could barely stand it yesterday. Let’s see how she does today!”
“Jawohl, Herr Hauptsturmführer!” they chorused.
I expected them to run off to fetch the cart with its wires and alligator clips, but they just stood there grinning. Only when Heinz produced a small box with a dial from behind his back, did I understand ... for a pair of wires ran from the box in his hand to the base of my chair ... and as he turned the dial the phallus stuck up my bottom began to vibrate and heat up. An intense, burning sensation began to spread rapidly through my insides, to my groin, thighs, chest and straight up to my head. My body began to tremble uncontrollably, then shake violently. The room spun wildly. I couldn’t stand it and began to scream, and then between screams ... managed to choke out the words, “stop ... please stop ... for god’s sake, stop ... I’ll talk ... please stop!”
And mercifully it stopped. I slumped against the back of the chair ... weak ... woozy ... seated in a sticky pool of blood, cum, water and pee ... covered with sweat ... sodden hair matted on my face ... my smashed nose bleeding again.
“Talk!” demanded Barbie.
“Now!” shouted Schwarz.
“Traveling to Spain by train,” I mumbled, knowing it was a lie.
“Now we’re getting somewhere” gloated Schwarz, rubbing his hands together. “By what route?”
“Via Perpignan.”
“By train to Perpignan! Put out an alert! We leave at once! Clean her up and throw her in a cell until we return. If our lovely Miss Moore is lying, she’ll pay for it in our next session. Oh, and one more thing ... contact the office in Paris and have them send down a cameraman. I want our next interrogation session and her execution filmed and sent as a special present to Sir Geoffrey in London.”
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
"We shall consult first Hauptsturmführer Loxuru, our specialist in the French railroad network, whether this route is possible without having to travel by Paris! "
windar
Teller of Tales
Please do, since Klaus is not on any of those trains anyway."We shall consult first Hauptsturmführer Loxuru, our specialist in the French railroad network, whether this route is possible without having to travel by Paris! "
Good work Agent Moore... Of course Eichmann's defense during his trial in Israel was that he only made train schedules so wasn't responsible for anything that happened...Interestingly, Spain and Portugal use Iberian gauge which is wider than the international standard, so, in the past, one had to exit the French trains at the border and board a Spanish one. This was said to be to prevent the French from using the rails to invade, though this may be a myth. In the 1990s they converted the main high-speed lines to standard gauge and you can roll straight through. If only Klaus had known...
