Behind Enemy Lines

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

(MF, FM, nc, exh)

By: Punchinello for Pulp Erotica

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.

altho 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. <>

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. <>

<> 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 thru 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 thru 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.

<> 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. <>

<<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 thru 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 thru 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, tho 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 thru her lustrous hair, she groused, "You ruined my silk knickers, you bastard."

Simon laughed. At last, Jeanine laughed with him.