Sunday, August 01, 2004

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Saturday, July 31, 2004

Free Asian Porn Links Sex story

The House on the Island, Book 1

by ParaPsite and Wrestlr

//Begin Standard Headers//

Author: ParaPsyte, Wrestlr

Title: The House on the Island, Book 1

Summary: There's someone new in town, and Andrew finds himself on the
menu.

Keywords: MC, MM, vampire //End Standard Headers//

Disclaimer: The naked hypnotist strides confidently into your room. His
lips curl in what might be a smile as he dangles his shiny crystal pendulum
before your eyes and announces, "Listen and obey. If you are not of legal
age, or if you offended by sexual situations, you will leave this place
immediately. From here on, no matter how autobiographical it may seem,
everything will seem like fiction to you, a pleasant dream where scientific
possibilities and laws may change according to my suggestion. Now, if you
are willing, sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride."
- 2003 by ParaPsyte and Wrestlr. Permission granted to
archive if and only if no fee (including any form of "Adult Verification")
is charged to read the file. If anyone pays a cent to anyone to read your
site, you can't use this without the express permission of (and payment to)

the author. This paragraph must be included as part of any archive.

Comments to wrestlriname

Wrestlr's fiction is archived at the following URLs:

o members.tripod/~BrockJ (MC and general M/M stories, plus
my home page)

o /~wrestlr (MC and general M/M stories, mirror
site)

o /~mcstories/Authors/Wrestlr.html (MC stories)



The House on the Island, Book 1

by ParaPsyte and Wrestlr

1.

Just past dark, Andrew jogged the isolated roads at the back of the
campus, back where the lake's shoreline marked the boundary where the
college ended and the rest of the world began. Though the lacrosse team
practiced during the day, he did his jogging at night, after the day cooled
down, in the peaceful darkness on the back roads away from nearly everyone
else.

He was pushing himself through the last mile. The remains of the heat
of the day, the long run, made his tee-shirt stick to his muscles like
another skin. He couldn't wait to get back to his apartment, down a bottle
of water, and drench himself under the shower. Right then, though, as he
ran a stretch of road that left the woods to curve along the edge of the
lake, he had just under a mile to go first.

Out near the middle of the placid water, an island rose. Andrew saw
pinpoint lights in the house there, and he remembered an item in the
newspaper about the old mansion there finally being
sold--multi-million-dollar price tag--after years on the market. Probably
some rich asshole, Andrew thought absently, as if there weren't enough of
them around here already. But right then, Andrew was more concerned with
finishing his run, running his tired body through the shower, and maybe
jacking off before going to sleep.

Just thinking about jerking off made his cock respond, hardening a
little as his stride made the fabric of his shorts rub across it. With his
roommate gone for a week and his brother not due to arrive until the day
after tomorrow for a visit, Andrew would have the place to himself. That
kind of privacy would give him time to jack off two or three times before
his brother arrived.

Yeah, he thought, I need to get off. He chuckled to himself and
thought, Down, boy--you'll get some attention real soon, to his half-erect
cock.

His cock apparently had its own schedule, and it kept getting harder as
he ran. It was a nice feeling, he decided. He like running, and he liked
being hard. The rough feel of the fabric--shorts and the cotton briefs
under them--against his rod had him really looking forward to stripping
down back at his place and jacking off. He'd do it in the shower first, he
decided, then maybe again in bed while watching a porn movie.

His cock was demanding tonight. Hard as a spike. Tingling already,
making him gasp. He wondered if he could head into the bushes between the
side of the road and the edge of the lake to pump out a quick load. He
would have, too, except for one thing: the nagging feeling that he was
being watched.

He looked back over his shoulder. No one. Looked right, looked left.
Nothing but trees, bushes, the lake, and the faraway lights of the house on
the island, too far away for anyone there to see him. Andrew peered ahead
into the darkness. Nothing but curving road, empty except for him.

But that nagging feeling was there. He was being watched. A feeling
like hunger in his stomach--he knew he shouldn't feel hungry, but his
stomach had a light fluttery feeling nonetheless, almost as if he was
feeling someone else's hunger growing there, sharp as a warning.

And his sizeable cock. Harder now than ever. Demanding. Straining at
the front of his shorts as it stretched urgently up along his hip. Every
rapid stride sending a tingle through it.

Fuck it, he decided. Had to take care of his hard cock before it drove
him crazy. He'd just go off in the bushes beside the road where no one
could see what he was doing, then pump off a fast load. If someone really
was watching, he'd just pretend he was taking a piss or something.

And just as he slowed his stride to a walk and turned toward the
roadside underbrush, he looked back over his shoulder one last time.

He saw a figure standing in the middle of the road, maybe fifty feet
back. Silhouetted by the rising moon. A man, by the shape, but age and
identity indeterminate. Andrew couldn't see his shadowed face.

But his dick throbbed in his shorts, and his stomach tightened as if
tickled from inside. And then the stranger looked at Andrew, looked him
right in the eye across the distance between them. The stranger opened his
eyes like slowly opening the blinds that had been blocking the sun from a
darkened room, letting the golden-orange glow shine forth.

2.

"Yah!"

Andrew sat up in bed, suddenly awake.

Just the sun, slicing through the gaps in his curtains and slapping
against his face.

He swung his legs over the edge of his bed. His bedroom. His running
clothes strewn across the floor. No woods, no stranger. No harm done.
Situation normal--just a dream.

Just a dream.

Whew. He ran a hand through his hair and snaked his other hand down to
scratch his balls. His balls felt drained and tired, that familiar
fucked-out feeling. Recent, too, and still strong. He must have cum, but
there was no jizm on him anywhere. None on the bed.

Just a dream.

A shower, two classes, a meal, another class, lacrosse practice--these
passed for Andrew as if in a daze. He couldn't stop thinking about the
dream. Something about it, something he couldn't quite remember, badgered
him. Even when the Coach chewed him out on the field for not paying
attention and missing some easy shots, he couldn't stop thinking about it.

Plus, he couldn't remember anything about the end of his run. Not the
part where he obviously came home, or the part where he took a shower, or
jacked off. Just running, then waking up that morning from that dream that
he also couldn't fully remember.

orange

breeze against skin

dark

a mouth

orange

hands here

there

touching

Back at his apartment, Andrew tried to struggle through some homework,
but he couldn't stay focused. This pleasantly lethargic horniness kept
distracting him, feeling good, growing stronger. He found himself getting
him hard but felt too lazy to actually jack off. He puttered around the
place, in part getting ready for his brother's visit the next day, but also
just sitting around and enjoying the relaxed feeling that filled his body.

He managed to change into his running clothes around the time the sun
disappeared below the horizon, and after doing his stretches, he hit the
road for his jog. With the light fading quickly from the sky, he hit the
road.

Andrew found himself running at a slower, more relaxed pace than usual.
Mostly he just couldn't work up the energy to hit his usual pace. His body
felt pleasantly limber and relaxed, horny, but mostly he just wanted to
enjoy himself.

hunger

orange

licking

orange

hungry

the feeling

Near the end of his run, he came to a familiar stretch of the back
roads. Isolated. Only the lake and its island to one side, the somber
forest to the other. It was fully dark by then--had been for some
time--but Andrew recognized the place anyway, recognized it as the setting
for his dream the night before.

He slowed to a stop. Yes, this was definitely the place he remembered.
Standing there, facing the water, hands on his hips and catching his
breath, he could see a couple of tiny dots of light out on the island,
where the house must be. Neither the stoic island nor the wind-whispering
trees around him gave up any secrets, but he found himself feeling horny
again, dick hardening so sweetly in his running shorts. Feeling so relaxed
and horny, needing to get off. Flickering feeling in his stomach again
too, like hunger but lighter, more quivering. And again, the feeling like
being watched, though looking around he could see no one. Just like his
dream.

Yeah, he decided, I need to get off pretty badly. He reached down and
groped his sensitive cock gently through his shorts. He had a long one,
and he liked feeling its length. He was about to slip his hand down inside
to stroke himself when he felt the sure presence behind him. Familiar.
Comforting.

Andrew didn't move when he felt the strong, cool hands on his hips,
sliding his shorts down. No underwear tonight, and his cock sprang up,
happy and free.

A hand on his shoulder, and Andrew found himself turning around to face
the stranger, falling happily again into the warm orange glow of the man's
gaze.

3.

drifting

dark

sweet

orange

tongue teasing

hunger

eager

orange

floating

orange

everywhere

orange

Andrew opened his eyes. In his bed, in his room. It seemed cloudy, but
this time he was sure it happened. He'd been out running, gotten horny,
and he'd let some guy blow him. No big deal--he was just a horny young guy
getting off. Yeah, that had to be it.

The time was nearly noon. Andrew had slept much later than he had
planned. He rolled out of bed, ignoring his semi-hard rod, and
sleepy-stumbled into the shower. His brother would be arriving soon. Sure
enough, seconds after Andrew emerged from the shower, his phone rang: Barry
was calling to say he was downstairs.

Where Andrew at twenty-one years old was nearly six feet tall, with dark
hair nearly jet-black, Barry, two years younger, stood an inch shorter and
had lighter, slightly longer hair, bleached nearly blond by the sun.
Andrew played on the lacrosse team, and Barry at his university in the next
state was a diver on the swim team. Andrew was an extrovert, but Barry was
even more so.

Barry liked to party, and his enthusiasm was infectious. In spite of
himself, Andrew got caught up in Hurricane Barry, as they swept out of
Andrew's place and out to the quad to flirt with the women students, then
off to the first of several bars to get drunk and try to find chicks to get
laid.

Barry got really drunk. Andrew got buzzed but was sober enough to
realize when they'd had enough. When Barry staggered into some guy in a
bar, spilling the guy's drink and nearly causing a fight over it, Andrew
was the one who made sure they got out of the bar in one piece and back to
his place. By that point, Barry was nearly ready to pass out, so Andrew
pulled the living room couch out into a bed and poured Barry into it to
sleep off the alcohol.

"Night, bro," Barry mumbled as he struggled to pull off his shirt. "You
know I love ya, man. You ... you th' best bro ever, bro. I fucking mean
that."

"Yeah, thanks, Barry," Andrew said, spreading the blanket over him as
Barry lay back. "Now get some sleep. There's aspirin on the bathroom
counter if you need them tomorrow."

"Thanks, bro ..." Barry mumbled, already half-asleep.

Andrew went into his bedroom, undressed, and crawled under the covers,
falling asleep almost immediately.

Only to be awakened by a soft scratching noise.

... scritch, scritch, scritch ...

Persistent. He tried to roll over and ignore it, but it kept invading
his head.

... scritch ... scritch ...

Barry's voice, knotted with sleep: "Dude, you awake? Something's
outside, scratching at your window."

... scritch, scritch ...

Andrew opened his eyes, thinking, But we're on the third floor. He
looked up. In the darkness, Barry stood in the bedroom doorway. Wearing
nothing but his jeans. Andrew's sleepy thoughts registered that Barry's
body was losing the lankiness of adolescence, starting to fill out with
muscle.

... scritch, scritch ...

Barry made his way over to the curtains. No sunlight spilled through
the tiny crack between them--still dark outside. Andrew sat up groggily,
aware of his brick-hard erection and that tickly feeling in his stomach.
Barry pulled aside one edge of the curtain. Andrew couldn't see what Barry
was looking at, but he saw the faint color that a light cast on Barry's
face. Barry breathed, "Whoa ...," in quiet amazement, standing still for a
second as if paralyzed. Then his hand found and mechanically pulled the
cord, and the curtains parted.

And Andrew followed Barry's gaze down into the far bottom corner of the
window, where two small disks glowed, a gentle, deep orange that pulled
Andrew in too.

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Thursday, July 29, 2004

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Monday, July 26, 2004

Free Asian Porn Links Sex story

OSTAFRIKA


by KATZMAREK


--------------------------------------------------------------
Author's note.


This is a work of fiction. It cannot be used for gain without the
Author's express permission in writing.


----------------------------------------------------------------
Historical Note.


Germany's East African possessions were internationally recognised
in 1888. They came about because of Kaiser Wilhelm's desire for an
empire to rival that of the British and French. Tanganyika was the
only reasonable slice of real estate of any economic value gained
for Germany. Togoland was too inhospitable; SW Africa (Namibia) was
two-thirds desert.


Using the excuse of the suppression of slavery, German troops
invaded in 1895, while the British laid siege to Zanzibar, the
slavers' headquarters. Neither felt compelled to leave after their
conquests.


Britain had a dream of a 'Cape to Cairo' railway. It took years of
hard bargaining to consolidate the Kaiser's new empire.


Depending on what you read, Germany was either enlightened
imperialists, spreading education and hospitals throughout East
Africa or oppressors and exploiters reaping the vast resources of
coffee and sisal for the benefit of German industry.


At best, I don't believe they were any better or worse than the
British and a hell of a lot preferable than the Belgians in the Congo.


Gouveneur von Schnee and General Paul von Lettow-Vorbeck maintained
the loyalty of the colony up until the armistice on November 1918.
When von Lettow died in 1964 aged 94, Tanzanians provided the
pallbearers at his funeral, some of whom served with him. I guess
that illustrates the high regard he was still being held in East
Africa after nearly 50 years.


Northern Rhodesia is present day Zambia. Tanganyika and Zanzibar
constitute Tanzania today. Rwanda and Burundi (Urundi) were once
incorporated in 'Deutsch-Ostafrika.' Lake Nyasa, (Njasasee in German)
is now Lake Malawi. The words, Dar-es-Salaam, are run together in
German and appear as Daressalam on all the old maps. The names,
Bismarckburg and Abercorn have disappeared, they are modern day
Kasanga and M'bala. Rungwa may have been called Ljyalas in colonial
times but as I can't confirm it, I chose to call it by its modern
name. At the end of the day, it's my story and I can do what I like.


-------------------------------------------------------------------


Ostafrika 01 (Hildegard)


The three men lay low in the underbrush. Wriggling free, the
khaki-clad white man, crouched low in a run up the little rise in
front of him. Laying flat down in the red earth, he peered through
the binoculars at the beach.


"Nshombe!" he called to one of his companions, "at the double, man."


A black man followed the white officer up the hill. Carrying a fully
loaded Mauser rifle, he leapt easily up to the officers position.


"Send the boy to Captain Wahl," the white officer told him, "two
battalions have landed and are deploying in the groves to the south.
3 transports offshore, more troops coming ashore in boats pulled by
two steam launches. Grids... let me see... L3 to L10. Pass that on
as quick as you can."


Nshombe scrambled back down the slope and repeated the message to his
other companion in Swahili.


Another shell moaned overhead and the two soldiers ducked
instinctively. Together they watched the water spouting ineffectually
among the throng of boats. The figures on the beach lay down until
the howitzer shell passed, then continued hauling themselves, and
their equipment ashore.


Far out to sea they saw a flickering from one of the low, grey ships
followed by the rumbling of concussion. The white officer and his
black companion pressed themselves into the earth as the Destroyer
shells rushed inland. The ground shook momentarily as they thumped
into the hills somewhere behind them. Looking up, Nshombe grinned at
the officer.


"Gessler will not be pleased, Lieutenant sir. That was close to his
plantation," he told the officer.


"Let's hope he's finished harvesting the coffee," the officer replied.


Just then there was a movement behind them and a group of Askaris,
African soldiers, emerged from the bush with the rest of the
equipment for the observation post. They were accompanied by an army
lieutenant, Johann Rauche.


"Hi Navy," Rauche called to the other officer.


"Good morning, Herr Leutnant, come to join the party?"


"What's happening?" he asked, then to the Askaris, "over there with
the range tables, I want the Zeiss mounted up there, so. Where's the
blasted telephone?"


"It's coming... very heavy, lieutenant sir... the magneto and cable
drum..."


"Ok, ok, send them some help, Sergeant," he replied in annoyance.


"They'll be up into those hills soon," the naval lieutenant told the
newcomer, "probably by noon. They don't seem to be setting any
records. They're wasting their time searching Tanga."


"Captain von Wurtemburg's detachment's up just beyond that ridge," he
replied, indicating, "hopefully the British will pursue him west,
into those valleys."


So began the three-day battle of Tanga in German East Africa. Between
the 4th to the 7th of November 1914 the British and Indian forces
were decisively beaten. Thus Paul von Lettow-Vorbeck and the
'Ostafrika-Schutztruppen' became a thorn in the side of Britain's
African empire.


-------------------------------------------------------------------


Rungwa is a typical African town. Lying on the river of the same
name, it also contains a trading post and a small missionary station.
The river, one of many that drain the high plateau, delivers ivory
destined for the European market before drifting lazily down into the
rift valley. That is, before the outbreak of the Great War.


The road links the Viktoriasee, via the plateau and it's rich
resources, to Njasasee in the south. From there it crosses the border
into the British colony of Northern Rhodesia. Oberst-Leutnant Paul
von Lettow-Vorbeck, supreme commander of the German East African
defence forces has chosen Rungwa as the staging post for his next big
adventure. Shortly the main force will arrive. Some 7,000 Askaris,
1,600 mounted troopers and about 1000 German colonial infantry will
converge on this sprawl of a town. Additionally, accompanying them
will be some 9000 bearers and an indeterminate number of 'camp
followers.'


I have been selected by Leutnant Stahl to go on ahead with the
advance party. It will be my job as senior gun captain to find a
suitable place to site our artillery. We have in our
possession two antique field pieces, 77mm Krupp guns, and a 10.5cm
naval gun from the cruiser Konigsburg. This massive gun is being
hauled along by a team of oxen. A carriage was fabricated for it in
Daressalam after it was salvaged from the scuttled vessel at
Kikunjamunga on the Rufiji river. Some three hundred of the
Konigsburg's
crew now swell the ranks of the defence forces. I am one,
Leutnant-zur-See Wolfgang Ritter of His Majesty's Navy.


---------------------------------------------------------------------


Hauptman Reinhardt Hoffmann, the commander of the party, is also
an artilleryman and, as we make our way along the dusty, sunburnt
road, rides up alongside.


"I think maybe we should put the big gun on that promontory," he
shouts, "that should cover the river. Then if we should be attacked
from the south, you can traverse, no?"


"Yes," I call back, "we can turn it around inside 15 minutes. That's
if we can have about 20 strong Askaris?"


"No problem," he replies, "I will tell Nshombe to detail them for
artillery duty. They can also provide support for the rifle pits I
will place on that little round hill."


Hoffmann points to the southwest away from the river. The low hill
will obviously provide the key to the defence of the main route. He
suggests putting one of the Krupps up there. Also in our possession
are four of the precious Maxim guns. Two are off the cruiser so they
lack the little carriage the army one's have. Instead a bipod
mounting has been fabricating allowing some limited traverse.
Hoffmann suggests one can go with the big gun. The machine gun will
also cover the river should the enemy arrive by steamer.


-------------------------------------------------------------------


The first thing on the agenda, however, is to introduce ourselves to
the Europeans. As we ride into the town a little reception committee
starts to gather around the square. The Africans begin to filter from
the native village to line the road as we pass. They are in the main,
quiet and curious.


This is Singidan territory; our Askaris are mostly Tangan and Arushan.
There is an air of apprehension among the local natives to see such
an influx of foreign tribes-people from the coast. Clearly the
European officers will require the utmost tact in dealing with the
Africans. The locals are tall and big boned, somewhat darker than
their cousins from the coast. They wear the colourful tangas and tons
of jewellery. Unlike the more remote villages, the women have their
breasts covered, no doubt due to their adoption of the Christian
faith.


The Europeans, perhaps thirty or more, are the usual odd assortment
of officials, missionaries and traders. The corpulent police chief,
Inspector Palmier, runs the town's affairs. Beside him is the local
native chief, no doubt enhancing his status by being included in the
official party.


On the other side of the policeman stand the Lutheran missionary and
his family, Dr. Otto, Frau Otto and a bespectacled boy of about 12,
Franz Otto. Beside them is the chief ivory trader, Guy Martin, a
Frenchman. It can't be easy being an enemy national caught deep
inside German territory. Guy, however, had every opportunity to leave
at the outbreak of war but chose to stay. Indeed, having spent 25
years in the Tanganyika colony he had become a 'white native' as we
say. Married to a Singida woman, with a healthy crop of half-breed
children as a consequence. He saw little future for himself in
mainland France.


Out here official policy has less and less relevance. By rights, Guy
should have been sent to Daressalam for internment. Inspector
Palmier, however, saw little point in separating him from his family
and causing trouble with the man's African in-laws.


Palmier is an interesting character. Of French Huguenot descent, he
has that mixture of authoritarianism and condescension that is part
in parcel of German officials of the day. He is, however, well-
respected by the Africans. Of little education, Inspector Palmier is
typical of many who chose to answer the Kaiser's call to emigrate to
the German colonies. Unfettered by the rigid class system at home, he
elevated himself to a position of authority unthinkable in his native
Mecklenburg. As I got to know him, I came to appreciate a compassion
and understanding that belies his brusque exterior.


-------------------------------------------------------------------


250 Kilometres to the southwest is the Rukwasee and beyond that,
the British Territory of Northern Rhodesia.


"This is to become our central operational headquarters," Captain
Hoffmann is telling the chief of police, "Naval Lieutenant Ritter,"
he continues, indicating me, "will be in charge of the artillery."


"Ah, very good, Herr Hauptman," Palmier replies, "the citizens of
Rungwa will do all we can to co-operate with the Kaiser's forces.
Just ask, I will find some Africans to help you with any manual work
required."


"Thank you," Hoffmann tells him, "at this stage we have enough strong
backs but I'll be sure to call on you if we require assistance."


The police chief looks very pleased with himself. I think he's
enjoying the opportunity of demonstrating his local authority
to the army. Also present at the meeting is the spiritual power
in the town, Dr. Otto.


He combines the role of town Doctor with that of a missionary, having
felt the call to spread Christianity in Africa while in practice in
Berlin. He's thin and wiry, with skin like leather after years under
the hot African sun. A wide-brimmed sun hat perches permanently on
his head and he wears a long white coat buttoned to the collar. He
explains that health among the natives is generally good. He is,
though, concerned about the spread of syphilis and begs the Captain
to have regard for the moral well-being of the soldiers.


"You can be sure," says Hoffmann, "I will insist on the minimum of
fraternising with the local women."


As skilled a tactician as the Captain is, I doubt he can keep the
troops from visiting the native village.


-------------------------------------------------------------------


The soldiers of the advance party are kept busy during the
afternoon laying out the camp. It's to be a little to the North on
some flat ground near the native kraals, the only obvious place.
Already Dr. Otto is voicing his concern about the location. Too near
the natives, he insists.


"We need to encamp a large number of troops," Hoffmann tells him,
"It's the only logical area. We must be able to defend the town
should the British attack from the river. The stores must be inland
or they'll be vulnerable, but our ammunition must be available
without having to cart it 10 kilometres."


"Well ok," says the good Doctor, "but I insist on sentries posted
between the village and the camp."


"Of course," Hoffmann assures the missionary.


I predict there'll be a lot of competition for those sentry
positions. I imagine many Marks are likely to change hands in return
for the sentries' lack of vigilance.


------------------------------------------------------------------


White women are something of a premium out in Africa. To leave the
security and congeniality of Germany for the heat and the flies of
Africa is not the first choice for any but the most hardy. Those
that do make it out here are generally the families of missionaries
and officials.


At Rungwa, there are five white women and about 25 men, a high ratio
by colonial standards. Frau Otto is a forbidding woman of 42. Large,
she wears a bodiced long dress that brushes the ground as she walks.
Of commanding appearance, the officers learn early on to keep a wide
berth.


Frau Carpentier and her husband George run the Mission school. She
is about 26, her soft complexion now ruined by the climate. Her
husband is also of French Huguenot stock, like the police chief.


Herr Helmut Fleischer, his wife Gertie and 16 year-old daughter
Trudi run the general store and post office. Together with the
Trader's hall this forms the commercial centre of the town,
situated above the steamer pier.


My opportunity to view the daughter came during a feast of welcome
laid on by the Europeans in our honour. Shy, she practically clung to
her mother's skirts the whole time. She is, though, the prettiest
little thing around, her skin not yet suffering the same ravages as
her elders.


The last white woman of the town runs the steamer service office.
Perhaps in her thirties, she is an East-Prussian minor aristocrat
by the name of Hildegard von Masurien-Linksdorff. Enigmatic and
unconventional, she wears men's clothes, shirts and short trousers.
Dr. Otto warned us she was 'unnatural in tastes,' but I was
unable to learn more.


That, then, is the sum total of our genteel entertainment in this
otherwise pleasant town. Elsewhere, one could seek the company of the
natives, of course. They come in all sorts of shapes and sizes.
No doubt many a dalliance could be had if you can bribe a sentry. For
the enlisted men I'm sure it's an option many are considering as we
speak. We officers, however, must set a better example; Captain
Hoffmann insists it be so.


------------------------------------------------------------------


Captain Hoffmann is a career soldier from Munich in Bavaria. Like
many Bavarians he's catholic, easy going and jovial. Underneath, he
has little stomach for the strict brand of Lutheran Protestantism
that pervades the German Missionary Service. At 28 he's still young,
having risen quickly through the ranks in colonial service.

Lieutenant-Colonel Lettow-Vorbeck chose the young Captain personally
for this mission, relying on his great tact and diplomacy. Reinhart
is a charmer to both left and right. Perhaps, in trying to please
everyone, he ends up satisfying no one, but thus far he's managed to
navigate the tricky waters between citizen and army. He draws me
aside later that afternoon.


"I know about you sailors," he tells me, eyes twinkling, "ports of
call, safe harbours, eh? But do me a favour and keep it in your
pants. I don't want the good Herr Doctor up my arse all the time,
understand?"


"Yes, Herr Hauptman,"


"Reinhardt, please. Unless we're in front of the men, ok?" he insists.


"Yes... um... Reinhardt."


"Discretion Lieutenant!" calling back, he walks away tapping his
nose.


-------------------------------------------------------------------


I left Germany nearly three years ago. The Konigsburg, immediately
prior to the outbreak of war, departed to begin commerce raiding in
East-African waters. My post was as gun captain of the fore-turret,
nicknamed 'Abel.' On the 20th of September 1914, we caught the enemy
cruiser, HMS Pegasus, at anchor off Zanzibar and in a 20-minute
bombardment, sent her to the bottom.


By July 1915 we had been forced to take refuge in the Rufiji river
after the wireless station on Matia island was lost. Blockaded by
the Royal Navy, Fregattenkapit´┐Żn Looff decided to scuttle the
ship.


Beforehand, everything usable had been stripped from the cruiser.
Guns, stores and victuals were all offloaded and taken inland. The
crew, some 300 officers and men, then joined the defence forces. It
took three weeks of backbreaking labour to haul the heavy guns up
onto the plateau and away from enemy interference. That done, most
were sent north against the Belgians, while the machine guns were
distributed among all the fighting units. Since then I have taken on
the
role of artilleryman in the defence forces of German East Africa,
engaging the British in the fighting along the Kenya border.


-------------------------------------------------------------------


Meanwhile, I must prepare the position for the gun we're going to
emplace to secure Rungwa from attack. Hoffmann wants the defence
positions interlinked and self-supporting. The gun must cover the
river, but also be capable of providing fire support for any assault
on the low hill to our right. I therefore decide to site it behind
a little knoll and construct a low wall of rammed earth around it.
The emplacement must be wide enough to permit the gun to be
traversed. A group of Askaris immediately start digging. They work
fast, singing as they go, and the work is finished inside an hour.


By the middle of the afternoon, a dust cloud heralds the arrival of
the guns. Accompanying them are about a thousand Askari infantry and
a squadron of cavalry. While the newcomers refresh themselves in
the river, sundry of their fellows haul the guns up to their
positions. By dinnertime, everything has been set.


The officers are at dinner, which is laid out in front of the police
post,
when we become aware of a droning sound. It sounds rather like a
swarm of locusts but Hoffmann immediately stands up.


"Aeroplane," he proclaims.


We scramble from the table with cries of 'alarm.' Already we hear a
drumming of feet as men rush to their positions. I come up beside a
Naval ensign peering into a pair of binoculars.


"Got it... there... a Curtis I think... maybe a Short, what do you
think, Herr Leutnant?" he asks me.


I peer through the heavy evening atmosphere to where the seaman's
pointing. Eventually I spy the black dot, focussing my glasses until
the image resolves itself.


"Single engine," I announce, "Short type 827. They must have sent one
from Zanzibar to Lake Nyasa."


Near me a rifle cracks.


"Cease fire!" I yell, "you're wasting ammunition... too far away."


Puffing, Hoffmann comes running up.


"Too much to expect that it's one of ours?" he asks wryly.


"British Royal Navy," I tell him, "a float plane, probably from the
Njasasee."


"Are they going to bomb us?" Hoffmann enquires.


"Probably not. They must be at extreme range. I doubt it's carrying
bombs."


"I'll get one of our machine guns training on it. Maybe we'll scare
it off," he suggests.


"I wouldn't bother," I reply, "unless it comes lower. You'd be just
shooting flies and birds."


Together we watch it slowly circle just out of range, before turning
to the south and away.


Later Hoffmann calls a meeting of the officers. He organises mounted
patrols and a party of Askaris to go downriver to glean any
information on possible enemy movements. Already travellers are
being questioned about activities south of the Northern Rhodesian
border.


Despite the enemy's use of modern technology, our intelligence has
always been better. This is because von Lettow is such a well-
respected leader. He insists the native Africans are always treated
with respect.


Conversely, the Belgians and South Africans are deeply distrusted by
our people. We hear many stories of ill treatment of prisoners,
summary executions, and such-like. I have to say we don't do
such things to prisoners we capture.


Many of the Africans in Belgian employment are traditional enemies
of the Tanganyikan people. In the past they were used by Arab slavers
against them and they haven't forgotten that. Therefore our Askaris
need little urging to defend themselves. Perhaps if the British and
Belgians had a von Schnee and a von Lettow, things may have gone
better for them in this part of the world. But while they treat the
Africans with contempt and suspicion, we keep the loyalty of our
colony intact.


-------------------------------------------------------------------


That evening our bivouacs are allocated. I'm to be quartered with
Hildegard von Masurien-Linksdorff, the Prussian with 'unnatural
tastes'. As I carry my gear towards her house, I'm shivering with
dread.


She greets me at the door with a stiff bow and a polite handshake.
Like many Prussian 'Junkers' she is civil, reserved and imperious in
manner. She commands her black servant to show me to my room. The
girl scuttles off but is recalled by the shipping manager.


"Fetch the gentleman's luggage, Diana," she orders.


"It's alright," I insist.


"No, it's unthinkable," the woman insists, "the Kaiser's officers
don't fetch and carry in my house."


She has her way.


------------------------------------------------------------------


By the pale lamp in Hildegard's drawing room, we take tea before
retiring. The fraulein insists I try one of her fine cigars. No doubt
it's been smuggled over the border.


"This is a big country," she tells me, "the British cannot stop the
trading. By and large, the Africans come and go as they please, they
can't stop them. Business continues, albeit by other routes."


In the yellow glow of the single oil lamp, Fraulein Masurien is much
softer in appearance. Indeed, she is well educated and erudite,
having been schooled at King's University, Konigsburg. Even in these
enlightened times, a university educated woman is something of a
novelty.


"So what did you read at King's?" I ask her.


"I have a doctorate in languages," she replies.


"Good heavens," I exclaim, "what on earth are you doing out here?"


"Ah, that, Herr Leutnant, is a long story," she says grinning. "You
might say I followed my heart."


"A gentleman?" I ask her.


"In name only I'm afraid. But basically, you're correct."


She tells me she came to East Africa with her fianc´┐Że, a fellow
graduate. It outraged her family who had since disowned and
disinherited her. Then she was dumped when her beau found himself
in love with the wife of the Belgian envoy. It caused quite a scandal
at the time when they ran off to South Africa together.


"So now they shelter themselves among the Dutch farmers and the
English bankers," she scoffs.


"So what," I venture to ask, "did Herr Otto mean about, 'unnatural
tastes'?"


"Herr Otto is a fool and a hypocrite," she tells me vehemently, "you
ask the natives about the moral Herr Otto. Ask them about the
fatherless little half-breeds running around. You see my shotgun?"
she asks pointing to a gun on the wall, "many times, I've come close,
lieutenant, to shoving that up the good Doctor's arsehole. I'll make
him unnatural alright."


I recoil at the lady's language. Not exactly that of a well brought
up academic aristocrat.


--------------------------------------------------------------------


The fraulein keeps a very tidy house, no doubt ably assisted by
three black servants. Above the mantle hangs a photograph of Kaiser
Wilhelm II, resplendent in the uniform of Commander in Chief of the
Navy. Draped around it is a red-white-black ribbon. Below it is a
framed photograph of the fleet flagship, the battleship 'Wilhelm der
Grosse.'


"My brother sent it," she explains, "he's first officer."


"Your brother hasn't disowned you?" I enquire.


"No," she replies with a wry grin, "I doubt my father knows about it,
though."


Hildegard turns out to have a deep respect for the Navy and it's
officers. Like my home State of Niedersachsen, East Prussia is navy
country centred on the ports of Danzig and Elbing. These Baltic
people are very proud of their seafaring traditions. Little did I
know, but the fraulein had specifically requested me for her
hospitality.


"I heard about your heroic victory over the Pegasus," she enthuses,
"tell me about it."


"Nothing much to tell, Fraulein Masurien. It was lying offshore off
Zanzibar with her boiler fires drawn. Like shooting tethered
pigeons. It was only a small cruiser, no match for Konigsburg."


"You are too modest!" she complains, "wasn't that the same Britisher
that bombarded Tanga? Pirates! They deserved retribution, Herr
Leutnant."


Her eyes light up, revealing a somewhat passionate nature. I feel
strangely drawn towards her, even though she must be a good ten years
my senior.


"Would that I was born a man, I'd gladly serve in the Navy. A true
and noble life, the sea. Where did you do your training?"


"Wilhelmshaven and the gunnery school at Berlin."


"Ah, my brother Ernst, he's sitting in the Jade river with the fleet,
y'know. They don't do anything, I have no idea what von Ingenohl is
up to.
He should get out there and fight the British as you are doing."


"I understand von Pohl is in charge now," I tell her, "the high-
seas fleet is shorthanded these days. Many of the crews have gone to
serve in U boats."


"Well," she grumbles, "at least they're not just warming their
bunks."


I accept her offer of a refill of Brandy. I'm starting to feel a
little light-headed.


"I wouldn't want to serve in those tin cans. 40 men jammed into a
locomotive boiler then sealed up and dunked in water! Can you
imagine the smell?" I laugh.

"Oh my goodness!" she exclaims, laughing, "that wouldn't be
pleasant."


------------------------------------------------------------------


I explain to the lady that, although the fleet doesn't appear to be
doing much, it actually ties up a lot of enemy forces.


"Imagine what might happen if the Royal Navy could get into the
Baltic? Perhaps link up with the Russians? An invasion on the North
German coast with Russian troops protected by British warships?"


"Oh my goodness," she looks aghast, "Russians descending on Berlin?
That must not happen!"


"Never!" I tell her boldly, "not in my lifetime!"


"Good on you... another Brandy?"


"Forgive me but I must demure. We're having a practice shoot tomorrow
morning. I want a clear head."


"Oh yes you must!" she giggles, "that's a big gun!"


As she walks me to my room, she looks a little ruddy in the cheeks.
She pats me on the shoulder like a old comrade, telling me how
pleased she is to welcome the Navy into her house.


"Your weapon, Herr Leutnant, how big is it?" she asks.


Sensing a double entendre, I look sidelong at her, but her face is
the picture of innocence.


"10.5cm, Fraulein Masurien," I answer.


"That doesn't sound very big?" she replies.


"Big enough," I tell her, "high velocity and quick-firing. A good
range too."


"Well," she says, "I'm sure it will do quite nicely. Good night."


She gives my hand a quick shake, smiling enigmatically.


------------------------------------------------------------------


I lie in my bunk thinking for a while, curious about the fraulein.
To be honest, she wouldn't have been my first choice among the
women of the town. Not that she's ugly. In fact she has an inbred
elegance about her and she's quite charming. But she doesn't go out
of her way to make herself appealing in the feminine way. Her blond
hair is cut practically short. It would be easy to mistake her for a
man were it not for, well, rather a full figure. Indeed, hips you
could rest a tray on and... Her loose men's shirts cannot conceal a
large bosom.


It has been some months since I last had the pleasure of a woman's
company. A sailor has to find contentment in long periods of
abstinence and, well quench one's manly urges when in port. It
perhaps makes such liaisons more significant, even when bought and
paid for. A lady of business once told me in Kiel, where I was on
leave,


"I like you sailors. You pay well, spend the night, then leave for 6
months. And you're always glad to see me!"


I roll on my side and tuck my large Colt revolver in beside me. I
relieved it off a Portuguese officer, whose party we captured on the
Mozambique border. I found it a most useful and reliable weapon and
it always sleeps beside me. For a while, my comrades nicknamed me,
'Billy the Kid.'


-------------------------------------------------------------------


Dozing, I become aware of a soft tapping. I'm instantly on alert and
my hand finds the butt of my Colt.


"Lieutenant?" whispers a voice.


"Whose there!" I demand, freeing the revolver from the bed covers.


Quietly the door opens a fraction and a face appears indistinctly
through the mosquito netting.


"Lieutenant, it's Hildegard. I wondered whether you were still
awake?"


"Fraulein? I'm sorry... um... I was going to shoot you," I tell her.


"I'm glad you didn't!" she chuckles.


"What's the matter?" I ask her.


"I was wondering... perhaps you would care for some more... ah...
company," she says. "It must be a while, perhaps, since you enjoyed
feminine hospitality?"


"Yes," I admit in surprise.


"Perhaps, then, a little nightcap... in my room? I've sent the
servants away. We will not be... ah... interrupted."


The imputation is obvious, even to a relatively unsophisticated
junior officer of the Kaiser's Navy. Needless to say, the suggestion
is not unwelcome. Wordlessly I follow her down the hall to her
bedroom. She carries an oil lamp to light the way and in the glow, I
watch the flowing of her long nightdress. Modestly I'd put on my
trousers over my underpants. One must never assume matters with a
lady.


I follow her into the room. She sets the lamp on the table beside the
bed. Two glasses have already been filled with Brandy and gleam in
the lamplight. Passing a glass to me, she offers a toast to our
success.


"The Kaiser!" she snaps, and puts the glass to her lips.


"The Kaiser!" I repeat.


Setting down her glass, she reaches out her hand and drags her
fingertips down my bare chest. I look down at her bust. It swells as
she breathes heavily with excitement.


"You're a very handsome officer, Lieutenant," she whispers, "you're
making me quite nervous."


Framing her face with my hands, I move slowly towards her. Bending
down, her mouth opens as I press my lips to hers. Hildegard kisses
back fiercely, forcing her tongue into my mouth. Her hand clutches
my head, holding me still harder against her. After some minutes, she
pulls away.


"Oh dear," she gasps, "I fear you're taking advantage of a lady."


Fired with lust, I advance towards her as she backs away to the bed.
Sitting down, I put my hands on her shoulders and push gently
till she's lying on her back. I lie on top of her and resume kissing.


Her body is soft and warm, I squirm my body, feeling the cushions
of her breasts squash against my chest. She shivers, but offers no
protest as I begin to undo the pearl buttons of her nightdress.
After five buttons her cleavage becomes revealed in all its
voluptuousness. Mounds of lovely, soft, womanly flesh. I smooth
them with my fingertips, marvelling at the silky texture. I touch
them with my lips. A strong woman, she sighs and heaves me to the
side.


"Please... let me up," she pants.


I'm momentarily puzzled until I see her finishing undoing the
buttons. Standing, she peels off her dress in one movement. When
she's completely naked and I marvel at the sight revealed.


Beneath her short blond hair is a face, although darkened by the sun,
nevertheless pleasant, with piercing blue eyes. Those eyes are now
glowing with excitement. From her neck, a V of dark, freckled skin
drops to her large pale breasts that hang to her navel. They are
shapely and full, however, and are crowned with dark aureoles and
stiff crimson nipples. Her tummy is slightly rounded and falls into
a thatch of brown pubic hair. This is framed by her wide hips and
fleshy thighs. My inspection is halted as she begins to stalk up
the length of my body. Pressing her lips to my navel, she says,


"Wouldn't you be more comfortable, Lieutenant, without that
unnecessary garment?"


She indicates by tracing her hand down the front of my trousers. Her
breasts flop onto my thighs nestling my growing discomfort between
them. She assists me in disposing of my trousers before attacking the
underpants. My freed cock then resumes its perch between her
breasts, as she slowly massages it.


"I do love the feel of a man, the sweat, the smell.
You don't have any scars, Lieutenant?"


"I've never been wounded," I reply, "yet, thank God."


"Oh, you're too perfect, too perfect," she says, and starts to lick at
my chest. Looking up, she tells me, "you'd suit a scar, maybe one
here... or here," indicating sections of my chest, "it's very manly
for a fighting officer."


I have to disagree with her, however. I'd rather keep my skin
relatively unblemished and wound-free. Laughing, I ask her how
many scarred officers she'd inspected.


"Lieutenant, you're being impertinent," she replies sternly.


She hauls herself alongside and lies on her side and strokes my
bristly chin. I push my knee between her legs, which part to accept
the intrusion. My thigh brushes the damp bush in the apex of her
desire. She sucks in her breath as at last I seize one of her soft
mammaries. I lower my mouth and feed her nipple between my lips.
As I suckle her, a hand grasps my manhood and roughly pulls on it.


With my own hand, I reach down and explore her tummy, drifting lower
towards her sex. Growling, she seizes me by the shoulders and
wrestles me onto my back. She throws a leg over and sits astride me,
grinding herself on my chest. Slightly bent over, her breasts dangle
just above my face. Holding her around the bottom, I revel in the
rippling of her flesh as she moves. The fraulein's hand reaches
behind and once more works on my member.


She inches back so my cock slips between her cheeks. There, she rubs
it slowly mingling our juices together. With a groan she lifts
herself up and, in one movement, sits down forcing my cock up to the
very hilt. Hildegard pauses, wriggling on it.


"Very nice... Lieutenant," she whispers, "very nice."


She begins to rise and fall, taking my hands and placing them on her
breasts.


"Squeeze them... uh... Lieutenant," she tells me breathlessly,
"harder... please... uh... yes."


She slams down more fiercely, the springs of the bed groaning in
response. Her breathing's ragged, her face grimacing, those blue eyes
are now fixed on mine.


I wish I could say I lasted the distance. However long months of
abstinence have left my pistol on a hair-trigger. Hildegard, though,
seems not to notice for she continues to work herself into a frenzy
of pleasure. Growling, hollering, swearing and urging me to, 'keep
going' pushes me to feats of athleticism I'd previously thought
impossible. Having discharged my first salvo, the main gun remains
fully trained and charged. Pulling herself from on top of me, she
lays down on her front, heaving and muttering. I reach over and
stroke the great cheeks of her bottom, quivering and slippery from
the activity. She starts and moans when my finger finds her gooey
entrance. I remain at action stations, however, and roll on to her,
lifting her bottom up, and ram another round into her breech.


Her head is buried in the pillows as I finish with rapid thrusts.
Her muffled howling is continuous gradually subsiding as exhaustion
takes over. Turning her head to the side, her face is dripping with
perspiration.


"Well... Lieutenant," she sighs, smiling, "will you... be billeted
here... long?"


Kissing her I reply,


"It depends... on what danger... you're in."


"Oh," she chuckles, "great danger, I think... very great danger!"


--------------------------------------------------------------------


Hildegard packs me off back to my room some time in the wee hours of
the morning. She doesn't want the servants to discover us. I need to
be up bright and early at 6 o'clock for a practice shoot of the big
gun.


Given my lack of a night's sleep, I feel invigorated and cheerful in
the morning. I have a light breakfast and stroll jauntily out to the
gun emplacement. Hildegard had the cook prepare a packed lunch of
black bread and cheese. As I arrive, the crew are just assembling, a
mixed group of Africans and Germans. Lacking the truck used to
transport the shell to the gun breech, everything has to be worked by
hand. Two men carry the shell and fit it into the breech, a rammer
pushes it home, another closes and locks. A ranger-taker, gun aimer,
one man each on the traverse and height wheels, gun Captain, and four
shell handlers complete the team. For acute changes of direction we
can call on the Askaris to lift the trail of the gun and move it
around.


The crew stand stiffly at their positions waiting for the order for
the practice to commence. Everyone's thinking about their part in
this little ballet, hoping they don't foul up. The practice shells
are marked with a green band. They're filled with compacted sawdust
to approximate the weight of a live one. Live shells have a red band,
naturally it's important not to confuse the two. Satisfied as to the
crew's readiness, I blow my whistle.


Counting the seconds on my pocket watch, I time the crew as it goes
about the well-practiced routine. As each man completes their tasks
they yell out, 'loader clear', 'rammer clear', breech locked',
'target',


"Gun ready!" shouts the aimer.


They all look to me for the order to fire. The gun is trained across
the river at a convenient tree. I put my glasses to my eyes and train
them on the target.


"FIRE!" I yell and the aimer tugs at the firing lanyard with relish.


'CRASH!' The gun leaps back against the stops of the recoil
mechanism. The rumbling echo continues on from some seconds
afterwards. Through my binoculars, I observe the puff of red dust
across the river. It's a couple of degrees left and about 10 metres
over, an excellent ranging shot. The men are stunned when I
congratulate them. They regard me as being rather over-critical so
the praise was most unexpected.


Remarkably the second shot is right on target and the men cheer as a
cloud of bark and branches leap into the air. Satisfied, I allow one
more firing, which the boys do in a relaxed, but excited fashion.
After hauling the thing so far over rough or non-existent roads, it's
an absolute pleasure to let it off. I order the crew to stand down
and relieve them of fatigues for the day in appreciation of their
work. They stroll off happily, arm in arm, to one of the few watering
holes in Rungwa.


--------------------------------------------------------------------


Later I report to Captain Hoffmann. He's pleased with the state of
readiness and informs me I may be staying here for a while.


"The enemy is besieging Bismarckburg," he informs me, "I understand
the General is to raid their supply lines north of Abercorn in
Rhodesia. They'll travel by river steamer to the Rukwasee, then
overland. We're all going accept the artillery, I'm afraid. You'll
have to remain here with the crews and a company of infantry. I
intend to promote you to acting Captain and to take overall
command."


"Me - in command?" I ask him in surprise, "but I'm a Naval officer!"


"So?" You've done your basic infantry training, haven't
you?"


"Of course, all seaman have to do the course."


"So, if anything comes up-river under a British flag, shoot them.
Just don't lose the guns, the boys'll be disappointed."


Hoffmann rushes away to attend to the preparations for the raid. I
have plenty to do in organising some kind of defence in consultation
with the Company Commander. From one gun, I'm now to command about
1000 troops and have the responsibility for a town-full of civilians.
Together with some army officers for advice, I spend the afternoon
surveying our positions and drawing up some kind of plan.


With my heart in my mouth I watch my advisors speed away to their
units. Already, the red dust clouds of the approaching army of von
Lettow can be seen to the North. Black oily smoke from the river
steamers appears from upriver, answering the call from the Commander
in Chief. Everything suddenly clicks into gear like a well-oiled
machine.


I watch the embarkation of our soldiers with apprehension. It goes on
well into the evening. It's nightfall before the little fleet
departs; the flickering boiler fires are all that distinguish the
raiding party from the black of the African night. The whole town
falls strangely quiet as if it's holding its breath. Alone, I wander
back to Hildegard von Masurien-Linksdorff's colonial cottage and
garden around midnight. I feel as if the fate of the great German
Empire rests on my shoulders.


Katzmarek

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