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This is a true story as sent to me in a reader’s email and phone call.
I’ve lived with this for 63 years, long enough that now I don’t give a damn. I’ll tell the story. Have to let it out.
Back in 1944 a special operations team flew from England to Norway to blow up a super-secret Nazi heavy-water facility. The plant had avoided detection in a mountain above the Arctic Circle near Narvik, close to the Swedish border, but Norwegian Resistance tipped off Allied intelligence, and I came into the game. Lieutenant Payne and I were a specialized two-man demolition team. Lt. Payne knew German, Norwegian, Swedish, and infantry weapons. I specialized in blowing up things.
We parachuted into the area at night, where Norwegian Resistance fighters waited. We buried the parachutes and headed off to the target, and once there I saw how the place went unobserved for so long. Could hardly see it. Nothing there. Just a rounded hill of snow. Nothing but a few tire tracks.
Closer, I saw the entrance — under a long overhang caked with snow — invisible from above. Only Norwegians on the ground happened to spot it.
One of the Norwegian Resistance, a geologist from Oslo University, gave us the key to it: the overhang, a huge granite slab, was very unstable. With a simple nudge from explosives, it could slide further down the hill, starting a larger landslide. Lt. Payne and I had chemicals in our backpacks that could blow a battleship off the mountain.
While we watched from the trees, a figure walked out of the plant’s opening. He wore white Germany Army arctic fatigues and a white helmet. He hung back in the shadows and lit a cigarette. A moment later another man in white walked up behind him. The second man reached down to the other’s crotch and squeezed. “Hans, mein Schwanz ist hart für dich!”
I looked at Lt. Payne. “Says his cock is hard for him,” he whispered.
God, the world is full of queers! “Fucking queers!” I hissed back. “Nothing worse than a fucking Nazi faggot.”
In those days, in looks I wasn’t what you’d call handsome, but I was strong and could get the job done. I was a big guy, plenty of muscles. I stood 6’4″ in my stocking feet and on the scales around 250 pounds.
And I was straight. Damned straight. I loved pussy and got some whenever I could.
As I think back over what I’m about to tell you now, I know how it happened. It wasn’t all my fault, not all of it. Things ganged up on me. Memories. My childhood. Dreams I had.
Like my very first wet dream — I was what, seven, eight? I can remember that dream clearly, one of those that stick with you when you wake up.
I dreamed I was running through a woods, sprinting for my life ahead of a raging, snarling bear! I felt his hot breath on my back — and I realized I was naked! My pajamas were gone! Running in bare feet over the rough, rocky ground, I could not go fast enough. The bear got closer and closer.
Finally I ran out of the woods into a clearing, and in the distance I saw a huge castle. Gigantic. So big it faded into the distance. A big lake on one side, and a dense forest on the other. High gray stone walls with turrets, and windows all over, glittering yellow and gold in the dim light of sunset.
I ran as fast as I could, but the bear almost grabbed me! I was crying and could hardly see through the tears, but suddenly a Prince appeared in the path ahead of me!
He wore a mottled green and brown robe, but the robe was open, and under it he was naked like me. He raised one hand in a “stop” gesture. I looked over my shoulder as I ran, and I saw the bear stumble to a halt, turn around, and walk away!
Relieved and grateful — my life was saved — I ran to the prince to hug him, but he was a big, tall man, and when I reached him and threw my arms around him, my arms went around his hips and his buttocks — and I was running so fast, my face mashed against his huge pecker (that’s what my father called it).
My face pressed into his huge pecker!
At that instant I had the first orgasm of my life, a pleasure so intense, it woke me up! I threw back the covers and yanked down my pajamas — my still-glowing pecker was hard and thrilling to the touch! Gee whiz, what’s happening?? Later, of course, once I knew my pecker could do such things, like all boys I began to experiment until I finally discovered jacking off.
I grew up normally. I liked girls. I liked to play Doctor, Post Office, and I’ll-show-you-mine-if-you-show-me-yours. Never paid one second of attention to other boys. I liked the girls.
When I grew older, I joined the Army. And I hated queers. If I caught two men in homo activities, I reported them immediately. Get all the cocksuckers and other deviants out of the Army!
Many times I sat in the enlisted men’s club with a few of my friends, drinking beer and talking about the Army, and when the subject of queers in the military came up, we all sounded off on casino siteleri how they were tearing the country apart. “Limp-wristed little fairies, all of ’em!” “Simpering fags got no place in the Army!”
Pvt. Blackwelder, a weasel I didn’t really like, sneered, “I spotted a man in the latrine the other day — wore pink underwear!”
“Couldn’t it have been white Army boxers accidentally washed with something red?”
“Could’ve been, but I’d toss them out before I’d wear pink underwear!”
Everybody gave out with “Yeah, yeah.” Blackwelder went on to say that queers go around causing other queers.
“Causing other queers? What does that mean?”
He put down his beer and leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Don’t you know, man? Once a male gets his cock through your asshole, you’re fucked! And you can never go back! You turn into a queer. You’re hot for it from then on!”
“No! That’s bullshit!”
“God’s truth. Heard it from the medical officer.”
I sat back and took a swallow of beer. That was dangerous news. Not that I was worried — for one thing, I was straight. For another, I would kill any man who tried to stick his cock in my ass. But in a way, it was scary. Like an exposed jugular vein I didn’t know I had. “What if it’s, like, an accident — a guy stumbles in the showers and falls up against you, and . . . you know.”
Everybody turned to look at me. “Anybody ever stumbled up against me in the showers, and I felt his cock at my ass, I would break his neck,” said one. “Anybody in the showers with a hardon in the first place should be turned over to the MPs,” said another.
“But what if you, like, sit on a pencil or something?”
Blackwelder laughed. “No, stupid, it has to be a queer. If you get a queer’s cock in your ass, you become a queer. Scientific fact.”
The conversation went on to other things, and I relaxed. All that talk about queers was embarrassing, especially since I was so ignorant. We broke up an hour or so later and went back to our quarters, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it: “A cock through your asshole turns you queer.”
In my bunk I pulled down my boxers. I had a prong I was proud of in the showers. Seven inches soft, bumpy with veins and textures, ending in a foreskin that covered the cockhead and ended in a heathen tassel of loose skin at the end — like those on naked soldiers on Greek pottery in history books.
I gripped it and began a jackoff session. Then I started wondering. With my cock hard and happy, I reached between my legs with my free hand and stuck a finger up my ass.
Yeowtch!! Fuck, that hurts!!
And I was glad. No way will I ever crave anybody sticking anything up there. I had prostate exams from medical officers once or twice, and they always used rubber gloves with plenty of lubricant, and even those hurt.
That was a relief. No way can I become a queer. That once-you’re-fucked threat was pure bullshit.
The very next day they shipped me off to England for training on a special, secret team. One ride on a troopship later, I was in England meeting Lt. Payne and studying Norwegian maps. Two weeks after that I was watching two enemy queers playing with each other in Norway. I spat into the snow, and Lt. Payne shushed me.
Lieutenant Payne was okay. Shorter. Not as muscular. But with a Springfield he could hit a quarter tossed in the air from 50 paces away. A little on the pushy side, maybe, but that was just being an officer.
When the two German funny-boys went back inside, Payne and I slipped out of the darkness. The Resistance had reconnoitered the area and told us “No sentries” — the Germans wanted nothing external to give away the super-secret location.
It was almost too easy. We planted the charges from our backpacks at a “fulcrum-point” the professor had described, set the timer, and scurried back into the woods. I blew on my hands to warm them up, shivering in my jacket. The Arctic Circle was damned cold.
To get out of the path of the landslide, we had to climb above the explosion and across the mountainside. We scurried through the woods, praying none of us stumbled or fell. About the time we broke out of the woods into a clearing above and away from the slide area, a huge, fiery explosion shook the earth and lit up the mountainside like noonday.
With a roar like 100 thunders, the huge granite slab above the plant detached from the mountain and slid down the hillside, crushing the structure — and the queers — under it, tearing loose huge trees and boulders with it. And higher above, a larger section of the mountainside cracked loose almost as if unzipped, and a titanic mass slid violently into the valley.
Then we spotted a German Army truck traveling up the road to the plant, at a point below us and safely out of the landslide area. And they saw us.
While clouds of dirt and dust rose in the sky, German soldiers poured out slot oyna of the truck and began firing up at us, and we were sitting ducks in the white snow of the clearing! Luckily we were too far above them for accurate aim, and when the light of the fire and explosion finally went out, in the blessed darkness, we climbed like madmen to reach the trees at the far side of the clearing. “They come after us now,” muttered one of the resistance fighters.
We climbed to the ridge of the mountain. “This now changes things,” said one of the Norwegians. “We must get back to our homes, but it is easier that you to go here into Sverige, ja?” According to the map, we had climbed a mountain pass in the Scandinavian Mountains, and going down the far side would take us across the frontier into neutral Sweden, somewhere near Kiruna.
Gunshots rang out behind us, and bullets ricocheted from stones. “Det Tyskeren er her over!” the Norwegians gasped, — The Germans are here! — and they melted away into the woods.
Lt. Payne and I ran down into the valley, ducking behind boulders and hillocks, hearing the sound of shouted German commands behind us. After we ran a mile or so down the mountainside, dawn began to light the sky, and we saw the terrain level out into a wooded plateau. Every so often rifle shots sounded behind us, and bullets zipped through the trees. “The bastards have followed us into Swedish territory,” Payne gasped as we ran.
Then we hit a very serious problem: the woods ended. Nothing ahead but a vast, open, rolling field of snow. No trees. No shelter. And the Germans were right behind us.
At the far side of the field, a huge, gray castle spread over many acres. Vast stone walls spread across hills and valleys, fronting on one side a frozen, snow-covered lake and on the other a dark forest that continued past the horizon. Round turrets accented the wall at strategic corners, and windows all over glittered yellow and gold in the dim light of dawn.
Beyond the walls, the main buildings of the castle rose high into the sky. Steep, gray-slate roofs. The giant castle was a fortified city.
And strangely familiar. I had never been in Sweden, but the castle was not strange. I knew it. Probably saw it in a picture book. Like recognizing the Eiffel Tower on your first trip to Paris.
As we crouched at the edge of the woods, planning what to do, an armored half-track with skis under the front wheels came over the hill, and a heavy machine-gun in it fired over us into the woods beyond. I heard shouting behind us and then silence. When the armored car stopped firing, there was dead quiet. No more German gunfire.
A porthole in the half-track opened, and a hand stuck out, motioning in the universal “come closer” gesture. Payne and I looked at each other. The emblem on the machine was a gold cross on a blue background — the Swedish flag. Payne shrugged his shoulders, and we crept out of the thicket and ran across the snow toward the armored car. A shot rang out behind us, and a bullet sputtered the snow near Payne’s boot. Immediately the big machine-gun roared again, sending tracers overhead, raking the wood line behind us.
We reached the half-track and scrambled through an open door in the back. A deep voice barked out of the darkness: “Och vem er du?” — who are you?
Lt. Payne answered. “Vi er Amerikaner medborgarskap” — We are American citizens.
“Ja, I am hearing about ‘American citizens’ running down the mountain from Norge. And running after is Tysken soldat — the German soldiers, nej?” The man had such a deep, bass voice, I could almost imagine a troll growling at us from the blackness inside the truck. “You wear the Amerikaner uniform. What do you in Sverige?”
We said nothing.
“No matter. We go now back to the slot — the castle, nej?”
As our eyes adjusted to the darkness inside the armored car, the speaker emerged as a big man in the bullet-shaped helmet and green uniform of the Swedish Army. He identified himself as Alfhild Drakeskóld.
“Interesting name,” said Lt. Payne. Attempt at friendly conversation.
“Very old name. First name ‘Alfhild’ is means ‘elf battle.’ Centuries ago. Family name even older. ‘Drakeskóld’ is ‘Dragonshield.’ We go now to Slottet Drakeskóld. Family castle.”
God, he’s the baron or whatever!
The half-track motored over the snowdrifts until we reached the castle gate. Past the outer wall, it stopped at a huge staircase leading up to the doors of the main building. Attendants waited for us as we climbed out, and when he stepped down, Drakeskóld barked orders. Then he turned to us. “Välkomnande till Slottet Drakeskóld. You now our guests. Please to follow these people. They will take care of you.”
Smiling people led us into the building, and I was astounded. What a building! Strength. Endurance. Granite walls over six feet thick. Even the stained-glass windows had heavy, thick panes, not like the thin, delicate things in canlı casino siteleri antique shops.
Woodcarving everywhere. Ornate stone sculptures all around. Ancient age. Immense wealth — huge tapestries over the walls, carved-oak chairs, a gigantic grandfather clock in an oak cabinet two stories high. We gaped.
The fireplaces had very small fires — a cool breeze made me zip up my coat again. The people around us, though, wore short sleeves, and I saw one woman in bare feet. Above the Arctic Circle, wintertime was a way of life. Only the strong endured. The people and the buildings were used to a hard life.
They led us down a long hallway with suits of armor standing in alcoves every dozen feet or so. Fascinating stuff. Each suit from a different age — or a different battle. Some blackened battle veterans. Some silver with gold trimmings.
I always wondered how a suit of armor protected the crotch. School textbooks always showed just a little kilt of chain-mail, but these iron suits featured cock-guards that made me stare. Huge! Giant things as big as the warhead of an artillery round! The cock that fits that would be long as a salami and thick as an arm! I gulped. Can that be true?
The Hall of the Giant Cocks led to a vast hall where the ceiling had to be three stories high. Carved granite columns disappeared into the darkness above, and three long banquet tables stretched from one end of the hall to the other, probably 20 yards. At each place at the tables — must have been hundreds — a huge, high-backed chair of carved hardwood waited for the diners. They sat us at the end of one of the tables and brought out plates and goblets. Gold-colored metal.
I turned to Payne. “Jeez, do you think this is–”
–“I bet it is.”
God, solid gold plates! They brought out food, and after a couple bites of the meat — venison! Delicious! With a mushroom sauce.
As we ate, I looked at the carvings on the chair next to me. A dragon snaked around the heavy oak frame, around warriors in battle with monstrous characters, and all were nude. Cocks and balls carefully carved into the wood. Female figures, too, wound throughout the carvings. Not as many. One or two.
They served us a golden liquid. Beer. Traditional Scandinavian drink.
But what beer! I took a big gulp, and it burned going down, but it hit my belly like a lightning bolt! I looked at Payne, who looked back as he set down his goblet. “God, this is either the strongest beer I ever tasted, or they have funny-tasting vodka!”
We had nothing else to drink, and we were thirsty.
By the end of the meal, I was drunk out of my mind. When the serving girls came in to take away the plates, I grabbed one of them and pulled her onto my lap. When I kissed her, I expected her to struggle, but she didn’t. She returned the kiss. Well, all right!
I glanced over, and Lt. Payne, drunk too, had a girl in his arms, also in a passionate kiss. My thinking was getting fuzzy: We’re fuckin’ up! But I was too drunk to care.
Two more women sat in the chairs on either side of me, and both started kissing me. In Soldier Heaven, I turned from one babe to the other, kissing each with good old American skill. The Swedish women were hot, soon smooching me into a near-swoon of kissing, fondling, and lust.
Sometimes I would feel one woman get up and her place taken by another before I turned back to kiss her. Americans must be a rare treat up her. C’mon, girls, get your kisses while you can!
One of the women, though, gave me a kiss that curled my hair. A powerful kiss, meaningful, all-out! It spread trails of fire over my face. God, what a babe! She stuck her tongue into my mouth, and I dueled with it. Damn, she’s hot! Never kissed such a horny bitch! She really had me going!
About then her hand groped in my crotch, driving me crazy! She unzipped me, pulled out my throbbing cock, and started jacking me off under the table! I couldn’t believe it!
She really knew how to do it and had me roaring toward an orgasm in no time. A Swedish barracks whore? Right there in the great hall, she had me stiffened out in my chair, my legs spread and tensed under the table as she jacked me past the point of no return.
Still in that fiery kiss and about to climax, I reached between her legs, felt her thigh, and moved up to her crotch. By then I was panting so hard I had to break the kiss to get some oxygen! As I moved my mouth away, my chin rubbed against hers, and her skin was scratchy — beard stubble! At that instant, my hand reached her crotch — the bulge of a cock!!
A man! I’m kissing a man!!
But it was too late! My orgasm swept over me, and helpless, quivering, shuddering in my big wooden chair, my jizz spouted out in hard, violent spurts. The very idea of such an evil, perverted, taboo situation fried my brain, the orgasm a real scorcher.
When I finally came to, I looked over at “her.” Seated beside me was Drakeskóld! And he was smiling. He brought his hand up from under the table, and big gobs of white sperm covered his knuckles and ran down his fingers. Still smiling, he stuck out his tongue and licked it up.
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