Date: Wed, 7 Jun 2000 12:44:43 -0500
From: Willy B <haztech@email.msn.com>
Subject: Flak Bait pt2

Flak Bait
Part 2

	"Nooo! Please!" Mike tried to twist away again. He was sure his
bowels and bladder would have released if there was anything to let go. He
hadn't even had anything to drink for over a day. His eyes were fixed on
the knife in the officer's hand and nothing else. His heart felt ready to
burst. His captors weren't going to just execute him, they were going to
carve him up! The hard strike of the back of the officer's hand snapped his
head back, stunning him briefly. He never saw the approaching dark shadow
through the snow.
	Paul's dad had enough. He'd been ready to accept the sharp crack of
a pistol shot and so had the slight, nude, black haired captive
apparently. He and his men had been unprepared for the screams the youth
issued when he saw the `pig's' dagger! The dagger's appearance surprised
him. Usually they were very efficient in their executions. The `pig' had
never shown any overt pleasure in his treatment of his captives until
now. The American must have shown some defiance. Regardless, he just
couldn't see the boy go through what they intended. He thought of Paul as
he broke cover and advanced.  He thought, `If worst comes to worst, he
would shoot the boy himself.' His team members would not be happy with him,
but he'd made his decision!
	Mike suddenly felt himself released. His pain-fogged mind tried to
get his legs to work. He didn't know why the soldier had let him go, but he
had to get away from the knife. He found his legs just wouldn't support him
as he collapsed into the snow at the men's feet, feeling the edges of the
jagged tear in his thigh rub each other, and curled protectively into a
ball. `Just finish it' was his only thought.
	The loud reports of the Sten cracked through Mike's brain. His body
involuntarily twitched each time, waiting for the impact of the bullets
which never came.
	"Get up, boy!" Oh God, they were still playing with him! Images of
his parents belatedly flooded his vision. He was five years old again,
crawling into the warmth of his mother's embrace.
	"Get up." Paul's dad stayed in his kneeling position. It had been
important that his shots come from below. He had to get through to the
youth for the rest of this blown plan to work. "You safe!" His English
wasn't as good as the other languages he spoke. He hoped he would get
through to the boy. He patiently waited a few minutes, then tried
again. This time he was rewarded to see the boy respond to him. He reached
over to retrieve the officer's pistol from its holster and smiled to
himself. It was also a nine millimeter. He might pull this off after all.
	Mike gently rolled away from his injured left side and stared into
the hard face of the armed civilian. He was still alive. "Where am I?" he
croaked.
	The man smiled at him, laughter dancing just beneath his
eyes. "France," he answered. "Get up!"
	After a brief struggle, fighting to suppress the pain, Mike finally
drew himself upright. The old man jerked his gun towards a small trail that
led deeper into the forest. What did the man want him to do? He began to
shiver violently as the cold reasserted itself with a vengeance. If he
lived, he was sure he would never be warm again. "Go!" The man told
him. `Where?' Mike continued to stare back and cautiously hobbled in the
direction the man had indicated, his bare feet dragging through the snow.
	Paul's dad silently watched the pale youth limp into the trees and
turned back to hiding the fact he was ever there. His teammates would see
to the boy. They would follow on a parallel trail and pick him up when they
felt it safe to do so. The boy only had to last on his own a little while
longer, until he reached the next road. Despite the obvious wound to his
leg and his reaction to the knife, the boy looked strong enough to make it
to the point he could be picked up. He strangely didn't see the boy's
reaction to the officer's knife as the cowardliness the others
might. Everybody has something they fear above everything else. The Germans
had unknowingly found his.

_________________________________________________________________________________________

	"Paul! They're here!" His mother and he'd been staring out the
windows on both sides of their old farmhouse, desperately hoping to see the
Underground, but knowing it could be Germans if his father's plan
failed. Thankfully, he'd given them instructions that would lead them to
safety if they had to escape.
	"Who's coming?" Paul raced to join his mother, ready to pull her
away if need be.
	"Relax, Paul. It is Jean." She continued to look at the approaching
figure. He had a blanket wrapped bundle thrown across his massive
shoulders. "Get more blankets. I'll be down with him in a minute." She
pushed her excited son toward the cellar stairs. She smiled at his
retreating back. He had never known of the other airmen they'd hidden in
their barn safehouse that fall. She'd have preferred they use the barn
again, but they hadn't had the time to heat it. As she noticed the bare,
cracked, blue feet sticking out from under the blanket, she knew the barn
would not be enough this time. She went to fetch the bag of medical
supplies that had been dropped to them recently.
	Jean gently placed his burden down on the pallets in the cellar and
straightened to get the kink out of his back. The boy he'd carried here was
still shivering violently, interrupted by periodic dry heaves. The results
of being carried for so long, he guessed. The Americans had to be blind to
think this one was of age. More than one of his countrymen must have turned
a blind eye to the underaged youth in order to fill some need they'd had.
	Jean sighed and moved out of the way so Paul's mother could begin
her treatment. The youth he'd carried was certainly beautiful; not perfect,
to be sure, with his slight dusting of acne marring his face, but beautiful
nonetheless. Jean felt his eyes well up as he thought about another
beautiful youth. They had loved each other until he was snatched off a
street by his enemy, never to be seen again. It had been then that Jean
threw off his coat, emblazoned with the pink triangle he'd been told to
wear, and made his escape to the countryside.
	"Why is he shaking so badly?" Paul knelt by the unresponsive prone
form of the man; no, he'd been right the first time he'd seen the American,
this `man' was not much older than he was. He could even be younger. He was
certainly shorter and of slighter build than Paul was.
	Paul brushed some of the ice out of the boy's hair, forming a wet
halo around his apparently delicate features. Paul was surprised to see the
American up close. He'd half expected to meet a hard faced cowboy. He'd
always loved the cowboy movies that were exported to Europe when he was a
child. This youth in front of him had been a warrior, but was obviously
just a boy now. Paul closed his eyes and thanked his father for listening
to him. "What is wrong?"
	"The cold has gone deep, Paul." His mother looked at the stack of
blankets covering the wounded youth. She'd managed to rebandage his leg
wound after cleaning and dusting it with sulfa powder. Thank God she had
all that experience sewing. She thought her attempt at reclosing the skin
didn't go too badly. It was the cold coursing through the youth's veins she
was most concerned with now. She remembered the time she and her husband
had spent in the Alps.
	"He needs more heat!" She knew how to handle this; "Paul! Take off
all your clothes! Now!" she directed her attention elsewhere. Paul would do
as he was told. He was no longer bashful; they had lived a farm life for
too many years. "Jean, go get me some warm water. Not hot! Just warm to the
touch!" She pulled the blankets off the nude form and motioned to
Paul. "Lie with him and hold him closely. We will use the heat from your
body."
	Paul looked at his mother like she was insane, but the tone of her
voice brooked no argument. She'd been known to take a switch to his
backside even though he'd grown taller than her years ago. He lay over the
other boy and almost recoiled completely at the cold wet skin he
contacted. His mother quickly threw the blankets over the two of them and
tucked them tightly around them, leaving just their bare lower legs
exposed. She explained to Paul that she was going to drape warm cloths on
the American's feet. They didn't feel frozen to her but she feared the
greater damage the cold still might have done. Paul felt the heat under the
blankets build until he felt he would begin sweating. He was relieved to
see the boy's eyes start to flutter, but they remained closed.
	Mike felt warm, finally. He had been picked up when he reached a
road, but all he remembered was being carried in darkness until at some
point he was no longer aware of the passage of time. Someone was holding
him, that much he knew. The feeling was also coming back to his lower legs,
adding their own pain to the existing discomfort of his thigh. He tried to
breathe through it, trying to be as quiet as possible. He was distressed to
hear the whimpers involuntarily escape his lips. His tormenters would hear
the noise and return to inflict more pain. His frustration and pain was
coursing in salty wetness down his face and he was ashamed. He couldn't let
them see him cry like the child he was, or they would win!
	"Sssh, you are safe!" Paul's mind was scrambling to find the words
in his little used English. "With friends!" He pulled the now warm body
closer to him, looking back at his mother for some reassurance. She smiled
back at the two of them.
	"You stay with him, Paul," she said. "I will see what we have to
eat for dinner. Your papa should be home soon."
	Paul wiped the American's face and stroked his bare back. He
couldn't help but marvel at the feeling. The boy he held might be slight of
build, but his time in the military had obviously made him strong
nonetheless. Paul felt his face flush as he lay there. He'd never had good
control of his body since his voice had changed. It seemed to have a mind
of its own sometimes. He quickly rearranged himself to avoid further
embarrasment should the youth in his arms suddenly wake up. Satisfied that
all was in order, he closed his own eyes to force himself into a confused
sleep with only the whimpers of the other to keep him company. He smiled
when he felt the boy's arms respond and circle him to hold on like a man
would hold the rope after falling in a well.

	Jean and Paul's mother padded down to relieve Paul for his
meal. She was surprised to see them both asleep and decided to leave them
alone with Jean to answer any questions the American might have when he
finally woke.
	Jean settled himself in a corner to begin his patient watch. He
smiled briefly to himself as he studied the two. Paul had twisted his own
body uncomfortably so his hips were flat to the pallet, even though they
still held each other. He fought back a laugh when he made out the pulsing
mound the blankets made where Paul's legs obviously met his body. He had to
remind himself that such things in someone Paul's age were often
involuntary, but if Paul did feel such an attraction, they were beautiful
together.
	He wondered what the American would think of that and hoped Paul,
if he were that way, wouldn't be hurt. Jean let his own tears flow as his
thoughts returned to that other youth, surely dead, whom he had loved. He
silently vowed that he would never let that happen to any others he had the
power to protect.
	"Where am I?" Mike opened his eyes and tried to peer into the dark
room he found himself in. He stiffened as the previous events flooded
back. He could hardly see by the dim lantern light that filtered from the
other side of the room he was in. He painfully untangled himself from the
body he'd unconciously attached himself to and looked at the curly black
hair of the other. "Who are you?"
	Jean grabbed the lantern and crossed to the two boys. He shook Paul
awake, he needed the translator. "Paul, your guest is awake!"
	"Paul?" Mike parroted the name he heard. It was the only thing he'd
understood, he now thought he had a name to go with the face next to him.
	"Yes, my name is Paul." He winced as he spoke louder than he
intended. The boy wasn't deaf, he just didn't speak French
apparently. Paul's brain was thinking quickly, trying to do the quick
translation in his head. "You are safe with we...us." The American seemed
to relax. "You are?"
	"Mike, Michael Goldman." Mike found his voice but pulled away
suddenly when Paul repositioned himself and accidentally speared him in the
balls. He hadn't realized Paul was nude as well and couldn't figure out
why...?
	"Sorry." Paul was mortified. In his worst nightmare that wouldn't
have happened. He had just been overjoyed to see Mike?, yes Mike, awake and
alive, and had forgotten his current condition." Jean, could you see if we
have any food?" he started to get more comfortable switching
languages. "Please forgive me, Michel...I mean Mike. We get you food?
Welcome to my father's house!"
	Mike collapsed back, pulling the covers back over his
shoulders. He'd somehow found friends, sanctuary. He'd stayed alive, was
alive. He slowly felt hope reenter his vocabulary. He owed Paul and his
family everything. He'd never be able to hold Paul's `accident' against
him. Besides, he'd been more shocked by the jolt of recognition and
electricity that shot through him when it happened. That Jean? yes, that
was the other's name, had laughed as if he could see through the blankets
disconcerted him, but he was ALIVE! And hungry!

__________________________________________________________________________________________

	Paul was thrilled with their new house guest. Mike was so different
from anyone he had known. He gobbled up Mike's stories about his family and
experiences in military training. He had even shot down one, maybe two, of
the enemy before he was shot down himself.
	Mike had also tried hard to be a good invalid and not chafe too
much. Paul had laughed at his reaction to using a slop bucket until his
mother decided that if Paul found it so funny, he would be the one to empty
it every morning. Paul stoically did that unpleasent duty, gladly, in
exchange for the free time he was able to spend with Mike. He even started
to teach Mike some French. The attempts usually left both of them
frustrated, as Michael, though smart, had no great talent for learning
languages.
	Paul had even started to make a comment about finally knowing
someone who was Jewish, until his dad pointedly reminded him that he'd
known a particular two-thousand-year-old Jew all his life, so he should not
find Michael all that remarkable.
	Mike had been relieved to have that conversation headed off. He
wasn't particularly religious himself and didn't feel he was well enough
versed in his own religion to hold a decent conversation. He did chafe all
the time at his forced inactivity, but hoped he hid it well. His wound was
healing, even though his leg had stiffened up, but they'd all been
surprised to see that he'd apparently escaped any major infections. Paul
explained that his mother thought it was because he'd bled so well, thus
keeping it clean. Mike didn't know if that was true, but was just glad he'd
skipped that particular trial.
	The main thing that caused him discomfort was the growing natural
reek from his body and his need for a shave. He was used to being clean
shaven, and the black fuzz on his upper lip and chin just refused to grow
into a proper mustache and beard.
	"You smell!" Paul wrinkled his nose dramatically and indicated an
old metal basin on the floor. "Stand here!" He watched as Mike slowly stood
and hobbled to the basin, wearing one of his father's old sweaters and a
pair of shorts his mother had altered from Paul's own wardrobe.
	Paul's mom grimaced as she came down the stairs carrying a steaming
bucket of clean water and some cloths. She'd watched Mike's slow
movments. That would never do! She quickly motioned for Paul to hold Mike
as she grabbed his left ankle and, with a hand behind his knee, forced the
surprised boy's leg to bend.
	"My mother says you must..." Paul still found English challenging,
"...ah...use, no...bend your leg! You must stretch your leg!"
	Mike's hands tightened their grip on Paul as his torn thigh was
stretched painfully out of the comfortable position it had settled
in. "Argh, Oh God!". He felt her release his ankle. The relief was instant,
until she started again. She did it seven or eight times, each stretching
his thigh a little more until his heel finally made contact with his ass.
	She smiled then and slapped Mike on the butt. "Good!" it was the
only English she knew.
	Mike's leg was shaking after the `treatment' it had received, but
he could put his weight on it and it surprisingly felt better after the
stretching than it had before. He didn't know whether it was because of the
treatment or just because the old woman had stopped. He hesitantly stepped
into the small metal basin at Paul's instructions and stood with a confused
look on his face.
	It dawned on him what the family wanted of him and he quickly
shucked his clothes as Paul dragged the steaming bucket closer. He had been
in the military too long to be bashful; besides, these people had seen him
performing all his usual bodily functions anyway. The only thing that
dismayed him was his loss of balance when he tried to reach a wet cloth
himself. Paul had just laughed at him again and set him back upright and
started washing him. He thought his chest and face couldn't get any hotter;
he should be able to wash himself! He relaxed entirely under the hot water
and unintentional massage he was receiving from Paul.
	Paul was glad to see Mike relax. He really had no idea how to wash
somebody else. He'd only had his own baths before this. His mother had
tried to help him prepare for this as she resumed preparing the hot
water. "Think of him as a horse!" she had said. "Start at his head and work
your way down." His father had then whispered something in her ear,
whereupon she had slapped him playfully on his arm.
	He found it impossible to think of Michael as a horse. His smooth
pale skin reminded Paul of a fine marble statue. Not cold stone, however,
but warm flesh was under his fingers and the feeling was beyond his ability
to describe it.
	Mike grew nervous again as he felt himself begin to respond to the
caresses he received. Paul had finished with his back and Mike wanted to
fend off the hands before they moved to his chest. It wasn't right for Paul
to find him in the erect state he found himself in.
	"Paul? Please let me finish," he said, trying to grab the hands
trailing down his torso. Paul and his family had seen him naked, of course;
he'd come into their home that way. They had even seen him hard before when
he woke up in the morning and they helped him with his morning routine, but
this was different. "I'm sorry."
	Paul grabbed Mike and just felt him for a moment. 'Did I do this?'
His heart beat in time to the pulse he felt in his hand. Why was he being
so forward with his new American friend? He giddily decided he didn't care,
Mike needed this release as well. "Please let me."
	He slowly stroked Mike for a moment and was pleased to see the
resistance fade as quickly as it had come. No, Micheal wasn't a horse, he
was a boy responding to his touch the way he responded to his own touch. He
was fascinated to watch when Mike reached his climax. He had to quickly
circle his arm around Mike to keep his wobbly friend on his feet. He looked
into the American's eyes. Mike was afraid!
	"I am sorry. I should not have!" Paul instantly regretted what he'd
done. He had crossed an unspeakable line, put his new friendship at
risk. He kicked himself mentally. Mike clearly did not feel the same way he
did.
	"No, it's not you. It's me!" Mike stared at the beautiful French
boy who'd been trying so hard to make him welcome. "I didn't mind! Don't
worry, you just surprised me."
	Mike stepped out of the basin and, with Paul's help, managed to
shrug himself back into his clothes. "Thank you, Paul. Please don't feel
bad, I just have a lot to think about." Mike collapsed onto his pallet and
curled into a ball as Paul continued to clean up around him. His new
feelings were almost as frightening as the situation that had brought him
here.
	Paul finished carrying the water and basin up the stairs. He
quickly crawled into his own bed and tried to ignore the tears on his
cheeks. He had fucked up!