Goodwin Prescott


segment eleven

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Watching the sport with great amusement from above was the trooper who had slashed Tyler's thigh, the dagger still clutched in his left fist. It was not an ordinary weapon. It's golden hilt was beautifully inlaid with precious gems and a huge blood-red ruby glinted at the end of the handle.

The weapon was very old and had been in his family's keeping for more generations than the handsome, dark-haired young stud could really comprehend. It was a proud service and he took it seriously. The knife never left his custody except to be surrendered to his master when the man desired its use, a strange ceremonial tradition that they both honored while not really understanding why or how it had originated.

Like his companions, Massimox Gilfretti, an Italian baron in his own right, had stripped to his gray boxers to avoid splashing blood on his tunic and to more comfortably enjoy the proceedings. Of course he never removed the iron cross awarded to him personally by Himmler when Otto introduced him to the leader during a clandestine trip to Berlin a year before. The decoration dangled now from its ribbon around his strong young neck.

His penis had hardened in excitement at the killing spectacle in the basement and was jutting out of the piss slit of his boxers, thick and veined with its perfect head flared out widely. He would eventually give it the reward of ejaculation but that would come later, in private with a victim of his choice. It was an honor Otto always extended his most trusted aide when they had a group of prisoners on hand for interrogation and execution.

He was just twenty-two but had been at Otto's side since he was stationed in Rome five years before, taking up the dedicated servitude of his bloodline at a more tender age than normal. His father had been gassed in World War One and, not long after Max was born in 1922, had died from the long-term effects, his lungs ruined.

Of course, Max secretly stood for Maximilian but since he was now part of the Italian aristocracy, much to his dislike, the more Latin Massimox was officially used. Otto, planning even in 1939 for a possible future need to cover war-time indiscretions, had given his protege the alias of Danilo Corsini. Though not a German, or even an Austrian citizen, Max had been quite proud when Himmler adopted him into the SS at Otto's request and assigned him to the agent's security detachment.

Otto had had a reason for that. It put the young man under his direct supervision at a time when fit youths in central Europe were likely to be forced into service in someone's army if not protected. He was very fond of Max and had no intention of the boy becoming a wartime sadistic.

He passed for an Italian with greater ease than the more Germanic appearing Otto. His mother had been a ravishingly beautiful Italian noblewoman and from her he had received his own stunning good looks and tall, sensuous body. She had actually been rather pleased when, reluctantly, the ancient Giltfestung name was modified. No one realized that Gilfretti was much closer in sound to the original french Guilfort from so long ago.

It took a long time for the rat-food American to succumb and he screamed and writhed until almost the end. Max had been watching the GI officer in the cage, studying the clear anguish of the man, really a youth of his own age, as he watched his soldiers suffering and dying.

I like his looks and body, all slim and sensuous like a purebred greyhound, sleek and powerful. He is also gutsy. Most men would have given in to Otto's inducements, but he won't break. If he can stand there and let that blond in the pit be eaten alive by those disgusting rats, he can withstand anything.

He decided to ask Otto to let him have the officer as his own toy. Except for himself, all of the men, including Otto, had masturbated to orgasm as they watched the prolonged agonies of the rat-execution.

That exhausted the sport for the day and they would recess the killing orgy until the next morning, but Max had a dire need to satisfy his own blood lust. Not one to deny his loved pet much of anything, Otto readily agreed that the American lieutenant was not going to tell them anything and might as well be disposed of.

He laughed, eyeing the cock still jutting urgently from his young companion's boxers,

Left alone with the caged officer, he gazed with growing excitement at Dom and Dom stared right back, hatred radiating like fire in the furious face.

Interesting. I will have to be very careful taking him on alone for the killing. He is dangerous in his rage and will not just peacefully suffer and die to please my whims. The challenge just whetted the young baron's appetite and he approached the bars, the gleaming stiletto blade of the heirloom dagger behind his back.

That was true enough but Dom wasn't sure what to believe. He didn't trust the other man but he certainly did look Italian, not unlike Dom himself. In his uncertainty he stepped closer to the bars as Max motioned him urgently forward.

When the officer was hovering close against the side of the cage, their heads nearly together, the bodies so close that he could smell the musky, male aroma of his prey's scent, Max ended the charade. With fluid, quick movement his arm came around from behind him and drove forward. The blade sank into Dom's lower belly nearly to the hilt and was given a harsh, vicious twist. The point had entered the vital point just below the navel, almost obliterating the little indentation itself.

Dom staggered violently from the bars, his head thrown back in a rictus of sheer agony, the muscles of his tall, graceful body flexed in steely cords beneath his tawny skin. Blood spat from around the knife handle protruding from his gut as he stood there frozen in paralytic agony. He had never imagined anything could hurt so much.

In slow motion, his legs betrayed him and he collapsed to his knees, then toppled to one side. He was vaguely aware that his attacker had entered the cage and it hurt horribly as the knife was jerked from his belly, evoking a sharp scream as the pain broke through and became more than he could handle.

He felt the hand grip his big manhood and heft it and knew what Max was about to do, but was helpless to resist. He could only lie there and wait for the new agony as the cutting began.


Plans changed abruptly overnight. Instead of a leisurely continuation of the killing orgy in the basement, pandemonium reigned. The Americans had cracked a section of the Gothic Line and were pouring through the gap, forcing a new retreat.

The new US Mountain Division, its existence only vaguely known to the Germans, had worked its way over seemingly impossible terrain to hit the entrenched enemy from the rear. Composed of America's best climbers and skiers, many of them college students before the war, it had been specifically designed for the task it now executed with such devastating success.

Further, spooked into the open, axis units became ready targets for the allied fighters controlling the skies. As they hastily packed up their two staff cars and the one truck allotted to them, a sole spitfire came wheeling in to strafe the group. In the churning torrent of bullets three of the SS troopers were mowed down, riddled where they stood, and one of the cars exploded in a fireball, the shrapnel chewing a fourth trooper into hamburger.

Furious, Otto abandoned his original intention to just go into the basement and shoot the three remaining Americans before leaving the area. He now wanted revenge of a more extended nature. He, Max and the sole surviving SS trooper, Hans Lohrbach, a tough, fanatic boy Nazi, fresh from the Hitler Youth and just nineteen, brimming with muscle and itching to avenge his dead comrades, hustled the trio of prisoners into the back of the truck. Bound and gagged, they joined their captors in a hasty trip north from the burning village, mixed with a wide assortment of other German military traffic.

Late in the afternoon, using a dirt road through a forest to both exit the general mix of the withdrawing forces and to keep cover from marauding planes, they blew both front tires on the truck. Cursing, Otto and his two aides transferred the most critical gear from the now useless vehicle into the one command car remaining.

High time, he decided, to rid ourselves of our guests. They will be impossible to transport further and there is no reason for that anyway.

They dragged one of the naked GI's from the truck and untied him, ordering him to lock his hands behind his head. Glaring with resentment, the handsome, stocky youngster obeyed as Max and Hans leveled the muzzles of their machine pistols at him.

The boy was under no illusions about his fate. He had seen the savage killings in the village basement the day before and given up any hope of returning alive to his home in Mississippi. His name was Jeremy Wells, the son of a poor white farmer near Jackson, a gifted high school wrestler who'd eagerly joined the army right after Pearl Harbor at age seventeen.

His biggest regret as he stood there in the forest clearing was that the Italian-looking Nazi had survived the morning's air raid. He hated him with all his heart after the way he had castrated the lieutenant, taking his time and relishing every bloody second of the torture. He had actually brought Dom's big cock and balls, taken off as one piece at the neck, over to their cell and taunted them with the organs.

Tommy Scott, now the youngest in their group with poor Danny Shaver having been executed, had been reduced to hysterics as the severed manhood, tossed at them like a morsel of meat to a pack of hounds, bounced off his broad, young chest leaving a smear of blood on the skin. He'd had to slap the screaming, sandy-haired nineteener to get him to regain a grip on himself.

Of course he reflected bitterly, I'm not exactly an old man myself. He was just barely twenty as he stood there and waited to be shot down.

At least the bastards are in a big hurry so it'll be quick for the three of us, not like those poor fuckers yesterday.

He surmise had some merit but was not really correct. Otto, Max and Hans were indeed rushed, but not in all that big of a hurry.

Every muscle in the hard, naked body recoiled like a taut spring and his breath burst from his lips in a loud, gasping rush as if he'd been punched in the gut by a mailed fist. It had happened with stunning speed. Otto's one hand shot out to grab the boy's manhood and jerk it up to expose the vulnerable neck. The other had the knife and he castrated Jeremy with one quick swipe.

Unable to even quite understand what had just been done, the GI collapsed into a squat, his clenched hands on his knees, unable to even try to touch that precious, sensitive area of his body that now was sending out ungodly blasts of intolerable pain. The agony chewed at his entire being like the sharp-toothed rats that had devoured Tyler even as blood fountained from the gaping wound between his parted thighs.

The emasculated hunk sank to his knees, then over into a pre-natal position, clutching his ruined crotch with both hands as blood continued to spurt through the tight grasp of his fingers. After enjoying his agony for a short while, all three Nazi's pumped a torrent of slugs into the wounded prisoner and, as a final insult, Max stuffed the severed genitals into his dead mouth.

Otto laughed.

Hans studied the remaining pair and pointed to the boy with curly, sandy hair. "That one. He's hung real nice and will be fun to cut."

His choice, Tommy Scott, was left in the truck as they hauled forth Dana Horton, a big, brawny muscleboy of twenty-three, a football quarterback at Tulane who's college education had been interrupted by the war. Another sergeant, he went to his death with calm dignity, determined not to reward his captors with panic nor shame himself by pleading. He offered no resistence as his arms were bound behind him.

It hurt horribly when they stuffed his cock with a wooden dowel to force it to unremitting erection, apparently just to enjoy his discomfort. He managed to handle that without giving them the satisfaction of a scream. He stood stoically as they painted a series of three target rings over his stomach and abs, the bull's-eye containing the little pool of his belly button.

He figured they intended to stage a pistol competition using him as a live target but that proved not to be the plan. His eyes widened as he saw the small crossbow that Otto brought from his baggage and held up for him to see.

Max and Hans, almost giggling, agreed that would be a very bad thing indeed. Dana's opinion was not noted as they paced away from him and Otto turned and took careful aim. He was actually a crack shot with the bow and could have placed a perfect arrow from much further away but there was no need to show off. There was some urgency, after all, to be gone before the advancing Americans arrived at this bloody scene.

Dana, transfixed like a mouse before a snake, just stood there, waiting and still, a perfect target.

There was a soft thunk as the trigger was fired, a thwack as the string slammed forward, a hiss as the bolt cut the air and a wet smacking whump as the point pierced the navel square in the center of the innermost ring.

His face a distorted grimace, mouth wide in a silent scream, Dana staggered at the tremendous blow to his belly, bowled backwards until he fell to one knee, blood pouring from where the feathered haft of the arrow protruded from his stomach, almost flush with the skin.

Otto cranked the bowstring back again, charged an arrow into the slot, then handed the weapon to Max. Eagerly the baron stepped closer to the wounded man on his knees before him and fired the second bolt into the target rings on the lower gut. Hans too was given a chance to put an arrow into Dana and, intentionally or not, he missed the rings low, his bolt slamming square into the sergeant's crotch, virtually obliterating his genitals.

At that ultimate insult to his person, Dana finally lost control and screamed for his captors, long and hard and shrilly.

After Otto dispatched him with a shot through the head, they turned their attentions to the final captive, pretty-faced Tommy Scott, about to be used as a messenger to his American comrades.

When the boy was found several hours later, the medics regarded it as nothing short of a miracle that he was still alive. By rights even his strong heart should have given in to shock and blood loss after what had been done to him. But the saving grace was that he was one of those men who's blood had especially strong coagulating power and the flow from his wounds had abated enough to keep him just barely alive until rescue arrived. With a tremendous will to live he had also stayed conscious, essential to survival. Had he lapsed into unconsciousness he'd have died just as Otto had expected.

He was never aware that the last prisoner had lived and had he known he'd have been utterly incredulous.

The eyes of the first troops to reach the clearing had widened in stark horror. Tommy's right hand was bound to his right thigh, the left hand and foot nailed to a tree stump, leaving him in an awkward posture with the left knee raised and that thigh splayed outward. Into the smooth skin of that left thigh had been carved the words..."GI's Die." The tip of the ancient Von Ritter dagger had also etched the swastika on the right upper chest.

A noose was snuggled around Tommy's neck and if he had dropped down in a faint, he'd have been throttled. Of course, Hans had indeed experienced the thrill of castrating him, but had taken off just the balls, not the penis, which also probably was a key to the boy's miraculous survival. In a final taunting message, the Nazis had rammed a slim stake in the ground at his feet and impaled the severed scrotum and testicles on it.

There was no sign of the trio of Nazis described by Tommy nor were they ever identified.