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The Yanks Are Coming

MB, anal, inc

September 1918, outside Verdun, France


A bullet ripped into the right shoulder of Corporal Henry Gunderson. The man – if you can call an eighteen-year-old a man – lost consciousness, and when he came to, his unit was gone. He spent the next several hours wandering about in search of his comrades, and as the sun began to set he decided to seek shelter in a farmhouse that he saw in the distance.

Henry knocked on the door of the small structure and a young boy of eleven or twelve opened the door. The boy was stunning with dark black hair and skin a shade darker than one usually found this far north of the Mediterranean. Henry liked boys and had enjoyed messing around with some friends back in Minnesota, but he was still wrestling with these shameful feelings which gave him such torment. He smiled at the boy, who was obviously quite scared to see a hunky, foreign soldier standing on his doorstep. Henry pointed at the American flag on his uniform to let him know he was on the Allied side of the Great War.

 

"Qui est là?" came a voice from within.

 

"Un soldat, Papa. Un américain."

 

A man of about thirty appeared in the doorway, looking somewhat alarmed.

 

"Vous êtes américain?" he asked.

 

Henry didn't really know any French, but he could understand what was being asked of him. Henry smiled again, nodded his head and pointed once more at the flag on his uniform.

 

"Ah, entrez, entrez," the man said, bidding Henry to come inside.

 

Upon entering, Henry cast his eyes around the sparsely furnished house. The French man saw that his guest was bleeding and said something to his son, who then scrambled up the stairs. Henry took delight in watching the boy's ass cheeks bounce provocatively in his short pants as he ran upstairs, and his pederastic gaze did not escape the notice of the kid's father. The man gave Henry a wry smile and led him to a chair, and a few moments later the boy bounded back down the stairs with a bottle and some bandages. He handed these to his father, who dressed Henry's wound while his son looked on with keen interest. There was no sign that any woman lived in the modest dwelling.

 

"Je suis Phillipe Angers," he said pointing to himself, "et c'est ici mon fils Jean-Luc."

 

"Henry," the lost American answered, "Henry Gunderson."

 

Phillipe then shouted something to his son who then disappeared once again, only to return minutes later with a plate of food.

 

"Mangez, monsieur," Jean-Luc said as he placed the steaming plate in front of the corporal.

 

The dish contained a sort of stew with sausage and beans, and Henry found it to be most delicious. Jean-Luc's father poured some wine into a cup and pushed it towards Henry, who took a nice big sip.

 

Phillipe and his son tried to ask Henry some other questions, but he didn't understand them. Henry finished his hearty meal and polished off a few cups of wine, and became quite sleepy. He yawned, and Jean-Luc took him by the hand and led him upstairs to bed. Henry stripped off his uniform, collapsed onto the comfortable mattress, and immediately drifted off to slumber land.

 

In the middle of a pleasant dream, Henry suddenly awoke. He had heard a noise and sat up with a start, momentarily forgetting where he was. The soldier instinctively reached for the rifle which he had laid against the wall and all of the preceding day's events came back to him, the bullet, the desperate search for his unit, the farmhouse, the sumptuous yet simple dinner and the kind boy and his father. He listened intently and heard the noise once more. He recognized it as a moan. A moan of pleasure. Sexual pleasure.

 

"Oui, Papa, c'est si bon, c'est si bon."

 

Henry was astonished and felt his prick harden instantly. He was tired, but it had been a long time since his meat had seen any action besides his own right hand.

 

"Ah, Jean-Luc, que j'aime ton cul!" the boy's father replied.

 

Henry couldn't believe his ears. It sounded like the man was having sex with his own son! This he had to see! Horny as hell, Henry scrambled out of bed and tiptoed down the stairs. Once at the bottom, he peeked around the wall, and his eyes almost popped out of their sockets. Jean-Luc was bent over the kitchen table where Henry had so recently eaten, and his father stood behind him thrusting his hips into the boy.

 

Henry's cock was throbbing inside his underwear, and he had to release it. He squeezed it hard as he watched the French man sodomize his son. Why was he doing this? Was this acceptable practice in France? How tight is the boy's ass? What happened to the boy's mother? Where did she go? How old was the kid anyway?

 

He couldn't be more than twelve. Fairly young to get fucked, especially by his own father!

 

These questions washed over Henry's mind and mingled with the electric sensations that resulted from the actions of his masturbatory fingers. Henry stared intently at the father-son coupling, his tongue lolling out of his mouth as he watched Phillipe bugger Jean-Luc. Phillipe's muscular ass cheeks rippled as he flexed his groin in and out of the boy's little hole. Henry was pulling harder and harder on his own pud and suddenly stumbled on the stairs, which made quite a racket.

 

"Fuck," Henry exclaimed, embarrassed at giving himself away.

 

Phillipe looked over at his guest-turned-peeping-Tom and, without missing a beat of his rhythmic incestuous fucking, smiled at the American. He gestured for Henry to come over and join them, and Henry complied as if caught in a hypnotic trance.

 

"Le cul de mon fils est magnifique, monsieur. Ma femme est morte il y a plusieurs ans, et Jean-Luc est la seule personne qui je peux enculer."

 

Henry had no idea what Phillipe was saying but didn't care. He was totally enraptured by the close-up view of Phillipe fucking the young boy, and Jean-Luc looked up and gave him a smile that reflected a mixture of sweetness and lust.

 

"Enculez-moi, Monsieur, enculez-moi!" He panted, and then licked his lips lasciviously.

 

Was the boy asking me to fuck him?, Henry wondered.

 

"Tu le veux?" Phillipe asked and withdrew from his son.

 

He pointed at the boy's firm ass, now quivering in the air as if he desperately needed a prick to be inserted back into him. Henry didn't need to be asked twice and moved to fill-in (literally) for the boy's father. Jean-Luc seemed to approve, as he continued to moan in delight. Phillipe went off to the side and beat his meat as he watched the American insert his penis into his son's butt.

 

Henry couldn't believe how tight the kid was. He plowed his dick in and out of the boy's vise-like ass and ran his horny hands over Jean-Luc's smooth ass cheeks. His ass was so smooth and soft, so tight, so pretty. Fuck, it almost seemed to have made it worth it for Henry to have come across the ocean to fight the Kaiser.

 

Henry ran his hands underneath the boy and felt the kids cock and balls, both of which seemed to be completely hairless. Fuck the kid was young. Henry still couldn't believe he was dipping his wick in such a young, hairless, little, French boy. All too soon Henry felt a stirring deep inside his balls, and a few thrusts later they exploded like two hand grenades lobbed into no-man's land.

 

"Fuckkkk, yeahhhhh!" Henry yelled as his climax washed over him.

 

He continued to pump in and out of the boy's fanny until the feeling subsided, and then withdrew and collapsed into a chair. He poured himself a cup of wine and Phillipe resumed his incestuous position behind his son. Henry enjoyed the wine and the afterglow of his orgasm as he watched Phillipe vigorously fuck the kid. Eventually, Phillipe himself started to howl and yell something in French, and Henry knew the perverted Gallic man was shooting his sperm up his son's pre-pubescent ass.

 

Henry drank a few more cups of wine with Jean-Luc and Phillipe before he returned to bed. In the morning he set out to find his unit, as he knew he was needed to help push the Germans back across the Hindenburg line.

 

Jean-Luc and his father watched Henry walk away as the sun climbed its way into the sky. They would always remember him fondly even though they never saw or heard from him again.

 

Henry, like so many fine, young men before him, would not make it out of France alive; three days later Henry was hit by a bullet while lost in a daydream about Jean-Luc's ass.