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Urotsukidoji - Overfiend ‘44: The Hell Portal.	By : Nickamano Category: +S to Z > Urotsuki-doji Views: 1508 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Neither Urotsukidoji or any related materials are owned by me. This was created for entertainment purposes only, and I am not profiting financially from the creation of this story.

Chapter List
- 11
- 12
- 13
Chapter 11.
Greta became aware of the gossiping guards mainly because her food slot had been left open by the strange and freakish boy. It provided her with a very welcome distraction from the noises of her poor sister’s continuing assault, which felt like it had been going on for most of the night, though Greta had no real concept of the passage of time. Still she trained her ear to focus on the clearer and deeper voices of the two guards outside, who were at least for a while, incidentally drowning out Milena’s gangrape.
“… So, they’ve been working hard upstairs on the preparations, security requirements for his arrival as well as finishing the construction of the apparatus. That Munhihausen’s a bloody madman! Really pushing those workers beyond their limits. “
“So what? Most of them are Jews.”
“They’re still people, over-worked, under-fed, whipped, beaten…”
“Don’t let any of the brass hear you talking like that. You’ll be for it. First train to the Eastern front. Or firing-squad.”
“I know, but this is ridiculous. I’m a musician, for crying out loud. I’ve played with Jews and even a couple of Blacks, and they’re every bit as normal as us. This ‘Master Race’ stuff hails from sickly minds and fevered brains.”
“You won’t get any argument from me, but it doesn’t change the fact that anyone who disagrees gets dragged off by the SS never to be seen again.”
They had hushed their conversation to little more than whispers, however they appeared to have paused outside Greta’s cell, she remained silent and still, her eyes shut, feigning sleep as she listened intently.
“It’s all crap though, I mean we both know these poor girls down here are almost all full breed Germans. Heck, some of them are even perfect examples of what ‘The Great Leader’ considers the perfect Aryan. We’ve both seen the cinema pictures…”
“Propaganda.” The other one gave a short snide bark of a laugh.
“Exactly, so how can they be locked up down here and treated like this? No one could justify it!”
“I know, I know, but you need to change the record, my friend. There’s nothing we can do about any of this and you know it, we just keep our heads down, do our jobs and hope not to do anything that’ll get us sent east.”
There was a deep exasperated sigh from one of the two guards, which was inwardly mimicked by Greta herself. She had felt a moment’s hope that maybe these two would take pity on them and let them go free. Though that hope was just as quickly popped, like a virgin’s chastity at the Spring Equinox.
“C’mon… Let’s just change the subject. When is ‘The Great Leader’ supposed to be arriving?”
“The Sergeant overheard one of the brass liaising with one of the Fuhrer’s SS go-betweens an hour or two ago.”
“And?”
“And apparently he’s ‘definitely coming’.”
“So, I suppose that means whatever Doctor Munhihausen’s doing up there really is that important?”
“Successful is what he had better be if ‘The Great Leader’ is making a personal appearance. Imagine if, whatever he’s supposed to be doing, fails…?”
“God help him…”
Greta strained to hear the two men’s conversation however, Milena’ gasping moans and whimpering and the grunts and sadistic cursing of the men raping her were starting to take precedence again.
“…I’m not sure God is anywhere in that man’s vicinity… More like the Devil…”
“…Doctor Munhihausen?”
“The Fuhrer.”
“Damn man, keep your voice down…”
And then it was just Milena’s violent torture again. And Greta pressed her hands over her ears and wept, praying for a pillow or a key to her cell.
She forced herself to admit, hating herself as she allowed the realisation to overcome her, that she didn’t even want to think about saving her sister, of being all heroic and rescuing everyone taken from their town. She just wanted to run, to leave it all behind. Even being shot and killed while trying to escape would be preferable to this.
<><><>
Brooks and Clay had given up grumbling to each other. They had, as usual, been tasked with the dirty job of dragging the dead Germans outside and dumping them under some discarded flour sacks at the bottom of the backyard. Including the dead German who they had killed while he’d been taking a shit. It was always the same, the two blacks getting the worst jobs.
Kahn’s knife wound was being patched up by the younger of the two German women, who the learned was the twenty-something year old daughter of the forty-something year old that Brooks had discovered upstairs, and that the two of them ran the bakery. Kahn was dismissive and downplaying the obviously painful yet apparently not debilitating cut.
Wesson was out for the count with a skull fracture and a knife wound in the gut. He might pull through but he certainly couldn’t be moved, let alone fight. He would have to be left in the Bakery.
Foster was battered and bruised and maybe had a broken rib or two, but he was just about fighting fit. As was Carson, even though he had a knife slash to his ribs. The German girl had stitched it up already.
It was also revealed to be the older woman’s father who was bedridden upstairs. Apparently, having been questioned by Shaw, the SS guards had acquisitioned the bakery as their forward operating base. Not least because of the fresh bread on tap, and the two defenceless women on hand. The mother had bargained with the SS officer that she would see to all of their ‘needs’ on the condition that no one put their hands on her daughter and the soldiers had agreed.
The girl became waitress, seamstress, housekeeper and cook while the mother was made to prostitute herself as well. And all the while, the two of them struggled to keep the bakery going with the unruly influence and demands of the SS troops snapping at their heels.
Shaw had assured her that, even though they were ‘the enemy’, no one in their group would assault or abuse either herself, her daughter or her father. And they would only be occupying the Bakery for a few hours. Brooks himself had only been able to grab snatches of this news through Salvatore’s rather insolent insistence that Shaw translate everything being spoken between himself and the woman back into English for everyone’s benefit.
Clay and Carson hauled Wesson upstairs into the middle bedroom so he could rest and recuperate, or die, quietly. And the girl agreed to take care of him as best she could.
The Americans were finishing off cleaning the place up as the Poles and Bodie entered and then moved around the house checking each room, locking all the doors and, even with blackout curtain in place, dousing every light other than that in the kitchen / sitting room.
Bodie and Shaw maintained a protective proximity to the German mother and daughter while the Poles wandered around, cursing the women under their breath and casting cruel looks at them. Enough innocent Poles had been assaulted, brutalised, tortured and murdered by Germans that it had become increasingly hard to separate hatred for combatants from innocent civilians on the enemy side. But the Poles seemed to recognise the protection offered the woman and kept their abuses to the odd verbal grunt or under-the-breath cursing.
Finally, loaves of bread and a little wine were shared out amongst the group, except for Teufel, who turned up his nose at the meagre meal. And, once again the group gathered around a kitchen table to plan, this time with the blueprints Segen had supplied them and they started to work out their entry and progression.
Brooks was toward the rear of the double layer of bodies surrounding the table and found himself standing beside Teufel and the pretty young Polish fighter Zofia who were standing arm in arm though listening to Shaw and Kahn discussing the best strategies. Brooks allowed his eyes to flow over the Polish girl’s pretty curves, noticing Teufel’s hand gripping her bottom over her canvass trousers while her hand was around his slender waist, lifting the back of his half tucked-in shirt and revealing a proud and taut musculature beneath his clothing. He glanced up and caught Teufel’s expressionless eye on him.
“You sure your sister’s okay, buddy?” He asked suddenly, trying to hide his embarrassment at being caught looking.
“Sure. Hopefully, she’ll be back here before we leave.”
“Don’t you worry about her running around the Enemy’s capital all on her own?”
“Nope. Why, you think I should?”
Brooks couldn’t read the young Japanese lad, but he got the impression he was poking fun at him and it embarrassed him slightly, recognising that Clay would have gotten pissed off. And that he wanted to be more like Clay, all nerve and moxie. Teufel seemed to recognise a moment of confusion in Brooks’ face and decided to let him off the hook.
“She’s not in any danger, she’s a bad-ass. Just like me!” The lad gave him a toothy grin that an alligator would be proud of.
“bad-ass?” Brooks repeated the strange word combination, smiling at the sound of it. “I like that.”
“You can use it. I won’t charge a fee.”
The back and forth was abruptly cut short by a change in expression and eye line from Teufel. Brooks turned to follow his gaze but saw nothing except the rear wall of the sitting room. He cast his eyes over bare flowery wallpaper and a block of inky shadow that stretched from the corner, slanting downward until it met a large wooden wireless set on a small table and a comfortable looking settee. And other than Teufel, everyone else was still busy going over the blueprints and the minutiae of their planning.
“I hope you’re including little old me in those plans Mister Lieutenant, sir?” Came a playful girlish voice from the shadows.
Segen stepped out of the shadows as if she had been standing there for quite some time, without anyone noticing or hearing her enter. It shocked the Americans and the German women who were cleaning up in the kitchen but the Brits and Poles were used to the two Japanese teens coming and going in abrupt silence.
Teufel grinned and winked at his sister as she came around to stand near him, and Brooks.
Brooks casually glanced over at Carson and Kahn but neither man seemed particularly interested in the girl’s return. So, Brooks turned his attention back to her.
She was glowing in the artificial light suspended above the kitchen table. Her skin and clothes wet, catching and refracting the light. Her leather trousers and jacket glistened their skin-tightness practically showing off the pronounced musculature in her long, supple legs. The hefty jacket of course, obscured much of her upper torso, though being open at the front and her silken blouse being as saturated as the rest of her, Segen’s skin tone and the curves of her C-cup breasts were visible where the silk clung to her faultless skin. Her hair, though protected by the brown canvas cap with water droplets rhythmically loosing themselves from its shallow peak, seemed even bluer than usual, as though the wetness was bringing out the blue tone through the Oriental black. She caught his gaze for a moment and flashed him a sultry smile before a clipped British accented question diverted her attention to those crowding the table.

“Ah, Miss Segen. Did you find out anything interesting during your travels?”
“Complications, Mister Shaw. But nothing to concern yourselves, or the mission.” The Japanese girl replied, before turning to her brother. “I need to talk to you, bro…”
“…It turns out one of the Triumvirate is involved.”
“What? Not Suikakujyu, he died in Kanto...”
“No… One of the others.”
“You’d best fill me in…”
Even though Segen had said her news wouldn’t affect the mission, Shaw decided to take a break until the two kids had done with their one-to-one.
The interruption to the plans gave everyone else the chance for a break and the Americans, Poles and Brits mingled at random, people grouping together to exchange pleasantries and war stories or to discuss the two Oriental kids.
Brooks found it slightly strange, their numbers had dwindled now to a half-dozen and three of those were walking wounded. There were as many Poles now as Americans.
He stood beside Kasia listening to her informing an attentive Foster about the first German she had killed - with a half-brick apparently. While in the background he was half aware that a small group were chatting about Segen.
“How’d she even know to find us here?” Carson had growled.
“Maybe her brother told her when she handed over those blueprints.” Klich pointed out.
“She once told me she had an amazing sense of smell...” Kasia put in, slipping over into the parallel conversation.
“Oh c’mon. That’s obviously just bullshit.” Carson said, still growling.
“…And then she went on to tell me what I had for breakfast, how far off my period was and when I last made love. Accurately, I should add.”
“I think she’s a witch.” Bodie suggested.
“A witch? Really?”
“Why not?” Bdie said defensively.
“Sure, she can certainly put a glamour on just about any man she comes across. Isn’t that right Private Brooks.” Clay put in, dead pan.
Like Kasia, Clay wasn’t part of the initial conversation, though he was listening in from another nearby group that included Zofia and Furman.
“Huh?... What’re you getting me involved for?” Brooks countered. “You all should keep your guessing to yourselves.”
“Well, as long as she stays out of my way.” Carson grunted.
He then jumped as Segen’s face appeared right at the side of his, a teasing smile curling her full, glamourous lips.
“Boo!” She said playfully.
“Fuck!” Carson snarled, enraged.
Kasia laughed wholeheartedly, joining Segen’s own childlike giggles and the amusement of most of the others. Though Brooks noticed dour expressions from both Kahn and Salvatore who were watching from their little gathering with Shaw and Piszczek on the far side of the table. And then he noticed an incensed Carson suddenly yank out his trench knife, with its brass-knuckle hilt, from its sheath under his SS jacket and spin around to face Segen, knife coming up in a nasty slash toward her lovely face.
“You fucking cunt!” He snarled.
Brooks, Clay, Kasia all reached for him but he was too fast.
But then the knife was no longer in his hand, it was in Segen’s. And her smile had gone, replaced with a decidedly derisive looking curl of the lip. There was an azure fire in her eyes, the distinct cold blue of a gas oven flame.
Carson stood incredulous, trying to understand how his knife had gone from his possession to the girl’s. And then she snapped the blade with her bare hands and as if it was a matchstick and twisted the loose oval of the brass-knuckle hilt across itself, forming a figure-of-eight.
“You have to do better than that, I’m afraid.” She said, casually handing back the pieces of his knife.
“Sis, come over here and tell these guys what you told me.” Teufel said from the far side of the table.
He was standing deliberately in between Kahn and Salvatore who were both staring at Segen with a precise mixture of anger and fear.
“If everyone would get a little rest, then check your equipment. We’re heading out in one hour.” Shaw said lifting his voice unnecessarily, as the room was in almost complete silence.
<><><>
Within the hour everyone was back in the truck, weapons oiled, cleaned and reloaded. In a couple of cases uniforms had been swapped around to provide a better fit. And a couple of them had discovered additional uniforms in the upstairs rooms, probably spares for the men stationed there. So, a couple of the Poles donned them.
Clambering into the back of the truck, they took up the same positions as earlier, though Segen had deliberately chosen to slide herself gleefully onto Carson’s lap, while Zofia sat on Teufel’s again - and not exclusively to ensure there was enough room for everyone in the rear of the truck’s cargo bed.
Even though it was dark in the back of the truck, with the only viable illumination coming in from the city lights outside the damp canvas, Clay switched his horny gaze between his Sergeant and the Japanese girl on the opposite side of the truck, and the saucy Polish girl and Japanese boy sitting beside him.
Segen was amusingly infuriating Carson. She had an arm around his shoulder holding her body tight against his. Plus, she had her amazing ass up high on his lap, right over his cock. And she wouldn’t keep still, rocking her hips from side to side and slowly gyrating. Clay had no doubts about the physical response that would be producing in Carson’s pants, no matter how much he apparently hated her.
As before, Teufel and Zofia were enjoying first and second base shenanigans with Teufel already pushing for third base with a hand rummaging down the front of Zofia’s unfastened trousers. Trying not to pay attention to the fact that he could smell the Polish girl’s sweet pussy - sitting so close to them, Clay wondered about what they were doing. It didn’t seem wise to him to get yourself all worked up only minutes before going into combat. Then again it was certainly stress relieving and calming, distracting.
He realised he was wishing for a little pre-combat action himself. He wouldn’t say no to pulling that thirty-something Kasia up ono his lap. Sitting directly opposite, he let his eye roll over her tense, upright body. She had some very nice curves that could probably fill his big hands. And he was sure she would find his gun impressive. She caught him looking and he smiled at her but she didn’t return the smile. She looked tense, even afraid. Clay didn’t want to think about where they were headed and what was waiting for them, so he turned his gaze back toward Segen and Carson just in time.
“Is that something in your pocket, Sergeant?” Segen teased, rocking her buttocks back and forth. “Feels like a banana… Or maybe an iron pipe?”
Carson cursed and tried to tip the girl from his lap but she was too secure and well balanced.
“Get off!” He snarled.
Opposite Clay, Kasia was laughing heartily.
“Why I do believe he is blushing!”
Kasia’s laughter intensified and a few more titters were joining in. Clay recognised a breaking of the thick tension pervading the rear of the truck. At least temporarily.
“Get off me, find somewhere else to sit.”
“Oh, c’mon Sergeant, you know you like it. Besides, I’m as light as a feather!”
“Crazy bitch.”
Clay saw Segen glance opposite to Kahn and following her look, Clay noticed that even the Lieutenant was smirking and was having to turn his face a little, trying to hide the effect Segen’s teasing of Carson was having on him.
He looked back to his right at Teufel and Zofia, their lips locked and mouthing in unison with liberal suction and tongue action, apparently oblivious to everything in the world but the two of them.
Clay heard a long, exasperated sigh issue from Carson coinciding with the fading of the laughter, and he looked back at his Sergeant. Segen was still actively teasing him with her body. And as Clay watched the Sergeant appeared to give in to it. Maybe having no way of affecting Segen’s teasing or of expressing his sense of annoyance and frustration with her meaningfully - rightly believing that if he did, he would endure the ire and violence of, Clay assumed, everyone else coming down on him. Including more than one of Carson’s own subordinates, certainly Brooks and more than likely Clay himself.
Instead he apparently decided to embrace the girl’s overt sexual teasing and so, staring her in the eye with open defiance, he reached down with one hand and coped himself a hearty feel of her perfectly formed and steel-hard ass. Segen smiled and purred like a kitten while her stroked her smooth hips and buttocks and ran fingers down the cleft of her buttocks, feeling for the not so subtle zones of heat between her perfect cheeks.
“Now you’re speaking my language Sergeant.” She cooed gutturally.

“I think we’re coming up to it.” Kasia murmured suddenly.
Clay looked her way, allowing his gaze to slide over her sexy curviness one more time before following her gaze. She was leaning to her left and pulling at the edge of the canvas flap that was loosely corded to one limb of the cargo bed’s metal framework. Looking beyond the flap into the city outside.
“What can you see?” He asked her.
“The Schloss’ front gates are standing open. The Gatehouse is right there. And the courtyard beyond it. We’re here.”
They paused at the front gates where a couple of guards were stationed and came forward to check on the truck. Those in the back waited in tense silence.
The rain was still coming down though at the moment, at a steady pace rather than the lashing down it had been experimenting with earlier. There were distant peals of thunder too, though while the truck’s heavy engine grumbled away, it all but muffled the heavenly growls.
There were muffled and distorted exchanges of clipped conversation in German. Obviously, Furman, their driver with his astute and accent-less German was at work, conversing with one of the gate guards, exchanging questions and answers. And hopefully pleasantries. They were relying on Furman to talk them onto the Schloss’ grounds smoothly. The further inside the place they could get without having to fire a shot, the better chance they had of their mission succeeding.
Finally, after a heart palpitating few minutes of uncertain back and forth, the truck’s engine roared. They felt it being manipulated into gear and then they were rolling forwards once again, passing through the deep building-width archway of the gatehouse entry and into a large, rectangular cobblestoned courtyard.
Little individual islands of carefully manicured trees, each placed at equal distances from each other and all surrounding the outer edge of the courtyard were like the frame of a painting. Wehrmacht paraphernalia was all over the place, trucks just like theirs’, a sandbag surrounded anti-aircraft emplacement. And a dozen or so troops were completing manoeuvres in the courtyard. Huge scarlet, black and white swastika banners were suspended downward along the front of the main building’s fascia, framing the entrance to the secondary courtyard. Which led up to the main entrance.
Furman pulled into a shadowy area close to the far end of the second courtyard’s left-most quadrant. And hopped down out of his seat and then quickly made his way around to the rear of the cargo bed. Piszczek and Shaw climbed down on the far side, away from prying eyes and remained in the shadows.
Furman passed on instructions for only those with uniforms to get out of the back of the truck and then advance across the second courtyard and quietly reconnoitre the expansive main interior vestibule.
Few of the adopted uniforms had fit them well. Some were too tight, some were too short in the leg and sleeve, some were too big and buried its wearer but they had done their best, and Carson had done his best to match the uniforms with the right people. Though a couple of times ranked uniforms were redistributed to the better matched people - such as Furman who, speaking the best German and a natural authority in his performance, was given the uniform of the ranking officer, a Major in their case.
It was also a risk because two of the uniformed men were black, and would easily stick out if so-much as glanced at. The same applied to the two Polish women, who were also disguised in ill-fitting SS uniforms. However, there were enough uniformed people in the group and enough shadowy areas across the second courtyard to camouflage their approach. At least up to the stone steps to the large doors of the main entrance.
Still, it was decided that Brooks and Clay would march with the first group while Kasia and Zofia would remain with the second, beside the truck for the time being. Clay bent his head and his knees and additionally shouldered the MG42 upside down, with its wooden shoulder stock at the side of his face to help conceal him. Finally, he hoped that his turned up uniform collar would be of further help, as he all but towered over the other members of the strike team. As a group they marched on the visible stone steps at the far end of the second courtyard.
Fortunately, there was no one guarding the unlocked entrance doors and they pushed open the right-hand door, a huge block of intricately carved dark oak, that was blackened by age and dirt and studded with iron rivets and huge iron hinges. Beyond was the large, high-ceilinged vestibule.
It was startlingly well lit, with electric bulbs in the chandelier and on wall-mounted lamps halfway up the stairs as well. Double doors to their left and right lead to the east and west annexes. Corridors lead away north-east and north-west - opposite them, beneath the twin curving staircases that resembled boar tusks, sweeping outward and upward to the second storey.
Vast paintings and even more impressively scaled tapestries adorned the walls. And hanging from the high vaulted ceiling, the huge chandelier was suspended directly above them. The floor was a chessboard of pale cream and dark, almost black, tiles of marble and granite. There were crates of supplies, some of them open, some of them sporting ammunition boxes, stacked around the edges of the vestibule, hurriedly placed, though not so hurried as to create obstacles.
There was no one in view, though echoing voices could be heard from close by. Kahn, Carson and Furman hurried around to the double doors leading to the eastern annex and listened in. Then Kahn pushed a door open, a hand on his MP40 submachine gun, and peeked into the room beyond.
He gave the signal that it was clear and the whole team headed for it in a hurry.
“Clay and Brooks, grab an extra box of ammo for the 42 from over there.” Kahn ordered in a subdued hiss.
The two paratroopers hurried over, glancing at the doors and stairs around them when they weren’t examining the paint-stencilled information on the side of the metal lidded boxes. Fortunately, numerals were the same in German as they were in American so they knew what they were looking for.
“7.92mm… Got it. Here. Let’s grab one each and go.” Clay whispered, grabbing one of the metal boxes.
Brooks followed his team mate, picking up another box by its thin metal handle and hefted the weight, glancing back to see with relief that Kahn was at least still covering them from the doorway with his submachine gun. They were lucky enough to make it to the room with the two metal ammunition cans without being seen. Furman was at the door with Kahn, giving them barely enough room to make it through.
“Look out for us coming back. Shall I give a special knock?” He asked.

“No, I’ll just keep watch through the key hole and be ready to unlock the door. You just walk straight through.” Kahn said.
“Okay. Wish me luck.” Furman replied with an easy smile.
Kahn just offered him a curt nod. And then opened the door again, glancing past into the too well-lit vestibule.
Brooks looked around. People were setting up in the room which looked, though small for the Schloss, like a dining room. A large rectangular table took up most of the centre though a few small couches and wing-backed armchairs were dotted around the periphery of the room. And a huge marble fire place took up a quarter of the long wall to his right. There were three other doors besides the one leading to the vestibule, one facing him and two flanking the fireplace. Brooks watched his teammates checking those doors, locking them and removing the keys from the locks, before quietly shifting couches and chairs to form either barricades or possible firing positions. It was all done quickly and quietly.
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Urotsukidoji - Overfiend ‘44: The Hell Portal.