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In 1943 I was one of the youngest members of the resistance working against the German occupiers in my small French town. When I volunteered to became a resistance fighter, I assumed I'd soon be doing some fighting. I had visions of framing one of the Nazi invaders in the sights of my rifle (I assumed I'd be getting a rifle) and squeezing off a shot that would reduce the German occupation force by one. Instead, I was given a small camera and was ordered to go about town "shooting" only pictures of the Nazi officers stationed there. I was told if challenged to simply smile and play the part of a dumb boy playing with a crude box camera.

My commander reassured me, "If a German asks you what you're up to with your camera, flatter the son-of-a-bitch.. Say how much you like his uniform."

In fact, the only thing I did admire about the Germans were their uniforms. In particular, the tall riding boots their officers wore. I'd always had a thing for boots, so my commander's final bit of advice sort of excited me.

I asked what the photographs were for. "That's none of your concern. Just take them. And try not to get yourself arrested. "

I was a little nervous as I set out the next morning on my first "photo-mission." But all my jitters disappeared when I caught sight of my first German. He must have been newly stationed in our village. If I'd seen him before, I surely would have remembered him. Unlike most of the occupiers, this young officer actually looked like the blond Teutonic warriors on the large wall posters the Germans plastered all around town touting their ' "master race" propaganda. He was not wearing his officers visor cap, so his neatly cropped hair shown golden in the morning sun. He was startlingly handsome, and he appeared to know it. The way he held himself and the cool arrogance of his facial expression seemed to say, "I own this town."

Although I tried to make myself hate the very sight of the Germans' field-green army clothing, I was instantly struck by the stern beauty of this blond officer's uniform. His tunic and breeches had been tailored to be snug around his tall muscular frame. But most of all., my eyes were drawn to the magnificent tall boots he wore. The way he stood, with one foot resting on a low rung of the village hotel's porch railing, it was as if he was placing his boots on exhibition just for me. I was mesmerized as my eyes scanned the brilliantly polished black leather from just below his knees down to the slender silver spurs at his heels. I had never seen a man like that! Or boots like that! They must have been custom made of the finest leather, and the spurs looked to be real sliver. These boots and spurs were way above what I'd seen other officers wearing. Unique! I must have stared for some time at them before I suddenly realized their owner had noticed me and , in fact, was staring back at me.

Remembering my instructions, I stammered in my best broken German, "You look very good in uniform today, sir. May I take your photo with my camera?" I held up the box camera.

For a long moment he did not respond, and I thought he had either not understood me or suspected I was up to something. But then, without changing his cool attitude or his stance, he slowly nodded. His blue eyes stayed focused on me while I snapped one picture, rolled the film ahead and snapped a second. He remained aloof and silent, watching me.

"Oh! Now perhaps a close up of your fine boots, sir?" Once again, after a pause, he nodded slightly. He kept his eyes on me but said not a word. He did not move a muscle as I moved in for the close up of his boots. I found myself almost kneeling at his feet, as those boots filled the tiny view finder of my camera. As I snapped more pictures, I remember flashing just for an instant on what it might feel like if he were to suddenly use a booted foot to pin my face to the ground or commanded me to lick his boots or ordered me to follow him into the hotel where I'd be made to help him pull his boots off. .Before I knew it, I'd snapped off the remaining six pictures of my roll of film.

"Enough! Enough!" The officer raised his hand and motioned for me to move on. But I had a big problem. As I slowly stood up to leave as ordered, I prayed the folds of my baggy trousers would hide my cock, which had grown stiff as a steel rod as I photographed that gleaming boot leather. I noticed the officer's cool blue eyes seem to focus for just an instant on my crotch. Then he abruptly stepped around the railing and disappeared into the hotel. He had scarcely shown that he even noticed I existed.

The Arrogant Blond Son Of A Bitch!

I wish I could say I forgot that HE ever existed. When my comrades in the resistance developed my pictures and saw two shots showing the blond officer's face and six shots "wasted" on his boots, I took quite a ribbing.

In the weeks that followed, thoughts of the handsome blond Nazi officer with his elegant polished boots and silver spurs increasingly invaded my fantasies.

I could get off just thinking about him maybe allowing me to sit at his feet,letting me touch his boots or shine them for him while he was wearing them. I imagined him coming to my rooms where he would allow me to pull off his boots, filling my quarters with the scent of his hot leather.

I tried to deny to myself that I had come to be infatuated with this Nazi invader. After all he was almost literally a poster boy for our occupiers, an arrogant Aryan Golden Boy who probably imagined himself as a Superman from the Master Race. I, on the other hand was going to be a resistance fighter. I was supposed to be disgusted by his looks and arrogant attitude, not infatuated with them! I tried to imagine this blond Nazi in the cross hairs of my rifle. I would squeeze off my round, and there would simply be one less German in the occupying force. But I could never make my fantasy end there. It insisted on continuing. I imagined myself dragging his limp body away from where he fell to some private place, my hands grasping him by the ankles of his boots. I would slowly unbuckle his spurs and then pull off his boots, claiming them as my personal spoils of war. None of which was a fantasy to feel guilty about having. I'd heard stories of the bodies of actual German officers lying on the battlefield in full uniform right down to their bare feet after being stripped of their boots in real combat. But I could never leave it (or leave him) there sprawled at my feet, all his arrogance defeated by one bullet from me. In my fantasy, I could never walk away from his body until I stripped him completely naked. I would rip away his breeches and roll him over so I could work his muscular arms out of his officer's tunic, all the while admiring his beauty. I would pull off his socks and hold them to my face. Then, as I rolled down his underwear, my fingers would caress his balls and suddenly his cock would spring up and he would magically return to life and reach for me. He would pull me down onto his naked body and our hard cocks would touch. Then I would usually cum all over myself and return to reality wondering if in my sole I was nothing but a collaborator and a traitor.

Then, one night, all my fantasies paled compared to what really happened!

Late one night there was a knock at the door of my flat. When I opened it, my resistance commander and two other man rushed inside carrying between them what I took to be in the dim light a rolled up old rug.

"You wondered what we were doing with the photographs you took of those Germans. Well, here's what!"

As he spoke, his comrades lowered their burden to my floor and pulled back half way the flaps of what looked like an old yellowed bed spread. What I saw made my heart leap. The single bare bulb in my small flat sent glistening reflections across the highly polished spines and fine leather of a pair of officer's riding boots and shown bright white on the tips of matched silver spurs. Without pulling the shroud back any further, I knew exactly who had been so unceremoniously dumped on the dirty carpet of my flat.

"Our superiors recognized this officer from one of your pictures.. Turns out he's the son of a high ranking Nazi. We're going to hold him for ransom. Tonight we were finally able to catch him alone. We actually knocked him off his horse. Don't worry. We've given him a heavy dose of chloroform. He's here because we need you to help us by preparing him for a little trip he's going to take, while we cover some last minute details."

"What do you want me to do?" I asked, still staring down at the tips of those silver spurs.

"Get him out of his uniform. We can put it to good use in our sabotage operations." The commander held out some rope and a roll of thick tape. "Use this tape over his mouth, then tie his hands and feet real tight. When you're done, roll him back up in this covering. We'll pick up "the package" and the uniform in less than an hour. Those are your orders. Any questions?"

I had to ask, "You mean you want him completely naked?"

"Yeah! Like the day he was born. That's your assignment. Now get to work."

With that, my three comrades left me alone with my "assignment." At first I just stood there looking down at those beautiful boots. I was intimidated by them..... and their owner.Did I have have a right to even touch them without the officer's permission? I timidly pulled back the dirty yellow fabric to get a full length look at him. It was the young blond German from the hotel all right! He lay motionless face down at my bare feet, his officer's great coat covering his back and legs down to the tops of his boots. His golden hair shone brilliantly even in the dim light. I knelt down next to his shoulders stroked his hair. It seemed surprisingly soft. Even fragile. "So beautiful!" I whispered to myself.

I couldn't shake the weird feeling that I should ask his permission, before I disturned him...like I had when I snapped his picture at the hotel.

"Sir, may I unbuckle your spurs now, then yank off your boots, pull down your breeches, roll you over and maneuver your arms out of your great coat and tunic. May I relieve you, sir , of your underwear and your socks? Finally, may I tie your hands and feet together, bind your arms to your sides and tape your month shut? "

I smiled remembering the arrogant nod he had given me when I asked permission to merely take a pictures of him and his boots, and the cold way he ordered my away when he tired of my photography."No permission required now, sir."

By now I was holding his booted foot in my hand. In a second I had the strap securing his spur unbuckled. I let it drop from his boot to the floor.

When I had both his spurs off, somehow I felt a little more comfortable. I pulled off his black leather riding gloves. Even his hands were muscular, tanned, well veined, with long fingers and large nails. I began now to feel bold enough to take full charge of my Nazi Superman. I rolled his body over, admiring the way the yellowish light streaked across the high polish of his boot leather as his legs splayed apart. His head fell over to one side so that I could imagine he was he was trying to look away from me.

I felt even more in control now. I considered claiming his boots just as I had done many times in the fantasy in which I'd vanquished him in battle.(Those boots really would be my trophies--at least until my comrades returned). I decided to put off taking his boots for a few moments more. I would work on getting him out of his uniform coat and enjoy the anticipation of what was to come.

I impatiently fumbled with the large buttons on his tunic and was tempted to just rip them off.
Remembering that this young officer's uniform would soon be worn by one of our agents,

I rejected the temptation and fussed with the buttons until his tunic fell open .The muscular ridges of his abdomen were sharply defined by the light from the single bulb buring a few feet away in my room. I moved my fingertips from his navel, across his abdominals, up to the center of his chest. I could feel and see the slow rhythmic movement from his breathing, like a man in deep sleep. By now I was coming to feel totally UN-intimidated by this "Superman", and more and more fascinated by what I was seeing of his body as I stripped away his trappings of rank and authority.

I began to sort of play with him, asking him out loud, "Permission to touch your tits, sir?" I trailed my fingers over the fine blond hairs surrounding each of his small, perfectly round nipples. I smiled now remembering how I'd first seen him in front of the village hotel with his boot propped up against the railing in that arrogant stance that seemed to say, "I'm a Nazi God and I own your village and your country." What would he have done if I'd asked him then if I could feel up his hard little tits?

Permission to touch your boots, sir? NO! I DON'T REQUEST PERMISSION! I'M JUST GOING TO TAKE YOUR BOOTS OFF YOU! NOW THEY ARE MY SPOILS OF WAR!"
With that, I stood up, raising his booted leg up at a right angle to his body. I gave a yank and felt the boot begin to slide up and off his leg. Then with just a small additional tug, I was surprised how easily I was able to pull his boot straight up off him, freeing his leg with its sock still pulled up over the leg laces on his breeches to flop back down to the floor.

He gave up his other boot with even less effort from me.

I laid his empty boots out along side him so I could see them as I continued to strip him- sort of a display of my trophies. Then, as I propped him up in his socks and breeches to begin pulling his arms free from his coat, I got the strangest impression.
Whether it was the loss of his boots or the opening of his uniform that made the difference, I didn't know, but this officer whose arrogance and attitude had so stimulated and intimated me suddenly looked to me like we might almost be the same age. No more arrogant, blond, Nazi superman.

Well, at least no arrogant Nazi superman.

I flashed on a wild idea: "What if I dressed him in my cloths?

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