Slaves of the Swastika

Oberst Friedrich Mueller stood in the center of the interrogation room, his booted feet set wide apart, his gloved hands on his portly hips, his officer's cap tilted at an arrogant angle, staring contemptuously down at the cringing naked woman who crouched before him, her hands clasped together as in prayer and the pale milky skin of her shoulders and back already crisscrossed by welts inflicted by the black leather riding crop which lay on the stone floor to one side of his left boot.

The room was windowless and its floors and wall of gray stone. The steel door which opened into it was of that same dreary color also. It was one of the many interrogation chambers at the Gestapo headquarters at 39 Hedwig Strasze in Berlin. Outside the grim three-story building, it was a gray October morning in the year of 1944.

There were two pieces of furniture in this interrogation room, a low wide table whose dark, solid wood bore many sinister stains of dried blood, and a padded-leather-topped heavy wooden footstool. In the other questioning rooms, however, there were many devices and apparatuses utilized to inflict the cunning and overwhelming tortures by which the Gestapo broke down the human spirit and conquered the most indomitable courage and strength.

But this room was
Oberst
Friedrich Muller's favorite, and, indeed, he called it his
“Reitschen-Zimmer,”
his whipping room, into which he had brought before him the most tempting and sexually desirable female prisoners. This is not to say that the room was used only for the infliction of the lash, though the back and shoulders of the unfortunate young woman crouching before him bore witness to a prolonged and expert flogging. For inevitably any woman led into this chamber for a session with the fat
Oberst
would endure the ultimate sullying of violation, would be compelled to submit to the vilest and most obscene of sexual practices.

Oberst
Friedrich Mueller prided himself on this terroristic technique. “You take a proud bitch who's been pampered and secure all her life,” he was fond of saying to his junior officers. “For the first time in her life, she comes up against authority and power. Well, now. If you treat her as an equal, because she is an enemy and because she hates you, she will find inner reserve to withstand you, sometimes even to the point of defying you and failing to give you the information you seek. But here in my
Reitschen-Zimmer,
I begin by ordering the bitch to take off her clothes. Slowly and without haste, you understand.” And then he would wink and wait for the salacious guffaws of the rapt and almost idolatrous attention of his young subordinates.
“Naturlich,
if the bitch is cultured and well educated and of a good family and used to money, she will grow indignant, she will become huffy and tell me that what I ask is intolerable to a woman of her breeding.” Then again he would wink. “Then I say to her, 'I am afraid,
Fraulein,
or
Frau
—as the case may be—that I must ask you to comply with my request. It is a rule that no female is allowed to remain clothed in this room.'“ And then again there would be bawdy laughter and eagerly lecherous plaudits by those of his staff who wished to ingratiate themselves with him. And he would go on with a mocking little smile, “But of course our subject becomes a little uneasy. She sees that we aren't showing the proper respect for Madame's pristine qualities. But what would you do gentlemen, this is war and we cannot observe all the niceties of civilian life, now can we?” And then there would be uproarious laughter.

And finally after a deliberate and dramatic pause,
Oberst
Friedrich Mueller would conclude: “As I say, Madame is a little uneasy by now. She glances around at Willi and at Manfred. They are standing there minding their own business, like gentlemen, with their hands clasped behind their backs. But they are looking at her insolently, in a way to which Madame is evidently not used. She blushes a little, her eyes shift nervously, she licks her dry lips, she stares at me and she tries to bluster. I ignore her. And then finally I say, 'Willi, will you have the goodness to assist Madame in her disrobing?' and of course Willi, perfect gentleman that he is, lends Madame a hand with her
toilette,
both hands, in fact. And in a few moments she is naked except perhaps for stockings and a garter-belt, depending on our whim of the moment. And now things are different. And now things have changed, Madame is no longer the sheltered and pampered bitch, but she is confronted with reality and she is also confronted with
Die Peitche.”

Here he would hold up his black leather riding crop, and slash it down viciously to crack against his gleaming leather boot. “A dozen or so good
Schlagen
with my riding crop serve to give her the general idea that humility and loss of arrogance are essential in my little whipping room. Presently she becomes more docile, more eager to cooperate. And then the whip continues, just to show her that things don't go by her standards or her rules, gentlemen. And these lashes are over her breasts or her fine white
Arsch.
Soon enough she is groveling at my feet and telling me everything I wish to know and begging me to spare her. And then Madame discovers that Aryan manhood is a great deal more potent than whatever brand of fucking it is she has experienced with her husband or her sweetheart or what have you. So you see, gentlemen, the proper technique is to strip these bitches before you proceed to direct questioning. Prolong the ordeal, make your proud fine heroic prisoners conscious of the fact that they are going to lose everything they possess, their freedom, their decency and modesty, their indignation and, if they're not careful, their lives. You'd be amazed at the efficacy of this technique on which I particularly pride myself.”

His sensual lips curled in a reminiscent smile, as
Oberst
Friedrich Muller glanced up from the sobbing, naked, crouching woman at his feet to eye his two capable aides, Privates Willi Murtens and Manfred Strobel. They were perfectly suited for their roles as interrogators. Willi Murtens was beetle-browed, stocky, with a surly face, thirty years old. Before the war, he had been a butcher's apprentice in a little shop in the suburbs of West Berlin. He had a phlegmatic and murderously efficient aptitude for this kind of work which dealt, as he himself was fond of saying, with “human meat, and it's not so different after all from the cows and the sheep and the pigs I used to cut up for a living before our glorious
Fuhrer
led
Deutschland
into her rightful rank in this filthy world.”

Manfred Strobel was tall, angular, four years older than his colleague, and in some ways far more sadistic. He had been a confidence man before the war, fleecing elderly widows and spinsters out of their savings, because he had a certain dashing animal magnetism and a glib tongue. He was also very much a ladies' man in the bedroom. Eventually he had been caught and sentenced to ten years in Blenheim prison. Just after the declaration of the war, he had rebelled against the brutality of one of his prison guards, wrested away the man's riding crop and beaten him with such savage expertise that the guard had lain blubbering like a baby in the cell corridor, wriggling at Manfred Strobel's feet and gripping his ankles and pleading with him not to hit him anymore. He had been sentenced to be shot, but
Oberst
Friedrich Muller (then only
Hauptmann)
had heard of Manfred Strobel's act and had himself gone to Blenheim Prison with an order from the Gestapo to release the aforesaid prisoner into their custody. And after three years as first a guard of prisoners in this grim building and, for the past year under the supervision of
Oberst
Frederich Mueller himself, Manfred Strobel had displayed the most praiseworthy and patriotic qualities as an interrogator's aide.

The Gestapo officer winked at his two assistants, then resumed his impassive and stolid attitude of waiting as his eyes greedily scanned the voluptuous nakedness of the captive before him. She was
Frau
Helga Nordheim, thirty years of age, married for five of those years to Professor Kurt Nordheim who had been missing for the past week after one of his students had reported that the Professor was speaking ill of the beloved
Fuhrer. A
thorough search for the scoundrel had been made, but he hadn't turned up yet. Consequently
Oberst
Friedrich Mueller had had the professor's wife arrested, and she had remained for forty-eight hours in an isolation cell, with lentil soup and black bread her only fare, without toilet facilities save a porcelain chamberpot, and with guards constantly passing to and fro in front of the bars of her cell.

She had been given more soup and bread about seven this morning, and now it was nine-thirty, and she had been in the
Reitschen-Zimmer
for nearly an hour. Oberst Frederick Mueller had particularly enjoyed his interview with Helga Nordheim. She had that insolently supercilious look which bespoke her breeding and her sheltered life and the unshakable belief that she belonged to the elite and was hence untouchable. It had been about twenty minutes to dissuade her. He had begun by greeting her pleasantly, by inquiring as to her health and whether she had slept well the two nights before. Then he had blandly asked her about the whereabouts of her husband, and Helga Nordheim had avowed that she hadn't heard from him in all this past week and that he had told her nothing of his plans to leave Berlin. The Gestapo officer had become playfully confidential; “Perhaps, my dear
Frau
Nordheim, he has a mistress you don't know about, maybe he's got a little apartment the other side of Berlin and is hiding out with her.” And she had gasped, hotly flushing,
“Ach, nein,
I'm sure that's not true! He and I—well we—we're quite happy and I'm sure that that he's never looked at another woman.”

“Oh come now,
Frau
Nordheim,”
Oberst
Mueller had chuckled with a wink at Willi and Manfred, “You and I are worldly enough to know that chastity is a thing of the past. From all accounts, at least from what that pretty student of his—what's her name now, Manfred?”

“Kathy Flichtsen.”

“Just so,
Danke,
Manfred! Well now,
Frau
Nordheim, judging from what Kathy says, your husband is quite a good-looking fellow. Wouldn't surprise me a bit that maybe one of those pretty girls like Kathy herself was shacking up with him. It's a possibility, you know. Just as it is that you yourself might have another man.”

“Oh no, I assure you,
Herr Oberst!”
Helga Nordheim nervously exclaimed.

She had been wearing a blue cotton dress with polkadots, and it molded her magnificent figure. She was of medium height, and her flaxen hair was styled in quite a sophisticated upsweep. She had a rounded face, quite sensitive too, with a dainty little nose and very thin flaring nostrils, a full sweet mouth inclined to be tremulous, and gentian-blue eyes that were very wide and large, and set rather closely together. Her pure white skin was already beginning to excite him, but with the air of a connoisseur he had prolonged the moment until it should be all exposed before him and his aides. A cat-and-mouse game
Oberst
Friedrich Mueller played with his captives gave him indescribably sexual stimulus, and the longer the game, the greater his lust when it was finally concluded. She had full round highset breasts, a charmingly slender waist, and
an Arsch
just made for the whip, full solid cheeks, set closely together, and good round full thighs and interestingly curved calves.

And so finally, when he had asked her very politely to undress, she had recoiled with a cry of horror and put her hand to her mouth and turned scarlet. She had wanted to know what this had to do with her husband, and he had chuckled, “Everything,
Frau
Nordheim. Come now, don't keep me waiting. Perhaps we'll find in your clothes some hidden evidence of where your husband is. Or, then, once you're naked, we'll be better able to tell whether your husband's likely to want some other woman to fuck.”

This too was
Oberst
Friedrich Mueller's specialty: leading the victim unsuspectingly and with the utmost politeness and blandness to a sudden shocking obscenity which at once pulled the rug out from under the victim's feet and left her dazed and uncomprehending. And then events followed swiftly, at the proper psychological time.

Willi had ripped off
Frau
Nordheim's clothing, and a few hard slaps and pinches had made the sweeping blonde woman almost feverishly take off her shoes and pull off her hose so that she was stark naked. She was really something to look at. Privately,
Oberst
Friedrich Mueller didn't think that Professor Kurt Nordheim would need a mistress, not with a piece of
Arsch
like Helga here. A thick dark blonde bush over that plump
kootzele
of hers. Absolutely gorgeous
Butzen
with pouting dark coral nipples and wide brownish-coral aureolae around them and a wide shallow nook of a bellybutton, and that pale white skin without a visible blemish, until the riding crop began its work, of course. He had concentrated first on her back and shoulders, because he wanted to save the delicious pleasure of whipping her round bottom toward the end of the interrogation, when by then he would be ready to fuck her and to have Willi and Manfred follow in his wake.