Slaves of the Swastika (13 page)

It was true indeed that this room, larger than the one in which poor Helga Nordheim had been tortured, contained terrifyingly sinister objects the very sight of which made the blood curdle and the throat and lips grow very dry. It wasn't a question here of a box of toothpicks or a nail file or manicure tweezers or even a bone darning needle. In one corner, there was a sharply ridged wooden saw-horse with buckling straps over which a victim could be straddled with atrocious discomfort to the private parts. In another, there was a St. Andrew's cross with gleaming iron gyves for the wrists and ankles. At the opposite wall, one could see an old fashioned pillory, with yoke holes for neck and wrists, and a curious little rectangular stand about two inches high and a foot long and half as wide, studded with tiny little spikes.

Finally, opposite this, in the other corner, was a solid leather padded chair with heavy wooden arms and very thick legs. There was a curious little box on the floor beside it with wires running from it to the seat of the chair, and on closer inspection one perceived that there were metal clamps at the end of each wire, about a dozen in all. These clamps could be attached to the nipples or the vulva or the nostrils or the mouth or the ears, or, for that matter, to the hairs of the armpits, or the pubic hair, and when the lever on the box was pushed to the opposite direction, a charge of electricity would flow through the clamps into the victim's tortured flesh. The Spanish Fascists had used this during the Civil War back in 1939, and the French themselves, the allies, were to use it against the Algerians a decade later. For the erotic lure of sadism has no political conscience whatsoever.

Trudy and Eva stared about them, and Eva began to cry, bowing her head and panting, “Oh God, oh God, have mercy, we're just girls, we don't know anything about politics or the war, you've got to believe us!”

“Anyone could say that before getting down to brass tacks, my lovely golden-haired
Gattin,”
the
Oberst
jeered. He now transferred the riding crop to his left hand and the leather gloves under his left armpit so that he might have his right hand free to caress Eva's succulent, ripely rounded, quivering buttocks through the thin cotton panties which seemed to shape out those luscious globes like a second skin. Eva caught her breath and whimpered, lifting her face towards the ceiling and dragging on her handcuffed wrists. “You don't like to be touched, Eva? That boyfriend of yours—what's his name, Katzmire?”

“Erich Luvrow,
Excellenz!”
the sergeant promptly replied.

“Oh yes, thank you, Katzmire. Well now, Eva, doesn't our boyfriend Erich like to pinch and squeeze and feel your big juicy
Arsch?
Because you really do have exceptionally tasty
Hinterbocken,
you know. Oh yes, I quite forgot to tell you. He's in the room directly ahead of you, and he can hear our little conversation.”

“Begging Your Excellency's pardon,” Sergeant Katzmire broke in, “but he can't really hear. There isn't any arrangement for that. But of course I did tell him that his girlfriend is going to have a nice little friendly meeting with Your Excellency just on the other side of the wall of his cell. I know he's thinking about it,
mein Oberst.”

“That was thoughtful of you, Katzmire, to let the poor boy know how his little golden-haired
Schatz
is coming up in the world. This morning a university student, this afternoon invited by the Berlin Chief of the Gestapo himself to converse with him.”

“You mean that Professor Nordheim is suspected of doing something wrong against the
Vaterland?”
Trudy Heinzelman exclaimed.

“That's right,
Liebchen.”
The
Oberst
grinned at her, gave Eva Jung's pantie-sheathed plump bottom an affectionate little pat which made the golden-haired girl cringe and close her eyes, then moved back to his left to study the beautifully graceful, lithe, slim body of the attractive young brunette before him. “And right now, from the way he's keeping out of our clutches, I'd say that Professor of yours has really got something to hide. An honest man would be at home or in his classroom. Now look, this isn't a tea party, young ladies. I think you can see from what's in this room that our way of entertaining our guests isn't all gentle and sweet. We aren't going to recite poetry and pass around cups of tea, not likely. You two girls were in class when this Professor Nordheim made a disparaging remark about the war effort and the
Fuhrer
himself, weren't you?”

Trudy glanced quickly at Eva, whose blue eyes were filled with tears and who had begun to tremble again. “I never heard him say one word of treason, that's what,” she stoutly declared.

The fat,
Oberst
stared at her a long moment without a word. Then he drew back his right hand and brutally slapped her across the mouth, rocking her head back and drawing a stifled cry of pain from the courageous sweetheart of the murdered Max Dornburg.

“Let that be a lesson to you,
Trudylein,
to keep a civil tongue in your head. I have the rank of
Kolonel
in the Gestapo, and I don't take kindly to insolent little bitches like you insulting what we're doing to keep Germany clear of traitors and swing!” the fat
Oberst
hissed. “Sergeant, do you have any children at home?”

“Unfortunately not,
Excellenz.
But if I did, I'd use the strap on them if they weren't respectful, begging your pardon, sir.”

“Now that's a very fine suggestion. I think these two young ladies wouldn't be any worse for a little strapping on their bare
Hinterbocken,
because it might convince them that we mean business. Willi, Manfred, get them ready for it.”

The two Nazi privates, their eyes glittering with delight, sprang towards the two helpless young victims at the triangle, and a moment later Trudy tried to jerk away, dragging at her handcuffed wrists, as with a cry of intolerable shame she announced her nakedness. Willi Murtens had ripped away the cami-knickers, exposing her boyishly slim figure naked save for stockings and the elastic garters which held them up, and her pumps.
Oberst
Mueller's piggish little eyes squinted greedily at the surprisingly thick, almost shaggy black muff between her straggled thighs. He licked his lips with anticipation. This little bitch had an exciting figure, though her tits were rather small. But she had a springy
Arsch
and lovely long nervously muscled legs which would certainly wriggle and squirm about when they felt the kisses of a good strapping.

But Eva Jung was by far even more mouthwateringly desirable to him than Helga Nordheim had been. The weeping golden-haired girl bowed her head in mortification, as Manfred Strobel ripped off the cotton panties and left her there in her bra and stockings and pumps. The voluptuous rotundities of her carnation-tinted bottom contracted, accentuating all their resilient plumpness, but that plumpness was deceptive for the agile muscles and the velvety flesh in those almost opulently rounded hillocks bespoke a fascinating firmness and jounciness.

“Now there's an
Arsch
you boys can really work on,” he exulted. “I tell you what, Willi, Manfred. Give them each about twenty good
Schlagen
with the strap. It will be amusing to see how they press themselves together when they feel it begin to bite their bare bottoms.”

“Indeed it will,
Excellenz,”
the sergeant spoke up with a lewd wink and a quick salute towards his superior officer, “With all due respect, it'll be as if we were watching girls that sleep with one another, if you know what I mean, sir.”

“I do indeed, Katzmire,” the Gestapo chief returned the wink as a fellow man of the world for whom rank meant very little when he was among such
gutne Knaben
as these three. “Lay the strap on heavily, boys, so that we can watch to see if maybe they don't have a taste for that naughty little game the sergeant was talking about.”

He tucked his gloves into the pocket of his uniform trousers, grasped his riding crop with both hands, straddled his legs and stared with hungry anticipation at this exciting and perverse spectacle. Trudy and Eva had closed their eyes and lifted up their faces, stiffening their bodies as they heard their sentence pronounced. The two Nazi privates had gone to the panolopy on the wall opposite from them and taken down two black leather straps about four feet long, a quarter of an inch thick, two inches wide and cut at the last six inches into three narrow strips, not unlike the famous Scotch tawse. When they took their places behind the condemned half-naked young women, it was seen that Willi Murtens had selected Eva's magnificently ripe bottom for the demonstration of his flagellatory ability, while the tall, angular Strobel announced himself as quite satisfied with the compact, tightly set quivering bottom of the courageous brunette whose fiance had been murdered by Sergeant Ludwig Katzmire.

As the two torturers drew back their straps, Trudy quickly whispered to the trembling Eva, “For God's sake, be brave. It's better to die this way than to break down and tell those monsters anything. Remember that, Eva!”

“Yes, yes, I know, but I'm so afraid, I— EEEEOWWWW!!!” The whispered reply of the beautiful golden-haired captive suddenly broke off as Willi Murtens' strap bit with a sonorous crack across the ripest curves of both naked bottom-globes. Her body lunged convulsively forward, her head fell back, and her mouth gaped in a wildly strident cry of suffering. On the pale carnation epidermis of her voluptuous young behind, the strap had left an almost obscenely glistening crimson band. With expert skill, the beetle-browed torturer had dealt her a blow without using the three “fingers” at the end. He was reserving these for later in the thrashing.

Manfred Strobel waited just a moment until after his comrade's implement of fustigation had attacked poor Eva before sweeping his strap across the base of Trudy Heinzelman's charmingly boyish posterior. Trudy sucked in her breath noisily, her eyelids fluttered violently and disclosed her dilated eyes blurred with tears, but only a stifled gasp was heard as testimonial to her suffering. Nonetheless, she could not control the sudden forward lurch of her almost naked lithe young body, and her thick shaggy black pussyfleece merged with the dark blonde muff of Eva Jung's cunt.

“Not too quickly, boys,” the Gestapo leader anxiously instructed his two subordinates, “I want them to feel every good stroke. Willi, you lucky dog, you seem to have more terrain to work on than your companion. Let's see what a skillful designer you are on such a broad and plump
Arsch!”

Sergeant Ludwig Katzmire watched, his hands clasped behind his back. He licked his lips, envious of his two companions at arms; he would have given a week's pay to have been able to wield one of those straps. But the sight of these two almost naked bitches with their arms drawn high above their heads and their legs spread a good yard, jerking together under the strap, squirming around and rubbing pussies made his prick swell with a new urgency which even his buggering of Helga Nordheim hadn't been able to alleviate.

Oberst
Mueller lit another cigar, his eyes greedily following the duel flogging. His two “boys” knew his taste well enough by now not to hurry the thrashing. The strap fell but at erratic intervals, sometimes with as much as half a minute between strokes, or again a flurry of two almost successive lashes followed by an even longer pause. This was done purposely to weaken the nervous systems and the resistance or the victims, particularly when they were women. Trudy Heinzelman endured her thrashing with magnificent stoicism, a stoicism which angered Manfred Strobel. After a dozen blows of the strap which he had concentrated across the upper summits and the base of her compact bottom, she had not once cried out aloud, though the hoarse gasps and convulsive jerkings of her body told of her suffering.

But with Eva Jung, whose sensitivity was apparently greater and whose courage was far less, it was a different story. The grinning Willi Murtens had begun to use the “finger” of the black leather strap as he whipped the golden-haired beauty. After ten lashes, she was in tears and turning her face back to entreat mercy from her torturer. The last two lashes, especially, had hurt atrociously; he had stepped farther over to the left, swung out the strap so that the fingers disappeared right into the shadowy cleft between those plump arse-cheeks of hers.

Sobbing hysterically, twisting about uncontrollably, Eva Jung had unconsciously begun to rub her pussy against Trudy's, in perhaps a subconscious attempt at distracting herself from the blazing heat that was martyrizing her naked bottom.

“Well, look at that now, Katzmire!” the Gestapo chief chuckled. “Just as you predicted,
hein?
That blonde little bitch is getting awfully itchy between her legs, I'd say, wouldn't you, Katzmire?”