Slaves of the Swastika (2 page)

“Come now, Helga,”
Oberst
Friedrich Mueller said in an ingratiating tone, “This must certainly be very distressing for you to be naked like this in front of Manfred, and I'm sure your back and shoulders must be stinging just a little. Wouldn't it be more sensible, my dear Helga, to tell me what I want to know, especially since you're going to have to do it anyhow, you know.”

Helga Nordheim burst into hysterical sobs as she raised her tear-ravaged face towards the Gestapo officer. Her hands still clasped and held up to him in prayer, she twisted her fingers in desperate confusion, stammering hoarsely, “But I swear before
Gott
Himself,
Herr Oberst,
that I don't know a thing about where my husband could have gone! Why can't you believe me?”

“Do you really want to know, Helga dear?” he chuckled sadistically; keeping the riding crop in his gloved right hand, he put his left hand under her chin and forced it up as he stared down into her tear-filled, dilated, fear-shadowed eyes. “Because I think you're lying, Helga, that's why. People always lie to the Gestapo, and it's such a pity and such a terrible waste of time. Now look at Willi and Manfred over there. They'd much rather be in a
bierstube
toasting
Der Fuhrer
and exchanging anecdotes instead of having to stay in this miserable, cheerless cell and be embarrassed by seeing you stark naked in front of them. They're well brought-up boys, you see, and their parents taught them that women must always be respected—unless, of course, they don't have any clothes, in which case they're nothing more than whores.” His voice suddenly grew harsh and domineering. “In about two minutes, Helga, I'm going to get very impatient with you, and then Willi and Manfred are going to take off their clothes, too, and you're going to be treated like a whore. But before they do that to you, I'm going to use this riding crop on your big naked
Arsch,
because you haven't felt it there yet, and that's the place to whip a woman, so she knows what a lowly creature she is in the presence of a man. Well, Helga?”

He had kept holding up her chin all this time, and he gloatingly discerned that it was trembling violently. Big tears broke from her eyes and ran down her flushed cheeks. Her naked titties rose and fell violently and the tremors of her full rounded thighs excited him. He could feel his prick swelling against the fly of his uniform trousers. He could already see that his two noncommissioned aides were more prepared to fuck
Frau
Helga Nordheim than he was at this very moment.

What the Gestapo chief was really after was the detection of a disloyal group of subversives, actual Berliners who had had the shameful and traitorous idea to ally themselves against the enemies of
Der Fuhrer.
About once a month, though without any predictable regularity, a little mimeographed newspaper made its appearance in some quarters of Berlin and throughout Germany, especially in the small villages where there had been great war-losses of husbands and sons. It was called
Till Eulenspiegel,
and its title was taken from a legendary and roguish hero from the Middle Ages, a kind of clown and buffoon who nevertheless had a particularly dissecting wit and grim realism to his commentaries on the foibles of mankind. This traitorous sheet actually dared to call
Der Fuhrer
insane, to intimate that all honest Germans would do better to go to the enemy
en masse
with a white flag of truce and ask for an end to this stupid and annihilating war, because Germany wasn't going to win it. A number of arrests had already been made, but they had been only of unimportant people connected with the treasonable venture, and
Oberst
Mueller had a hunch that some of those
verdammt
intellectuals were behind
Till Eulenspiegel.
Perhaps someone just like this Professor Nordheim.

He glanced at his wristwatch and barked, “You've got exactly sixty seconds, Helga to rack your brain and come up with an answer for me, or else I'm going to have Willi and Manfred forget they're gentlemen. And oh, what a trashing that big
Arsch
of yours is going to get with this,” he hissed the words with pleasure as he showed her the riding crop in his gloved right hand.

“Sixty seconds, Helga,” the Gestapo repeated, relishing the words as the naked blonde wife of Professor Kurt Nordheim bit her lips and stared imploringly up at him. His glittering eyes scrutinized her body and Helga Nordheim blushed violently and tried to clench her thighs to hide the extremely dark blonde bush which covered her succulent mount of Venus. Behind her, Privates Willi Murtens and Manfred Strobel stood impatiently waiting, hands on hips, attentive and taut with anticipation. They knew this type of
kootzele
only too well. She would try to brave it out for a little while longer, because she wanted to protect that bastard of a husband of hers, that dirty traitor who had put out all the nasty writings about the beloved
Fuhrer.
And then the
Herr Oberst
would make a sign to them, and all of a sudden
Frau
Helga Nordheim would find herself in real trouble with her big
Arsch
stuck up in the air and tasting the riding crop a couple of times. And then she would be ready to talk her fool head off, after which their
gnadige Oberst
would make another sign to them which would mean they could fuck her.

They were looking forward to that part of the interrogation. Naturally there were never any repercussions from such activities. Once a victim was in the hands of the Gestapo, he or she was done for; and if by some miracle of kindness his or her life was spared, he or she wouldn't be fool enough to complain to the commanding officer that he or she had been sexually abused. Not likely!

“Thirty seconds now, dear Helga,” the portly
Oberst
said solicitously as he stared down at the helpless, whimpering naked young matron. “I advise you in your own best interests to be quick about your decision. Willi and Manfred are waiting right behind you to carry out my orders. And you know what my next order is going to be, Helga. You are going to get the
Peitsche
on your big naked
Arsch,
and once I start on such a marvelous bottom as you've got, dear Helga, you may be certain I shan't stop very quickly. You have such fine firm satiny flesh, my riding crop is just itching to taste it.”

He really hoped she would hold out a long time. There was just a chance she knew something about that
verdammte
forbidden newspaper which made filthy jokes about the beloved leader of the Third Reich. But even if she didn't, nobody was going to know what was being done down here, not with his rank and not with his authority to exterminate these traitorous vermin. And nobody would hear her cries outside of this stone-walled interrogation chamber.

“Ten seconds. The time is getting very short, Helga my love,” he twitted her.

“In the name of
Gott unser Vater,
believe me,
Herr Oberst
Mueller,” Helga Nordheim burst out almost hysterically, “I swear to you I am innocent and so is my husband. I have never even heard of that paper you mentioned. I mean—”

Helga Nordheim had made a fatal slip. Until now during the interrogation and her previous questioning, not a single word had been mentioned of
Till Eulenspiegel.
The Gestapo officer's face lit up with an unholy joy. He bent down to the shuddering, naked woman, and the fingers of his left hand plunged into that sophisticated upsweep of hers and twisted the flaxen hair until she moaned and tried to turn her head to ease the traction on her tender scalp.

“How very interesting!” he hissed. “Now, have I asked you anything about a newspaper,
Frau
Nordheim? Have I? Be truthful with me, my dear woman. This is the only way to gain favor once the Gestapo takes the trouble to invite you here for a nice little chat. Isn't that so, Willi?”

He lifted his head and winked at his subordinate, and the beetle-browed ex-butcher's apprentice winked back and then saluted, a little afraid that perhaps the
Herr Oberst
might not entirely approve of his familiarity to such a high-ranking officer.

“Ja wohl, Oberst!”
he heartily ejaculated.

“But perhaps
Frau
Nordheim was referring to the official publication of the Third Reich which every good German citizen is expected to read and to study. Wasn't that it, dear Helga?” the Gestapo officer purred. He was really in his element now. This cat-and-mouse game was dear to him, and it whetted his lustful senses to the utmost. With his left hand twisting her hair, with his right hand showing her the riding crop, his glittering eyes studied the cringing, stark-naked body before him, all of whose treasures he meant to know. He could already sniff the acrid yet pleasing odor of her body-sweat. This was a sure sign that
Frau
Helga Nordheim was getting very nervous, very afraid. The next thing, there would be the smell of piss. Even a strong man, brave though he might be, could be broken into a sniveling little coward just by suggesting, threats and a merciless mockery which would strip away—just as his clothes had previously been stripped away from him—all the cultured veneer of knowledge and respectability. Then you would be down to elementals and your victim would piss and even
scheiss,
lick your boots, lick the floor, babble promises to do just about anything, to betray his mother and father or his sweetheart or husband or even children, if only to escape. People were trash, utter
Drek.
But sometimes when a juicy piece of
kootzele
like Helga Nordheim came along, there would be a bit of really pleasant diversion down here in the interrogation room.

“Yes indeed, my dear Helga,” he purred sadistically, “you seem to have told me a great deal without telling me anything. So you do know about a newspaper. Yes, it's
Till Eulenspiegel,
and maybe your dear husband, with all his booklearning, might even be the editor. Who knows? I think we're going to try this interrogation on a different tack, my dear
Frau
Nordheim. And by the way, your time is up. Willi, Manfred, would you be gallant enough to assist
Frau
Nordheim onto the table?”

At once the two Nazi privates stooped down and seized poor Helga Nordheim by the fleshy part of her arms and lifted her up to her feet. At the same time
Oberst
Mueller viciously backhanded her across the cheek with his gloved left hand. Her head rocked back and a sobbing cry tore from her. Her eyes were huge and filled with tears, and the haunting shadow of a stark and agonizing terror was in their depths. An angry bright red blotch stood out on her satiny cheek from the slap. He observed this with relish as another nuance of his own erotic pleasure. Nothing was more satisfying than to see one's handiwork register on fine pampered skin which had never before felt anything but caresses—until now. Oh, the Gestapo knew how to caress, there was no doubt of it. But he wasn't sure that
Frau
Nordheim would appreciate the difference between their caresses and those which her husband probably gave her.

That filthy intellectual swine, his thoughts continued. What he really would have liked would be to have the two together, with the husband tied up and gagged and having to watch his darling wife stripped down and given a good switching. And then they would go to work on her big fat
Arsch
right in front of him, and finally they would fuck her. Or they would make her suck their cocks. He would bet a month's salary Professor Kurt Nordheim had never stooped to such a vulgar thing as making dear little Helga here put her lips to his prick.

His own prick was swollen now with frenzied desire, but like a connoisseur, he held himself back from taking any overt action on the naked, perspiring, shuddering body of this beautiful young matron.

At his impatient gesture, the two subordinates dragged Helga onto the table and laid her on her back. Willi Murtens knelt down behind the head of the table, seizing both her wrists and holding them tightly with his strong fingers. Manfred Strobel stood at the left of the table and, gripping her bare legs, hoisted them up in the air and then shoved her bare knees back to her panting titties. This was an obscene position, and a very effective one for a flogging. When a girl or a woman was posed like this, all her previous notions of shame and modesty were completely annihilated, and it became an interesting experience to teach her a new set of reactions for a situation for which she had never been conditioned or prepared. He had no doubt that it would be highly effective with this cultured and sensitive bitch right now.

He strolled over to the table, taking his position at the sobbing woman's right. He reached up with his left hand and grasped her right calf, and then he playfully lifted his riding crop and applied a tiny little flick, capricious and gentle, just over the base of the swelling, velvety bottom which as yet had not had a single blemish to mar its luscious contours.

“Oh God help me! Oh please,
Herr Oberst,
I swear I don't know anything about
Till Eulenspiegel!”
Helga Nordheim sobbed, trying desperately to close her legs so the three men couldn't see the shaggy bush of pussyhair and the shadowy groove which separated her luscious bare bottomcheeks.

Globules of sweat glistened in the soft, curly down of her distended armpits. Now the acrid-sweet smell of her flesh and her sweat came distinctly to
Herr Oberst
Mueller's nostrils, and he drank them in as he might savor the bouquet of a vintage wine. He licked his lips and gave her squirming, naked bottom another tiny flick. It was interesting to see gleaming black leather against pale white flesh, a voluptuous contrast which never failed to rouse his predatory instincts.

“I'm going to give you one last chance, my dear Helga. It's not that I have any pity for a traitor like your husband, a cursed intellectual who mouths vicious and unprincipled things about our Leader, or for you either, for that matter. To me and to all loyal patriots of the Third Reich, a wife is just as guilty as her husband, merely by association. If she knows he's a traitor and she stays with him at night and goes to bed with him and lets him fuck her, in my book she deserves the headsman's block and the axe,
Frau
Nordheim. You understand me?”

“Oh please,
hilfe mich,
I don't know what Kurt was doing—how could I know?”

“But you knew all about
Till Eulenspiegel
without my even telling you,
Frau
Nordheim! That's what I don't understand—all this show of protestation and relying on your wellbred background to save your big
Arsch
from a good little switching, which I'm just about ready to give you. And now it turns out that you give me the name of this damned traitors' puke which calls itself
Till Eulenspiegel.
How does it happen you know the name, or that you even know it is a newspaper? That's what I'm going to find out now. With the help of this!”

So saying, he drew back his right arm and applied the riding crop with a savage CRACK over the base of both upturned naked, pale white bottom-globes. Helga Nordheim uttered a scream of pain, lifting her head, and her legs jerked violently, so that Manfred Strobel had to grip them vigorously with both hands. He shoved her knees back down against her titties, flattened them against the luscious globes as they heaved in agonized turbulence. The muscles of her bottom contracted spasmodically in her natural instinct of self-concealment, for she was dying of shame at the thought that these men could see the most private and secret regions of her anatomy, which only dear Kurt had ever seen before. She had been a virgin when she married him nine years ago. She was gentle, shy, even though she loved Kurt passionately. But here under the light glaring doom on her from the stone ceiling, on this table which swelled of the sweat and blood and horror of the past, in the most obscene and lubricious of positions, her bottom burning from the savage cut of the riding crop, Helga Nordheim felt herself abandoned and helpless, and her only anxiety was to save her life and to spare herself the intolerable and prolonged torment of an ordeal which only the Gestapo knew how to inflict to the very last degree of human endurance.

“Twist her wrists just a little, Willi. I want
Frau
Nordheim's faculties unimpaired. I want her at her most alert,” the portly Gestapo officer commanded.

The surly-faced subordinate chuckled, understanding his master only too well, and he dragged down Helga's wrists, his dirty, jagged fingernails biting into the pale white skin. Helga Nordheim whimpered as she felt herself thus exploited. The flesh of her bottom was tight now, and the scorching kiss of that first vicious slash seemed to permeate through the whole gluteal region. She found that she was unable to control the spasmodic tensing of her bottom-muscles; and the sinuous groove between the cheeks of her behind, she was aware, was alternately yawning and closing, displaying all the secrets of her naked body which, till now, only beloved Kurt had seen and touched and explored in their connubial ecstasies together.