Slaves of the Swastika (3 page)

But in her mind also—and purposely planted for that purpose by the wily
Oberst!
—was the new knowledge that her husband might indeed have an affair with one of his students. That name the
Oberst
had mentioned... Kathy Flichtsen. Yes, she remembered now. The girl was about nineteen, with very dark brown hair, a pretty face with very thick brows and intense dark blue eyes. She had worn the regulation black skirt and white blouse of the student, but it hadn't hidden her really fine figure. Firm young breasts that thrust out like pears against that blouse, long and delightfully supple legs, sinuous and agile hips—oh no, Kurt wouldn't do that to her, surely! He loved only her, and she knew he did. He was tender and poetic and romantic in bed, and he used to recite poetry as he caressed her, the poetry of Heine and of Goethe. How could he share such treasured and private secrets of their own bedroom with a little slut like that, a mere student, a creature whose mind was only beginning to develop. No, it wasn't possible!

“Now I think we're ready,” the drawling, sensually thickening voice of the
Oberst
broke in upon her frantic reflections. “Manfred, keep those knees pressed down against her titties. I want them mashed, so she'll have trouble breathing. Also, when you hold them that way, you lift that big
Arsch
of hers well up for the good
Peitsche!
Now then, Helga, I'm afraid I'm going to have to be very stern with you, because you haven't been a good girl and you're trying to hold something back from the Gestapo? Hold her steady how, boys—that's it. And now, Helga, get your
Arsch
ready for a couple of good ones. They're going to hurt, I warn you.”

The Gestapo officer drew back his right hand as his left tensed its grip on the lovely rounded bare white calf of the victim, and then the riding crop hissed through the air and smacked with an obscene impact of leather against naked womanflesh... twice... thrice. Each angry and darkening stripe leaped across both upturned, (listened buttocks, just above the base, and placed within an inch of the shuddering, once pale white flesh. At each of these Helga tilted back her head and shrieked aloud in her agony:
“Ach, Got
—oh no,
nein, nein,
it hurts so, oh have pity,
hilfe mich!
I can't tell you anything, I swear before God Himself!”

“Now I should hate to think, my dear Helga,” the Gestapo officer chuckled softly, “that you would be ready to go to your Maker with a lie on those sweet red lips of yours. Those lips which have probably enjoyed such
susses Kussen
from your adored Professor. Tell me Helga, confidentially, because it won't go beyond these four walls, how is your husband in bed? Does it satisfy you? You've got such a nice plump
kootzele
that I'm sure it must take a good stiff prick to get way down deep inside of it.”

The sibilant and amused tone of his voice gave her no warning of his sudden perverse plunge into obscenity, but even as her cheeks flamed from the indecency of that question, she uttered a shriek of intolerable suffering. He had lifted the crop and brought it straight down, so that the flap at the end bit right into the plump pink fig of her tender cunthole, shielded only by the dark brown pussy-curls which flourished over that amorous gape. Her entire body lunged and arched, and Manfred Strobel and Willi Murtens had all they could do to keep her in position. Manfred was grunting as he forced her knees down against her swelling titties, and long, spasmodic shudders raced up and down along her calves. Her bare toes curled and twisted, telltale evidence of the torment which that last perfidious slash had caused her.

The
Oberst
allowed her a moment's respite to get her breath, while his gloved right hand tensed its hold of her elegantly rounded naked calf. Then he demanded hoarsely, “I want the truth, you bitch! I've been much too lenient with you, as my men here will testify. Did you yourself read that damned newspaper? Answer me, Helga!” And then
Swissshhh-thwackkk!
his right hand drew back and swept the riding crop furiously over the tops of Helga Nordheim's naked hips, the flap whipping round to sting her tender side.

Again her bottom bounded and squirmed violently, and in her agony she paid no heed to the lewd display she made of herself in the maneuver. He could see the soft pink lips, fleshy and delicate at the same time, of that tender cunt, covered by the dark blonde verdure which grew between her thighs. He could see the puckering rosebud of her as yet unprofaned anus winking at him as a human eye might wink, a phenomenon caused by the spontaneous contractions of her gluteal muscles. His prick was savagely rampant now, but for nothing in the world would the Gestapo officer interrupt this carefully planned procedure. Only when he had wrested every bit of available information from this sobbing captive would he at last deign to relieve the tensions of his prick in the soft woman-flesh of this traitress. And though Willi and Manfred might in private grumble at the inordinately long time he took to get to using the bitches they helped him work on, they knew from experience that the pleasure they derived would be the greater when the moment finally came for them to receive the victim, turned over to them without protection, without mercy, without hope of anything except perhaps death.

“You don't need to work any harder at convincing us that you're very brave, that you're a real heroine, Helga,” the
Oberst
mocked her. “But think now—be a little reasonable. If this handsome professor of yours is really shacking up with that cute Kathy, you certainly don't owe him any more wifely loyalty. Think about it now. There he is in bed with Kathy, and maybe they have a sausage and some good beer and some fleshly baked bread on a table near the bed, and she's in her slip and he's kissing her titties and pinching her bottom and whispering he wants to put his prick into her soft cunt. And she's giggling,
Frau
Nordheim. Can't you hear her giggling?” And both of them have forgotten all about you, and they've got only one thing in mind, and that's a good fucking. Now then, what's the point of trying to save a rascal like that, who has to cheat on you with a young girl not yet of proper age? What she needs, to be sure, is to be sent back home in disgrace to her parents with orders for her to get a good birching on her naked
Arsch
and perhaps a month at the confessional in church to purge her of her sins of trying to trap a married man who's her own teacher. Don't you agree with me?”

“Oh, it's not true! Kurt would never do a thing like that, I know! I love him so—oh my God, help me, help me! What can I say to you? I know nothing nothing! Yes, I read that paper once. I found it in the hall, I asked Kurt about it and he said he had found it under his desk in class. That's all I know, I swear before Almighty God our Father!” the naked young matron wailed.

“Well, we're getting a little closer to the truth, but not enough to satisfy me. You're still hedging, my charming Helga. I'm afraid I'm going to have to warm your big
Arsch
a little more to help you remember. The seat of wisdom is always in the
Arsch,
it appears, with a good-looking woman. Isn't that so, Manfred?”

Manfred Strobel guffawed and nodded, with a respectful look on his angular face. He didn't want to offend the
Herr Oberst,
not the least little bit. He knew that if you worked hard and did your duty, the
Herr Oberst
was a pretty good fellow, when all was said and done. He would let you take one of these dirty whores and fuck her or even bugger her, if you liked, so there was no sense complaining. And the view he was getting by standing beside the table and pushing down this juicy bitch's knees against her bubbies was making him ache in his balls. With all due respect, he was secretly praying that
Oberst
Mueller would get as randy as he was getting now and would throw away the riding crop and use another kind of rod on her. Right between her squirmy legs, the dirty little intellectual bitch!

“Suit yourself, Helga, but don't complain to me if you can't sit down tomorrow,”
Oberst
Mueller said playfully. Now his gloved left hand pinched Helga's calf cruelly, and even as she wriggled her bottom, he drew back his right hand and applied four quick, severe blows with the riding crop, straight across both buttocks, in the region of the summits, where the flesh was tautest, plumpest, tensest because of the double-back pose in which the victim had been placed.

Strident cries followed these lashes, and Helga's hips arched and wriggled and bounded, as she frantically tried to escape. Tears were flooding her cheeks and she could hardly manage a coherent answer when he paused and asked, “Is anything coming to your mind yet, my dear?”

The technique of the Gestapo, though more complex, was really no different than what the Holy Inquisition had used so long ago. The degradation of man and woman by torture, by fear, by contempt, all these were cries against the human spirit, and yet they had all been perpetrated before, over and over, almost since the dawn of time.

Helga Nordheim was to learn this for the first time now. Her ordeal had hardly begun.

The smell in the interrogation room was subtle and varied and it was a powerful aphrodisiac in its effect on the three Nazis who were examining
Frau
Helga Nordheim.

Willi Murtens and Manfred Strobel still held her in that shamefully vulnerable pose, her knees dragged out behind her and down towards the floor drawn back against her naked titties, her arms as one of the subordinates gripped her wrists.
Oberst
Muller was fondling her calves with his left hand. He had taken off his gloves now so that he might treat himself to the sensual pleasure of caressing the naked woman's bare flesh. It was sweaty now, and there was also the tang of urine in the air, as well as the more erotic scent of her body odor and her cunt. The hair in her armpits was matted with sweat. She had had about twenty strokes of the riding crop over her naked bottom, and her maddened shrieks and hysterical supplications had begun to excite all three of her tormentors. The Gestapo officer had laid the lash on with relish and not too quickly, reveling in this prolongation of his conquest. He had described with loving attention to detail some of the things they were going to do to her unless she talked, and it was then that the fastidious and reserved Helga Nordheim had voided her urine.

“Roll her over onto her belly now, boys,” he genially directed. “Let's give her a few minutes to rest because she's going to need them before we proceed to a more rigorous part of our examination. That's it! Well now, Helga, that white skin of yours isn't quite so white now, is it? But you'd be amazed how those dark red stripes become you. They make your big
Arsch
look as
it
you'd had zebras back in your family three, some generations ago.”

At this obscene joke, his two assistants laughed hoarsely and exchanged knowing winks with each other. The
Herr Oberst
was in rare form today. And when he was, he was always generous with the leavings. They would be able to fuck this bitch, even make her suck their cocks, and he wouldn't mind at all. This wasn't one of those important political prisoners who had to be preserved for the headsman with a big open-court trial and write-up in the newspapers and
Herr Doktor
Goebbels making speeches on the radio calling for the increased loyalty of all good citizens of the Third Reich to stand strong against these corrupted swine who would destroy the glory of Germany. No, she didn't have to be handled with kid gloves. And when they saw their superior officer remove his gloves, they knew it was a sign this sweet bitch with the big
Butzen
and
Arsch
was going to be turned over to them in a very little while.

Helga Nordheim lay there weeping, and she went so far in her ignominious downfall as to put one hand to her bottom and rub it frantically to try to drive away the throbbing, merciless heat which was searing her tender flesh. Once in a while, in their love-play, dear Kurt would spank her, but that was ever so different. It made her shamelessly hot, like a little wanton, and she used to get a blushing thrill out of it in bed. But there was no pleasure in this horrible beating which that vicious brute of an officer had administered so expertly as to make her think she was actually going to die under the pain. White-hot torture had lacerated her flesh until her entire behind felt as if she had sat down on a hot stove and could feel all the serrations of the metal plaques in every single cranny of her bare bottom.

Terror began to take over in her mind. She had lost all courage now, which was exactly what the Gestapo officer had calculated. Long experience at this sort of diabolical game had taught him with almost scientific accuracy how to predict the breaking point of this prisoner or that, to anticipate the threshold of pain of a sensitive young woman or of a terrified young girl, or of a pampered, fleshy matron who until that moment had never known what it was to stand naked before strangers and have herself fondled and pinched and beaten.

In his opinion,
Frau
Helga Nordheim was just about ready for some really persuasive questioning. He made a sign to his “boys,” as he called them, for he was very fond of Willi Murtens and Manfred Strobel. They had worked with him for quite a while now, and they knew his little idiosyncrasies and could even anticipate them. It made it so much more convenient and pleasurable when you were dealing with assistants who enjoyed their work and wanted to make you look good too. In his next reports to the Gestapo chief of all Berlin, he would take pains to recommend Willi Murtens and Manfred Strobel for the Iron Cross, Fifth Rank.

The two men at once abandoned their sobbing prisoner on the table, and Manfred Strobel moved to one side of it and pulled out a little drawer. Inside were various lengths of rope, a pair of dental pliers, manicure tweezers, a nail file, a sheet or two of very coarse sandpaper, a little box of sharp-pointed toothpicks, a long bone darning needle, and other ingenious implements which at first glance seemed to have no useful purpose in a place like this. On the contrary, they were the imaginative little tools which
Oberst
Friedrich Muller used to bring his female victims to the final stage of the interrogation ritual and drew from them, while they were still coherent, the information he wished to know.

The two men began to bind Helga Nordheim to the table. Willi Murtens put a cord around her left wrist and made it fast to the front lower table leg, as Manfred did the same to the right wrist. Helga Nordheim began to plead for mercy, protesting her innocence, insisting that all she had ever done was see one copy of
Till Eulenspiegel.
The Gestapo officer ignored her, lighting a cigar with evident relish, then taking a rag which lay on the floor near the table and carefully polishing his boots until every inch of them gleamed with parade-drill luster.

Manfred Strobel, meanwhile, was binding Helga Nordheim's ankles to the rear legs of the table. When they had finished, she was spread-eagled tightly, and her legs were at least three feet apart. The traction necessarily tightened the skin of her body and made the burning, darkening weals left by the riding crop even more atrociously painful. The slightest involuntary jerk or squirming of her body sent new waves of torment through her striped posterior.

“Oh please...
Gott in Himmel
... what—what are you going to do to me now? I swear before Him that I know nothing more than I have already told you. Oh, for God's sake,
lieber Herr Oberst,
have pity on a helpless woman who has never done anything criminal in all her fife!”

The Gestapo officer made another gesture, and Willi Murtens dug his hand into the pocket of his uniform trousers, produced a dirty handkerchief and bound it around Helga Nordheim's eyes, knotting it tightly at the back of her head. This action drew a fresh paroxysm of terrified cries and appeals and pleas for mercy.

“Oh no, please no—what are you going to do to me? Oh, don't hurt me any more—I can't stand pain, I truly can't—I'm only a helpless woman— Oh, good
Herr Oberst,
have pity on me! I can't tell you anything more, I swear I can't! Oh my God, oh my God, what are you going to do to me now?”

As the Gestapo officer himself was fond of telling his subalterns, it was amusing to see how easily you could prick the bubble of a person's vanity and self-importance by the simplest of means. Human nature always delighted him because it was so predictable within variations which themselves always afforded him the utmost sensual gratification. You didn't need elaborate torture apparatus, you didn't need the fiendish cunning of the Orientals with cages of rats and scorpions and spiders, with tiny little knives that would flay the skin so neatly that it husked off like rabbit fur. A few simple things, things so simple in themselves that a glance at them would make you think you were in a supply room of some big industrial firm. Like those toothpicks, for example. Or the nail file. Or, again, the manicure tweezers. He made another sign to both men, and the Nazi privates eagerly approached the table where blindfolded, naked Helga Nordheim lay, shuddering violently, trying to stiffen her muscles in what was assuredly a useless effort.

Each man placed both hands on one of the violently striped bottomglobes and, at the same moment, jerked it towards him, thus gaping the anal furrow and exposing the plump, pink lips of Helga Nordheim's hitherto unprofaned asshole.

“NOOOOO!!! Oh God, don't do that! Oh please, you're hurting me so, you're tearing me there!
Nein, nein, im Gottes Willen, im Seiner Namen!
Don't hurt me, don't hurt me there!” Her shriek was high-pitched, desperate in its groveling terror. She had twisted her face to the left, sightless though she was, toward her tormentors.

“Gently, dear Helga,” the Gestapo officer purred, as he moved over to the right-hand side of the table, pulled open the little drawer and stared at its contents. He pursed his lips and scratched his chin reflectively with his forefinger as he considered. Then he reached for the box of sharp-pointed toothpicks and the bone darning needle. Opening the box of toothpicks, he chose two, griping them between thumb and median and right forefinger. Then he lowered his right hand till the sharp points touched the sole of Helga Nordheim's right foot. Instantly her toes clawed the air, and she tried to jerk herself in her bonds with a shrill scream.

“But, my dear Helga, we haven't even begun,” he chuckled. “I just want to see whether your faculties are as keen as ever. Now just Me still and rest yourself, my dear.”

The two men grinned at each other. Yes indeed,
Herr Oberst
Mueller was in fine fettle! There was no officer they would rather work for. The rewards were endless and always pleasing. By now, each of them was finding it difficult to conceal the fact that his prick was swollen to gigantic and agonizing size. Now with another officer, one who went by the book, they would be given a scathing lecture. But not from the
Herr Oberst,
a man among men, even if he was a high-ranking officer. And he understood a man's needs and a man's desires. Their fingers dug into the buttocks of the sobbing woman and they continued to gape them apart, disclosing that most secretive fissure of her entire body, And this in itself was not only a shameful but a very painful ordeal for the helpless blonde young matron to endure.

Very lingeringly, the Gestapo officer began to prod the naked woman's right calf with the two sharp toothpicks. Her spasmodic quiverings and jerkings, the way the blood seemed to rush immediately to the pricked spots along her white flesh, made his own prick ache with ferocious tumescence. Nor did he particularly care that his associates, of far inferior rank, saw this phenomenon. Within the four walls of this interrogation chamber, they were all working for the glory of the Third Reich, and rank didn't really matter. It was really more enjoyable this way, when dealing with one of these
verdammte
traitresses.

By now the two toothpicks had ascended to the sensitive hollow of Helga Nordheim's right knee, as he continued to prick the flesh in a continually ascending pattern. Soft, deft touches, which did little more than exacerbate the young woman's nerves, yet cumulatively not only augmented the horrifying suspense but also continued to strike at her already attenuated resistance. Whimpering little gasps, incoherent sobs and babbled words began to emerge from her, but not the words he wanted. That was fine, but he didn't want the bitch breaking down too quickly, because then it would spoil everything. He wanted to have her bathed in sweat, her heart and pulses pounding so frantically it seemed as if she were on the verge of a stroke. Then she wouldn't be mistress of herself any longer, and then, when he and the “boys” fucked or buggered her, or made her suck them off or even lick their
Horenrohen,
the thrill would be indescribable.

The toothpicks ascended the lovely rounded white column of Helga Nordheim's white thigh en route to her yawned-opened bottom-globes. He paused at the top of the thigh to remark, “I'm getting very close to a tender spot, you know, dear Helga. Are you sure you've told me everything you know? Quite everything?”

“Oh God—stop it—Oh, I'll go crazy—I beg of you—in the name of Heaven, help me,
Herr Oberst
—have pity on a poor woman. I've done nothing wrong—I love the Third Reich—I believe in
Der Fuhrer,
truly I do! Only stop—stop, in the name of God, before I die!”

He smiled at his two “boys” and although it could never be said of Friedrich Mueller that he had ever shown the slightest inclination towards homosexuality, the fact was that he was almost in love with them both at this moment. For they were the perpetrators of his will on the tasty flesh of this naked, white-skinned bitch, who was soon going to pleasure his prick in a way she would never have dared with her own husband in bed together. He liked this part of the interrogation, too, knowing that by careful, dedicated work, he could turn even a prissy virginal schoolmarm into the most abject and lascivious of whores, make a chaste, convent-bred little piece of
kootzele
kneel down and lick his prick or his asshole as he chose, and try to pretend she loved it. It gave one a sense of almost God-like power to be able to do this to other human beings, to strip away all the veneer as one did the clothes, to pierce through all the smug ideologies and book-learning to the craven flesh and the shuddering psyche hidden inside the person you were interrogating. When you began, he or she was clothed, presentable, respectable, cocksure of answers and of background. And then step by step, the first suspicious anguish in the eyes, the trembling of lips and chin, the dry throat, the fight for breath, the nervous pauses in thinking up answers—which would, of course, always be the wrong ones. It was glorious, this work in the
Fuhrer's
name! Hungry though he was for decorations, ambitious as he was for promotion,
Herr Oberst
Friedrich Mueller would not have traded this moment in this room in his present occupation even for the honor of leading the Third Panzer Division in Africa!