Slaves of the Swastika (6 page)

Helga Nordheim had fainted on the wooden table on which Willi Murtens and Manfred Strobel had been holding her. The fat Gestapo officer supervising her interrogation had gouged her inner thighs and calves with sharp-pointed toothpicks, and then while the two men had held her with her knees flattening down her swelling titties and her legs hugely gaped apart to expose both of her sexual orifices, he had taken the manicure tweezers and calmly and slowly depilated her. Plucking out those springs of dark blonde pussyfur had been an enervating torture, and Helga had threshed and writhed and shriekingly protested that she knew absolutely nothing more than what she had already told them... that she had found this one copy of the newspaper, that her husband had never spoken a word against
Der Fuhrer,
that she herself was a true patriot and prayed for the victory of Germany in the war.

It had done no good. Pleas and protestations were music to the ears of those who tiled for the Gestapo. Indeed, they were proof that the work was going well, and the louder the victim shrieked, the more fervent and abject the pledges and promises, the more assurance the Nazi questioners had that they were on the right track.

After the depilation with the tweezers—which had included, naturally, the even more sensitive hairs growing from the cunt along the perineum of the victim and leading towards her dainty plump virgin asshole—
Oberst
Mueller had kept the tweezers in hand while poor agonized naked Helga Norheim had this time been stretched out flat on her back over the table, with Manfred Strobel this time squatting down behind her and holding her wrists, as his aide and colleague Willi Murtens crouched at the foot of the table to grasp her chiseled ankles. Then the Gestapo officer had capriciously begun to tweak her navel, to rasp the sharp little jaws of the tweezers into that dainty niche which in itself was an inviting oasis for kisses and caresses and which an imaginative and virile man might well whimsically substitute for a cunt when he sought amorous diversion. From there, he had progressed to her nipples, though only by way of the valley of her titties, taking up tiny folds of soft pale white skin at the sides of her heaving love-gourds, nipping them for a tiny instant, just long enough for the pain to register in the nervous system of the already hysterically overwrought captive, and then proceeding to still another place and though it seemed to her that her entire bosom was exacerbated and hot with the fiery waves of torture. And then at last he had pressed the tweezers against her left nipple and said playfully, “My gracious, Helga, what big soft nipples you have. Let's see if we can't make them hard, just the way they are when that nice husband of yours comes to bed with you. I'll bet you turn into a furnace then, you prudish little
Hausfrau!”

The smell of sweat and of piss was very strong in the interrogation room now. She had already lost control of her bladder twice while the
Oberst
had been plucking out her cunt hairs. Her head rolled back and forth, her eyes mad with suffering, and her contorted cheeks were flushed and drowned with tears. Her Adam's apple shifted and jerked as sobs choked her, in her desperate effort to find some words that would placate this smiling, affable, fat man whose very geniality masked the demoniac cruelty and the resourcefulness of his inventive sadism. He opened the jaws of the tweezers now and let them just touch the crinkly coral bud of the nipple. He bent solicitously over her, his left hand caressing her sweaty forehead.

“Maybe I've misjudged you, Helga,” he said in a pleasant, chatty tone. “Maybe deep down inside, you've always dreamed of being forced to do this or that, to obey your masters. Maybe your dear Professor acts like an old woman when he's in bed with you,
hein?
Maybe what you really want is to have such exquisite pain that you wish you could die, and yet deep down inside you don't want that at all, but even more pain piled on top of it. Am I right in diagnosing your case,
Frau
Nordheim?”

His two aids grinned and winked at each other from opposite ends of the table.
Wirklich,
the
Herr Oberst
was in incomparable form today! All the same, they were just a little impatient. Seeing all that naked flesh, smelling that woman smell of the bitch's, seeing her pink twat Lips twitching and inflamed and not covered up at all by any hair now, had made them randy as stallions in rut. They were wishing that he would declare a kind of interlude now and, before resuming the woman's torture, let them have a go at her.

But instead, Friedrich Mueller slowly pinched the jaws of the tweezers shut on the tip of that dainty coral tidbit which Professor Kurt Nordheim himself had often loved to roll above under his tongue while mounted on his beautiful flaxen-haired wife and with his prick thrust up to the very hilt inside her warm, quaking, deliriously tight cunthole.

Her body seemed to arch from the table, and then the wet squishy smack of her perspiring buttocks and back was heard as she fell back. Then a long piercing scream, high-pitched and maddened, had been torn from her, and her eyes were now glazed and hugely dilated as they fixed on those gleaming little steel jaws which now moved over to the other nipple and began to prod the sensitive erogenous love-candy. “Ach,
n-n-nein-nicht-mehr, ich harm nicht mehr—
have pity—oh stop, in the name of God the Father!” she babbled.

He shrugged. “It's always within your power to stop me, my dear
Frau
Nordheim. It distresses me to see you like this. You're not entirely at your best, I must say. You smell a little strong, as if you haven't bathed recently. And you're losing control of your bladder, which I hate to see in a well-bred woman of your species. Also, you're getting a little used up. Your husband may wrinkle his face when he takes a look at you in bed the next time he gets to you—that is, if we don't catch him first. Right, Willi, Manfred?”

“Richtig, mein Oberst!”
both men chorused.

“There, you see, my dear? Willi and Manfred are expert judges of
kootzele.
I don't know how many women they've mounted and serviced like the good healthy studs they are, but I can certainly tell you that they have no equal in all of Berlin when it comes to telling me how this or that young lady is going to act when she has her panties off and a man's cock between her naked legs. But they too are distressed, and they share with me this feeling of almost annoyance,
Frau
Nordheim, that you've let us mark you up so much when you're so lovely. Still and all, I think I may let them have a few minutes with you after I've finished this little game. That is, of course, unless you suddenly remember something you've forgotten to tell me up till now.”

“Oh my God, bring me a Bible, and I'll swear on it that I know nothing more! You must believe me,
Herr Oberst!
I can't stand such pain, I can't, in the name of the Blessed Virgin! Shoot me, kill me, but no more of this, for I'm innocent, I swear to you I am!” the naked flaxen-haired matron hysterically implored.

“Still the same old song,” the fat Gestapo officer sadly shook his head. “I wish I had a thousand Reich Marks for every time I've heard that song and dance, my dear Helga. I could enjoy the entire winter on the Italian Riviera if I had all that
Geld.
I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist that you search your mind a little more carefully, my dear. And now, gentlemen, if you please, hold on to her very tightly. I think she's going to want to wriggle around a bit.”

So saying, he tightened the manicure tweezers' jaws over the other nipple, and at once the surge of blood darkened and swelled the sensitive tidbit of mammary flesh.

And once again, as he had predicted, Helga Nordheim's naked and sweating body arched up and then flattened with a moist impact as she fell back shrieking on the bench of ordeal. He straightened, pocketed the tweezers for the moment. “Well, I think you boys have earned a little reward,” he said jocularly. “I'll leave it to you to decide who shall go first with this
Hure.
But you'd best tie her down first. Take the lengths of cord out of the drawer at the side of this desk, boys, and fix her down tightly so she'll be able to concentrate on what you're going to do to her. Maybe it will refresh her memory, because I think she's really itching inside to get fucked.”

The two Nazi privates joyously saluted their commanding officer and left Helga Nordheim weeping and abandoned, sprawled on the torture table. In a few moments, the poor woman found her wrists tied tightly to the front legs of the table, and her ankles corded and made fast in turn to the back legs. She was straddled a full yard, and the pink, slightly inflamed labia of her now shorn cunt gaped, libidinously.

The two privates conferred among themselves, and there was an argument in a low angry voice from Willi Murtens. He believed that he had the right to go first with this
Dime.
The
Oberst
laughingly intervened: “Now then, boys, I'm sure it's very flattering for dear little Helga there to hear you squabble over who is going to fuck her first. She never knew she had so many admirers until today, isn't that right, my dear lady? But in the interest of time, since I do have a little more work to do with her, I suggest you allow me to nominate the order in which you two gentlemen will amuse her. Let's see now. Manfred, I think you shall go first this time.”

On Willi Murtens' surly face, there appeared a glowering look of disgusted envy as he watched his tall angular companion unbuckle his belt, slip down his uniformed trousers, and then, without bothering to take them or his boots off, hoist himself onto the table and fling himself down atop the straddled, spread-eagled, naked flaxen-haired matron.

“Oh God no-oh don't-oh Kurt, Kurt, help me-oh I want you, Kurt!” Helga shrieked as she tried to jerk at her wrists and to twist her body away. Her yawning thighs made strenuous efforts to clench as she felt the obdurate, hot, swollen ramrod of her ravisher prod against her inner thighs. And then, she shrieked aloud in torment as the plumheaded tip of his meatus rudely pried the Lips of her vulva apart and entered her. With a grunt, Manfred Strobel thrust himself forward up to his hairs, and Helga's head flung back, her eyes rolling in their sockets, her teeth gnashing at the pain. The depilation had rendered the entry of her quim so exquisitely sensitive that the slightest touch was agony itself. And his brutal penetration gave her no joy whatsoever. Willi Murtens, panting with lust, leaned over the table to watch his colleague service the bitch. His own prick was almost bursting through the fly of his trousers, and the
Oberst
chuckled thickly as he observed this understandable phenomenon. “Wait, Willi,” he paternally advised, “Manfred will warm her up for you, and then you can make her gush! And once she's relaxed with a good fucking and her climax, I'm sure it will work wonders on her memory. She'll want more, don't you see, and so she'll be cooperative with us at last. Give it to her hard, Manfred, don't spare her! Remember, she's a traitress who may possibly kneel down and bow her head to the axe some cold morning in the courtyard of the Direktor
General-Platt!”

Manfred Strobel needed no second invitation. His hips were jerking now as he ruthlessly pillaged the sobbing, moaning naked captive beneath him. His hands had reached out to cup and knead her panting titties. Contrary to the jesting declamation of his
Oberst,
he didn't find the marks on this bitch's body the least bit distressing. On the contrary, they seemed to augment his rut. She wasn't so high and mighty and intellectual now, this bitch wasn't.
Herr Gott,
but she smelled strong of piss and sweat! And she was certainly tight. He didn't know what kind of a cocksmith that Professor husband of hers was, but she felt damned tight and good to his spear!

“Slip a finger into her asshole, Manfred boy,” the
Oberst
salaciously muttered, “you'd be surprised how many bitches get a kick out of it. I think Helga has a good enough intelligence to know that is we give her pleasure, she has to reciprocate in kind,
nicht wahr?
Let me see you make her wriggle a little, Manfred boy!”

Nothing loath, the tall angular private slid his right hand under her buttocks, and his forefinger found the plump dainty fissure of her virgin asshole. He pried apart the shrinking and twitching lips, felt the ring of sphincter muscles clutch frantically as his fingertip just entered the lobbyway to her rectum, and then he gouged his finger in to the knuckle, enjoying her gasps and moans and stammered pleas, as her hips and loins arched and squirmed helplessly.

At the same time, he quickened his digs inside of her and then suddenly uttered a bellow of excited and disappointed rapture... he had just lost control of his damned-up sperm, and had burst forth in a bubbling torrent deep inside Helga Nordheim's womb.