Slaves of the Swastika (14 page)

“Decidedly,
Excellenz!
Why not have them both give us a little circus, what do you say,
mein Oberst?”
the sergeant slyly proposed.

“You're a man after my own heart, Sergeant. Decidedly, I must arrange to transfer you to my special staff. Go ahead, boys, you heard what Katzmire here just said. I want to see Trudy and Eva rub that
kootzeles
together until they get awfully hot, you understand me?”

The two Nazi privates nodded, and the whipping was resumed. Now, using only the tips of the specially split strap, Willi Murtens applied it with savage cunning. The three “fingers” snapped wickedly against the plumpest arc of each buttock in turn, then visited the tender shadowy crease between those luscious bottomcheeks. Eva Jung dashed herself about, panting, groaning, sobbing, her eyes mad with suffering, looking back over her shoulder and whimpering each time she saw the former butcher's apprentice's arm lift in the air with the horrid black gleaming strap dangling from his hand.
“Ach, nein,
have mercy on me, oh don't whip me so hard, ARRRHHHHHEEEEOOOWWWW!!!! Not there, not there, oh you're tearing me to pieces, you're ripping the skin off me, pity, pity! Oh,
Herr Oberst,
make him stop, for the love of God!” she shrieked.

“No, no, Eva, my God, no,” her companion hoarsely whispered, then her body stiffened and her head tilted back as Manfred Strobel's strap crashed across the base of her shuddering, angrily striped bottom, the three sinister “fingers” flicking round to sting her tender groin near the black thick bush of her cunthair. A strangled cry broke from her, taken by agonized surprise as she was from that last perfidious cut. “Don't talk, it's better to die—ohhh, oh God, oh help me, I pray!” This, as an almost instantly applied new stroke of the strap bit diagonally from the top of her right hip down over her buttocks, and the biting strips of leather at the very end of the strap stung against the hipbone and along onto the tender side. She groaned aloud, tears edging from under her fluttering lids, her nostrils dilating and shrinking, and her fingers clawed the air as her knees bent slightly. Her cunt was rubbing against Eva's, though for her it was entirely involuntary.

Now with Eva Jung, however, watching closely, Willi Murtens laid on another savage slash which made the strap cling across the base of Eva's voluptuous plump bottom, and sent the three nipping “fingers” whisking around to visit the groin and near the dark blonde fig of her tender cunthole.

“Oh God, stop it, oh please, I can't stand anymore, I'll tell you anything, only stop, stop whipping me!” Eva Jung shrieked.

“Oh no, please dear God, no!” Trudy wailed, and then burst into tears. They were not tears of suffering for her own pangs, though her lovely boyish bottom was angrily and lividly blotched. They were tears of agony now for her dead fiance, for the safety of the man she respected and revered, Professor Kurt Nordheim.

“Wait a bit, Willi. The young lady seems inclined to be talkative. Let's hear what she has to say. If we don't like it, we can always start at once again and go back to twenty, can't we?” the sadistic Gestapo chief directed. Reluctantly, the torturer lowered the strap to the stone floor of the interrogation room, his chest heaving, the armpits of his tunic damp with sweat.

“What about her,
Excellenz?”
Strobel anxiously demanded. “A couple more good wallops, maybe between the legs, and this black-haired little piece of
kootzele
will be ready to sing too, I can promise you that,
mein Oberst!”

“All in good time, Manfred boy. Now then, Eva, what were going to say?”

“We-we were meeting at Kathy's house, that's what we were doing when-when-when you arrested us,” Eva Jung sobbed, squirming her body about restlessly because the blazing fires in her naked bottom were consuming her alive. By so doing, however, she continued to rub her pussy against poor Trudy's, much to the embarrassment and shame of the more stalwart young brunette. “We-we were talking—we were talking about the Pro-Professor and how much we liked him and how we hoped he'd be back with us next term... that's all we were doing, I swear it is... oh please untie me and let me go, I hurt so,
Herr Oberst!”

“Well now, I'm a reasonable man, dear little Eva.” He approached and stood on her left side, his right hand caressing the flaming cheeks of her quaking bare bottom. “What's the name of this girl friend of yours where all of you were hiding out?”

“It's-it's-Kathy Flichtsen... she's in our class, too.”

“Begging your pardon,
Excellenz,”
the sergeant proffered, “that seems to jibe where we found them. They were only a few doors away from Old Man Flichtsen's place.”

The fat Gestapo chief scowled, put his right forefinger to his nose and thought aloud: “Flichtsen... Flichtsen... hmmm. That seems to have a familiar ring to it. Refresh my memory, Willi.”

“Well, sir,” the beetle-browed torturer volunteered, “don't you remember a couple of years ago that was the old fool that wrote us the stupid letter about the taxes? We went out to his place—that is, I didn't, but there was a young lieutenant—”

“Of course, I remember now.
Lieutenant
Ventner. Now he's a
Herr Major,
and doing quite well for himself on the Italian front. Yes, it begins to come back to me a little. I think a search was made of the old fool's house, and what did they find?”

“Herr Gott!
Why, it was an old printing press. But the
Lieutenant
said it didn't really work anyhow.”

“A printing press, by all that's holy!” the
Oberst
mused. “And what do you think this
verdammte Till Eulenspiegel
is printed on, Willi boy, if it isn't a press? I think we've got something here. Sergeant Katzmire!”

“Sir?”

“Take two men at once and go to the Flichtsen house. Arrest the old fool of a father, and get that little bitch of a daughter of his, this Kathy. Now it all begins to jell. Didn't I tell
Frau
Nordheim we'd find her husband for her? And I'll bet you a week's pay and a vacation in Paris, Sergeant that you'll find her husband there shacking up with little Kathy!” The man who had shot down Trudy's fiance in the street saluted sharply, turned on his heel and left the interrogation chamber.
Oberst
Friedrich Mueller glanced at his wristwatch. “I feel hungry, boys. What do you say we have another go at
Frau
Schneider's cooking and stretch ourselves a little bit and then come back here? Let's wait and see what Sergeant Katzmire comes back with. Then we can really have a nice little evening party. There'll be
kootzele
enough to go around and plenty for seconds. Right, boys?”

“Richtig, Excellenz!”
Manfred Strobel and Willi Murtens chorused.

The three of them left Trudy and Eva sobbing and hanging in their bonds from the triangle, and it was Trudy who mournfully groaned, “Oh my God, all I can do is pray that poor Professor Nordheim will have had sense enough to get away be now. I know Kathy, she's so hot for him she'd let the Gestapo take him if it would give her another half hour or so in bed with that nice guy—the dirty little slut!”

Oberst Mueller was quite wrong. Professor Kurt Nordheim had decided that staying in Kathy's house would be eminently dangerous for him. Accordingly, after he had rather impatiently satisfied the lusts of the brown-haired young nymphomaniac, he told her, “Kathy, I've got a hunch that the Gestapo will probably search this house before long. I'm sure they've picked up our friends, and they may come here and question you. You haven't seen me. Better yet, you have seen me, and I told you that I was trying to get myself through the underground and across the border into Switzerland. That's a logical story they'll believe. In that way, you won't be involved either. It's always better to be very frank with them but not too chipper. That's as suspect as lying or being, alas, too innocent. Oh my poor wife, I've got to think of something to get Helga out of their hands, those monsters!”

“Don't go, darling, please, Kurt,” Kathy whined, winding her arms around his middle and arching her moist ruffled cuntfleece against his crotch. She had stripped all naked and had refused to put back her clothes on, though after he had finished with her he had swiftly composed himself and prepared to leave.” Don't go, I'll make it up to you! There's a sub-cellar right under this, you didn't know about that, darling. We can hide there forever. I've got food down there and every thing. That's where the press is hidden right now, if you want to know something. Forget her. You need a young girl, a girl who is lovely like me, with my silly old
Water
about to die with his mind going half the time, please love me, Kurt. I'll be your slave, you can whip me all the time, you can do anything to me!”

“I can't, Kathy darling. You know I want you, I just showed you that. But I've got work to do. It's not just the two of us who count, it's the decent German people and getting rid of that madman who is turning all of Germany into a living hell,” the bearded Professor explained and he gently disengaged himself from Kathy's embrace.

She had kissed him then, and then she boldly opened his fly, and fondled his limpened cock, trying a last time with all her wiles to force him into staying the night with her. But he had brought along a valise into which he had packed very neatly the uniform of a
Hauptmann
(captain). For the gentle Professor of the University had once killed a Nazi. Six months ago, he had come down an alley and seen a swaggering officer with monocle and riding crop kicking a bearded old man, a Jew. There had been no one around, and he had listened for a moment to the conversation and heard how the Nazi officer was gloating about having forced the old man's daughter to come to his bed when he wanted to, with the threat of putting her father in a concentration camp unless she did his wishes. He had gone berserk, this gentle man who loved his wife deeply. He had strangled the captain, throttling him so expertly that the man had died before he had known who his assailant was. And then very swiftly, with the old Jew weeping and babbling prayers of gratitude, Professor Kurt Nordheim had stripped the Nazi of everything because he had foreseen that it might come in handy one day.

He had had a premonition when he had left his home a few days ago after that outburst in class which had been so treacherously reported by one of the students, a student by the name of Gittele Taquebauer. She was twenty-two, with glasses, myopic vision, the shadow of a mustache on her upper lip, and rather plump and bovine, but she had lusted for him. She had made sly little overtures which had been so naive that he hadn't even understood what she wanted. She wanted to be fucked by him. She lived with an old aunt who never let her go out with a boy, and besides all the boys were in the Army now. And so Professor Nordheim had slighted her, and that's why she had turned him in to the Gestapo.

So now he turned to the naked girl with her lovely thick long braids, not without a momentary flicker of desire, for Kathy did have a superb body along with her insatiable craving for being fucked and beaten, and he said, “I'm going to use the bathroom for a few minutes. We won't say goodbye, and I'll be in touch when this thing is blown over.”

“But what are you going to do, Kurt darling?”

“I know what I'm going to do, Kathy. But you better put some clothes on. What do you think the Gestapo will think if they come here to arrest you and they find you like this?”

“I'll invite them in and keep them here until you make your escape,” she said melodramatically. But there was more than a thread of truth in it and he knew this all too well. He had made a mistake in enlisting a girl like this, and it had only been because her father had had that old press. Yes, that senile old man, almost toothless, who mumbled weird stories about the good old days of Bismarck and Frederick the Great, had once been a revolutionary himself. But that had been after the first World War, when all Germany had been plunged into terrible inflation and drastic poverty. And all of that poverty had paved the way for the madman from Munich. It was ironic how fate played it's little tricks!

He patted her head, walked up the stairway and disappeared. Kathy sighed, and then she went to a little closet and took out an old sweater, a pair of men's corduroy trousers, and a pair of long white men's drawers. She put them on, examined herself critically in a cracked mirror near the closet, and giggled. She certainly looked like a fellow all right, except for those braids. But the thing about the braids was that often her darling Kurt when he chastised her for being a naughty girl, would yank them and then she would feel like his naughty little slave girl, and it was ever so thrilling. She sighed reluctantly. She wished she could go with him across the border to Switzerland, just like the story she was going to tell the Gestapo...

Professor Kurt Nordheim had gone to one of the small bathrooms on the first floor of the old house on
Blumen Strassze.
He had shaved off his beard, and, upon rummaging in the medicine cabinet, had found a bottle of brown hair shampoo, which Kathy obviously used. It suited his purposes excellently. A little of it to the eyebrows, which he thinned out with the safety razor, and then on the hair. He took the razor and lopped off some of the wavy black curls, which were so characteristic of him. And by now they had a wanted poster of him with some kind of picture. It was a good thing he had had a feeling of danger the last week or so, and after saying what he had done in that last class, had decided to take cover. And yet somebody in his own class must have turned him in. Well, whoever did it, that wasn't important. What was, was to somehow get to Gestapo headquarters and help his wife escape the cruelty of those demons.

Opening his valise, he took out the Nazi captain's uniform, polished the buttons, and put it on. It wasn't a bad fit. The officer's cap was perched at a jaunty angle, shadowing half of his face. That was a very good effect. And the monocle too. He had to take off his spectacles for the time being, and thank God his vision wasn't too bad without them. Yes, it was an excellent transformation. Wait, there was something in the valise... the Luger which he'd taken from the dead captain. And all the chambers were filled with bullets. There was a holster to wear it in, too.

A desperate plan was formulating in his mind. He would pretend to be an emissary of Himmler himself, go to the grim gray building and demand to interrogate the prisoner Helga Nordheim. But he'd need papers. Wait a bit... now he remembered! The Maquis agent who had been his liaison man and who had given him the idea for
Till Eulenspiegel
had handed him some expertly forged credentials, to be used if ever he got into a jam. Well, he was in one now. There was a false bottom to this large valise, and he opened it now. In an oilskin were several documents; one of these bore the expertly forged signature of Heinrich Himmler, Deputy Minister of the Third Reich. It was a pass authorizing the bearer to proceed on official business for the undersigned. Yes, that should do the trick very nicely. At least it would get him into Gestapo headquarters and probably down to see poor Helga. After that, he would just have to improvise as he went along.

He said a silent prayer, took a last look at himself in the bathroom mirror, and then tiptoed out of the house, watching to see that no one was on the street before he stepped out and began to walk with that peculiar elegance, that quick goose-stepping tread which was so characteristic of the Nazis.

Sergeant Ludwig Katzmire went down to the front office and, after explaining his mission to a youthful
Lieutenant
who had been there only about a month and was evidently impressed by the name
Oberst
Mueller, hastily summoned two plainclothes men to accompany the sergeant in a squadron with flashing lights and siren and a submachine gun mounted out the right front window.

The sergeant and his two companions drove at once to the house of Kathy Flichtsen, and loudly pounded on the door. After a few moments, the door was opened by the old woman who served as housekeeper, cook and companion to the senile old father of Kathy Flichtsen. Her eyes goggled and she was speechless when she saw the Nazi uniform and, in the hand of one of the plainclothes men the badge of the Gestapo. Indeed, it took a few slaps in the face and savage threats to make her explain where Kathy was. “D—downstairs,
mein heirin,”
she babbled, “Don't hit me again, I'm an old woman, I don't know anything. She's downstairs!”

They made her come along to show them how to get downstairs, and the poor old woman nearly fainted as she heard the three men clump down the stairs and into the basement. Kathy Flichtsen, in the meantime, had sat herself out on a battered old couch and was reading an old issue of a German humor magazine, published in the days before Hitler had come into power. Her father had kept piles of old newspapers and magazines around the basement. It was, unfortunately for her, a regrettable choice; such magazines had long since been forbidden and stamped out and their editors died either in concentration camps or before the firing squad.

“You Kathy Flichtsen?” the sergeant roughly demanded as the three men approached the old couch. Kathy nodded, tossed the magazine onto the couch, and stood up, “Sure I am, what's the trouble?”

“You'll have to come along with us, girl,” the man who had flashed the Gestapo badge at the old housekeeper barked. “What are you reading? And why the devil are you reading downstairs here in this dirty old basement instead of in your room as any decent German girl would,
hein?”

“Well, I was going to clean out the basement, you see, but then I found these magazines and I got interested. Say, what's wrong anyhow? Why do you need me?”

“Because your Professor has been missing from class, and we've got an idea you're sort of stuck on him,” said the sergeant with a leer. He was eyeing Kathy up and down, and he liked what he saw. How he'd love to drag her by those two thick braids off to bed and spank her big sweet
Arsch
and then stick his prick up to the balls inside that sweet little hot
kootezle
of hers!

The other Gestapo agent sauntered over to the couch, picked up the magazine and scowled, “Is this the
Drek
you've been reading, girl?” he scowled. “It's strictly
verboten.
Maybe you're one of those damned intellectuals in on this—”

“Shh,” the sergeant hastily interposed with a finger to his lips. Then shook his head. The Gestapo agent stared angrily at him, and finally nodded. “All right. Just let's go, that's all. And no tricks, girl, or you'll be sorry.”

And so Kathy Flichtsen was put into the back of the squadron between the two Gestapo agents, while the sergeant drove back to the grim building in which the unhappy and agonized Helga Nordheim still lay tied to the table of torture.