Slaves of the Swastika (5 page)

“Bravo, Trudy!” the Professor approved, “but all the same you must be very careful. Don't pretend to be too interested in what they're talking about. Sometimes, when you're serving them, go away and serve somebody else for a minute if they happen to mention something they shouldn't. That will give them more confidence. It will lull them into believing that you could be trusted. Now I think we'd all better agree to break up and meet back here, say, a week from this Sunday. That will do about right as far as time is concerned.”

The two young couples nodded, got up and shook hands with the Professor. Kathy Flichtsen put her hands on her hips and smiled complacently. She knew that he was going to stay here and talk about details of hiding the press just in case the Gestapo should take it into their heads to make a search. But her elderly father was sick and there was a nurse upstairs with him all the time, and those two certainly didn't know what was going on. There really wasn't any reason to suspect Kathy.

The two couples left, with about three or four minutes between their departure, just in case anyone happened to be on the street surveying what was going on. Whenever more than two people met, the Nazis got suspicious. It wasn't any wonder, now that they were losing the war.

At last Kathy was alone with her man. She went up to him, put her arms around him, and kissed him slowly on the mouth, grinding her crotch against his. “It's so nice to be all alone here with you. It's so nice and dark here except for that lamp, and there isn't any window, and there's a nice couch right over there in the corner, just waiting for us, darling,” she said, her voice a little husky from longing.

“You've been very good to the cause, Kathy,” he said gently, as he put his hands to the sides of her pear-shaped titties and gently caressed them. “When this war is over, you can count yourself a true heroine.”

She tried to press herself even more tightly against him, till the proud tips of her bubbies mashed against his chest. Her fingernails drove into his shoulders as, her lips inches from his, she murmured, “And when the war is over,
Liebling,
can we go off together and maybe get married?”

“Kathy, what are you saying!” he gasped.

“Oh well, you know what I mean.” she gave him a ribald grin, without releasing the cling of her arms or the insinuating nearness of the supple body. “I don't wish your wife any harm, darling, you know that. But if the Gestapo have her, chances are she might not be around when the war is over. Forgive my being so brutal, but you have to face facts. I know I always have. Otherwise I wouldn't have given you this press.”

“I'm very grateful. Pierre of the Maquis” (this was the liaison man between the Allies and the Professor) “sent me a message in code the other day saying that they were thinking of giving you a medal when the time comes for the Allies to march through the streets of Berlin. You will have helped make it possible. That should be a great reward for you, dear Kathy.”

“I know. But I want my reward now. And I don't want a medal. I want you,
Liebling,”
she purred.

Professor Kurt Nordheim kept his thoughts to himself. She was a greedy, selfish and unscrupulous bitch. The trouble was, she was necessary to the cause, otherwise he wouldn't have bothered a minute with her. He, who had always been a gentle intellectual, now found himself thinking murderous thoughts. But it was this damned war which had changed everything. Before the goose-stepping helmeted men who wore the signs of the swastika had begun marching all over Europe, he had been quite content with his academic life, with writing perhaps a treatise on some obscure historical fact, and with the love of Helga. His beautiful flaxen-haired Helga whom he had initiated into all the joys of love. Even now, after nine years of marriage, she behaved like a timid virgin, yet he knew that she was burningly passionate and welcomed his embraces, even if she didn't show the enthusiasm which this young whore, this
Dime,
was exhibiting right now. But he would rather have had Helga for the rest of his life than a thousand Kathys. Only, Kathy was useful to the cause, and so he would have to go along with her.

“What are you waiting for, my lover?” her voice was husky now with longing. He felt her hand slip down to the fly of his trousers and begin to unbutton them, reach in to feel his dormant cock.

“Kathy,” he hoarsely interrupted her, “Not now, for God's sake! We've got to plan how we're going to meet again and how we're going to get word to the others when we're ready for them to put out another issue. Must you always think of sex?”

“Why not? It's all there's left to live for for a girl like me. Upstairs my old fool of a father is dying, and all he thinks of is his mush and a tiny sip of beer from that stupid old nurse of his. But I'm young and healthy, and I've got red blood in my veins, and I need a man, do you understand me? Why else do you think I let you use this printing press? Not because I give a damn one way or the other what happens to this country. If Hitler wins the war, then we'll all be happy. If he loses, so what? I can always take care of myself, I am like a cat. But you're here now, Kurt, and I want you so. You know how you excite me, please.” Her voice had grown wheedling now, tinged with the huskiness of her unashamed passion. He closed his eyes and prayed that Helga would forgive him if she one day found out, because he knew that she would understand when it was all over.

“Oh,
Liebling!”
Kathy Flichtsen gasped as she drew his stiffened cock out of his fly, “you're marvelous, but you know what I really want. I've been a bad girl. I want the Herr Professor to give me
ein gutes Schlagen
on my naughty bare
Arsch, bitte.”

She sank down to her knees, suddenly, clasping her hands and looking up at him. He trembled, for like any imaginative and intellectual man, he was not immune from the poisonous and insidious temptation of conquest by force, passion through coercion, and he knew that Kathy Flichtsen was an avid masochist. If the Gestapo ever questioned her, he cynically thought to himself, she would probably he enchanted by the attentions they paid her. She would probably ask them to whip her even harder and then to ravish her. He knew her type only too well.

But because he needed her, because he wanted to have that press ready when the next issue of
Till Eulenspiegel
came out, he now acquiesced.

“Yes, you've been a wicked girl. A real slut,” he heard himself saying in a harsh, inflexible voice. “I want you lying over that trunk, with your skirts up to your armpits, and you're to lower your own panties,
naturlich.
You're to have your palms on the floor, the bare stone floor, Kathy. And then I'm going to whip you very hard.”

“Ja, ja,
that's what I want! Oh,
danke, danke, Liebling!”
Kathy Flichtsen excitedly exclaimed.

She rose quickly now, tugging up her dress and slip to her armpits, tucking them under there by pressing her arms tightly against them as her hands groped for the white cotton panties which snugged her jouncy, oval-cheeked behind with its gradually broadening cleft. Her long thighs, shapely and muscularly agile, were enhanced rather than marred by the gray lisle stockings which wartime necessity had made her wear. For a young girl to wear silk on her legs or on her person these days was considered almost treasonable unless of course she happened to be the mistress of some high-ranking Nazi or industrialist who was winning the war for
Der Fuhrer.

She gripped the waistband of the panties, rucked them down to her upper thighs, and then hurried over to the broad low trunk. It was an old heavy wooden trunk, with thick ridges running all around it in about four or five places, and these ridges would press against her bare flesh and, he knew, add immeasurably to her masochistic fervor.

She draped herself hastily over the trunk, and she bent her head and shoulders well down and reached for the floor with her palms. In this pose, her naked bottom, pink and quivering and taut, loomed up, and he could see the shadowy furrow between the quivering cheeks, and he could also see the dark brown tufts of her cunt framing the pink twitching and even now slightly moist lips of the vulva.

“Whip me hard, Professor, I deserve it,” she crooned, licking her lips, her eyes shining and very wide as she waited. The wings of her nostrils opened and closed with a voluptuous acceleration now, betraying the almost hysterical intensity of her own lubricity.

He glanced around for some implement. She had long since graduated from wanting just a good spanking with the hand. She wanted to be beaten, she always insisted,
beaten;
she used the word with a loving intonation as some women would refer to the word “love.” That was her need. And he must satisfy it, cost what it may.

He saw a leather strap lying on the floor near the trunk, with a heavy buckle. It was about two and one-half feet long, and it was frayed at the ends. Perhaps it was about a quarter of an inch thick, and about two inches wide. It would serve admirably. He retrieved it, and then, transferring it to his left hand, he passed his right palm over the cheeks of Kathy Flichtsen's naked posterior.

“Oh, Oooohhh, yes, yes, give it to me good!” she breathed. Her body violently shuddered now, because this caress was the preface to the burning ecstasy which she so passionately coveted.

He applied four or five stinging slaps all over her naked rump, pausing between each to let her taste the physical sting, the discomfort. He knew they only made her more furiously lustful, and she even begged for more when he finally stepped back with the belt in his right hand: “Oh no, not yet, dear
Herr
Professor! You haven't prepared my wicked bottom half enough, truly you haven't! Excuse me, I know I oughtn't to ask any favors because I'm about to be punished, but I do need such a good thrashing, or I'll be naughty again, you know. Please spank me some more, with all your might, before you whip me!
Please!”

He shook his head and grimaced. Despite himself, he could feel his prick swelling and aching and throbbing. And the wicked little bitch had slyly brought it out into the open, and he glanced down at it and saw how red the tip was, how the lips were puckering to unleash their pent-up load of spunk into her whorish receptacles.

He put the belt back to his left hand again, drew closer, and this time regaled her with a dozen smacks over the upturned cheeks of her naked bottom. Her skin was extremely sensitive, and the marks were highly satisfactory, even for Kathy. She moaned and sighed and gasped, lifting her head, and her face had on it the exalted expression of the early Christian martyrs who were convinced that paradise awaited them after hideous torments.

Finally, he stepped back and with the belt again in his right hand, lifted it up and swept it across the tops of her naked hips with a sharp crack.

“AHHHHH!
Oh yes, it's good! But not hard enough, please,
Herr
Professor, you've got to thrash me once and for all so I won't ever be naughty again, please, please!” she begged.

Setting his teeth, Professor Kurt Nordheim swept the strap with a sharp and sonorous impact across the ripest curves of both jutting buttocks. He heard Kathy moan in her delirious ecstasy, saw her hips swerve from left to right, and saw her grind her crotch against the edge of the trunk over which she had draped herself. Even through the gray lisle stockings he could see the muscles of her calves rippling and flexing violently as she steeled herself, or perhaps more accurately, as her body seethed with the perverse inclinations which this fustigation was engendering in her.

He gave her twenty lashes, vigorously delivered, from the tops of her hips to the base of her buttocks. They were all horizontally spaced, leaving parallel flaming lines across the squirming and jerking naked globes. Her sobs and tears and cries were not those of a woman undergoing intolerable suffering; rather, they were the sounds of lascivious rapture which strives for the unattainable zenith of carnal fulfillment. He let the belt drop from his nerveless hand, his prick gigantic now with aching longing.

“Is that all,
Herr
Professor?” she quavered tearfully. “You mean you don't think I was naughty enough to have double, at least? I'll be very good and brave if you want to whip me some more, truly I will! Oh no—this is so much better,—oh,
Liebling,
give it to me hard, don't spare me, rip me, pierce me, oh,
Got Im Himmel,
it's so good, oh it's so wonderful,
Liebling!”

He had approached and dug his fingers into the sides of her hips. Crouching a little, he had thrust his prickhead against the inviting pink portals of her cunt, and he had felt that warm moist entry twitchingly ready to receive him. Vigorously, he ploughed into her, to the very end of his prong, and Kathy Flichtsen dug her nails into the stone floor, her face uplifted and twisted in a rictus of indescribable bliss.