Slaves of the Swastika (8 page)

The two Nazi privates had greedily lifted up Helga Nordheim's naked, sweating, striped and blotched body from the ceiling hook and carried her over to the table again, laid her down on her belly, tethered her wrists and ankles to the legs, then blindfolded her. Willi Murtens went over to a little stand near the door, took out a bottle of strong smelling salts, uncorked it, and waved it under the victim's nose. Slowly the flaxen-haired young matron regained consciousness, and began to groan. The vertigo which she had endured while hanging upside down from the hook had terrified her, but now that it was receding, she became agonizedly aware of the perverse and depraved act she had just been forced to commit... sucking the cock of the
Oberst.

The fat Gestapo officer took up both his gloves, gripped them in his right hand, lifted them up and brought them down with a loud
THWACK
straight across Helga's naked bottom. Even as she groaned aloud and fitfully jerked under this unexpected attack, he raised his right hand and this time swept the gloves down in a straight vertical stroke which bit along the sinuous shadowy cleft between the plump, quaking and by now furiously welted cheeks of her behind. Her head rose, her mouth gaped in a shrill cry.

“This is a moment of communication, my dear Helga,” he remarked. “Now you've had a taste of what we can do when we get angry with a guest in this charming salon, and I do hope you're going to be reasonable, because it greatly distresses the three of us as well as you, to have to rack our brains to think up new ways of acting uncouth and despicable towards such a beautiful bitch as yourself.”

Murtens and Strobel watched him admiringly as they listened. The
Herr Oberst
had a line of gab, you couldn't get around that. Always poking fun at the prisoner, and the cute thing about it was it almost never failed to get results. Take that big-tit-tied bitch on the table now. She didn't know whether she's coming or going, and she was probably expecting worse carryings-on than she had already had, and here the
Herr Oberst
was just teasing her. A good playful swat on the
Arsch
with those gloves—now that was nothing at all, she hardly even felt it. They had not really got through to her yet, and in a way the two subordinates hoped there would be something left inside of maybe an hour or two, because they each had a desire to fuck that sweet
kootzele
of hers. She was very tight and she was certainly wet inside that tight little box of hers. If the
Herr Oberst
gave her just enough pain—but not too much—she'd be hot as a firecracker when they got to her and she'd fairly explode when she felt a good Aryan cock shoved into her cunt.

“Now I know you're going to be reasonable,
Frau
Nordheim,” the Gestapo chief seated himself on the low footstool where he had had poor Helga Nordheim French him while hanging upside down. “So I'm going to treat you as a woman of intelligence and refinement. For the time being, we shan't discuss your rival, Kathy Flichtsen. Let's even pretend she doesn't exist. But the singular thing is that the Professor appears to be a man who likes to gad about a good deal. Isn't that so? Now, we've made inquiries from the neighbors— ah! you didn't know that,
Frau
Nordheim? Oh yes, one of our agents whom you've never seen and wouldn't recognize if you did right now, talked to the janitor across the way. He's a suspicious old coot and I'll tell you something you'll like very much, but you mustn't ever tell him we told you. Yes,
Frau
Nordheim, he said you were quite a dish. I quote his own words. He said he wished he was fifteen years younger, so he could come upstairs to your place when the Professor goes out on his little excursions, and take the Professor's place in bed with you. Oh, you've raised your head and are listening to me at last? I like it when one of our guests gives me her undivided attention. It shows I haven't wasted my time. Right, boys?”

“Indeed yes,
Herr Oberst!
Murtens agreed with a wink at his crony, who also chimed in with a most obsequious agreement.

“Good, good. Now as I say, since we know among ourselves that your husband isn't home every night, the way you'd expect a happily married man to be these days,
Frau
Nordheim, you'll have to agree he must have a reason, since he apparently doesn't confide in you. Yes, as a woman, I can see you might think he was going over to Kathy Flichtsen's and perhaps having a little go at what she's got to offer a man between those nice long legs of hers. Oh, and another surprise for you, eh? We know all about Kathy. Janitors are very informative people, especially when they're afraid we might haul them in here and give them the works, just as we're doing with you today, my dear. Yes, we know all about the bitch with the long braids down the middle of her back and her insolent way of walking and looking at people, as if she felt herself too good for them. The janitor doesn't like that: he's a human being just like you and me,
Frau
Nordheim. This is wartime, and he's doing more work than he ever did before. And sometimes he feels that it's not right. So sometimes he likes to cooperate with us who serve the
Fuhrer.
Very commendable.”

Helga Nordheim lay trembling, gasping for breath as she tried to regain her strength. The vertigo was gradually passing and she didn't feel quite so weak, but at the same time, now that the circulation was returning to normal, she could feel the acute agony the whipping had left on her bottom and legs. Yes, and between her legs, too, when that awful
Herr Oberst
had slashed her with his riding crop. And now all the tiny little proddings by the toothpicks, all the pinchings by the tweezers, and of course the atrocious pulling out of all the private hair between her legs had left what seemed like thousands of little pain spots which cumulatively began to become aggravated by her stretched-out, tied position. And the unctuous voice of the Gestapo officer went on, forcing itself into her consciousness, torturing her with new images of fear and of shame, making her realize how helpless she was, a naked body stretched out on a table to be subjected to whatever whim or brutality these dreadful men took pleasure in pursuing with her.

“So now let's assess the situation as it now stands,
Frau
Nordheim. He's gone a few nights a week and he doesn't tell you anything. As a woman, you know yourself to be reasonably attractive, and you've been very faithful to him. You feel that he should be the same to you, and if he needs a good fucking, he should come to you at night the way any decent husband would. Right? Exactly. So maybe you're a little afraid that he's trying Kathy out just as a little experiment, mind you, nothing serious. And you're hoping maybe he'll come back and find out you've got a lot more to offer a man than that little bitch. Am I right again? Fine! But let's pretend that he doesn't have
kootzele
on his mind at all. What, then, could he be doing away from you all this time and not taking you into his confidence, either? I know if I were married to him, it would puzzle me. And because I'm not married to him,
Frau
Nordheim, I'm suspicious. And I don't have a wife's intuition to tell me what he might be doing, either. He might just have something to do with that filthy rag which dares to insult our beloved leader, you see. Now, we can't have this during a war, you see. Undermines morale and all that sort of thing. You can understand that, I'm sure. And since he's not here to question, and you're his wife and the only person really close to him, you can understand why the boys and I are spending so much time with you today.”

It was maddening to hear this congenial, unctuous voice go on and on and on. Blindfolded as she was, she couldn't see what those three brutes were doing. Her flesh crawled with the most hideous thoughts of what might happen at any moment, the way that awful man had hit her between the legs with the riding crop. She had thought she was going to die or at least faint. It was amazing she hadn't fainted by now, because she was sore all over. Her nipples were sore and ached terribly, and now her legs were pressed down to the hard wood every time she drew a breath, and that hurt her too.

“So here is what we have thus far. A copy of that filthy sheet, your continued protests that you don't know anything about it, your inability to explain to us either where the Professor is right now or what he does when he leaves you. I think that's a fair estimate of the situation as it now stands. So the burden of demonstration is on you,
Frau
Nordheim. Are you thirsty, by the way?”

“Oh... my G-God... yes... oh please, give me a drink,
Herr Oberst!”
she quavered.

“Yes, of course. Thoughtless of me. I'm sorry we don't have any champagne, nor even any beer. But if you'll open your mouth like a good girl,
Frau
Nordheim, I think—
ach, so
—Manfred is going to help you out. Won't you, Manfred? Yes, I see he's going to quench your thirst. Open your mouth now!”

Panting hoarsely, the naked blonde woman tied to the interrogation table raised her head and opened her mouth. Her teeth were chattering, and tears ran down her cheeks. Manfred Strobel put his hand inside his still-open fly, drew out his cock and, planting himself before the unfortunate victim, aimed his organ at her open mouth and urinated into it.

Helga Nordheim spluttered and coughed and choked, then cried out distractedly, “Oh what is it? Please, what is it? I'm thirsty—what are you doing to me—oh, please send Kurt here to save me!”

“Amen to that, my dear Helga,” the Gestapo interrogator mockingly resumed. “But I thought you were thirsty. There, you've made Manfred go and wet the floor, which he hasn't done since he was a young boy.
Richtig?
I'm going to have to punish you a little for that, my dear Helga. Let's see now. What shall we do to a naughty girl who turns up her fancy nose at good German piss?”

“Respectfully begging your pardon,
Herr Oberst,”
Manfred obscenely chuckled, “we could make her lick it up with her tongue, couldn't we?”

“Yes, indeed! Capital! Boys, let the young lady down from the table and put her down on her knees. You'd better take off the blindfold for a moment, too.”

Helga Nordheim began to sob hysterically, losing all control. The terror of this prolonged and incredible nightmare annihilated all her courage, all her hope, all her faith even in God Himself. They untied her, took off the blindfold, lifted her down and placed her on her knees. The Gestapo chief walked slowly up beside her, and pointed with the slap of the riding crop to the pool of urine.

“Lap it up like the bitch you are,
Frau
Nordheim. And until it's all gone and Manfred can tell me that the floor is nice and clean again, you're going to get it on the
Arsch.
Begin!”

“Oh please, don't beat me any more—oh God, please. AARRRHHH! EEEOWWW OUUUU!!!! Oh no, don't, please don't, I'll do it, I'm going to do it—don't hit me any more—oh Kurt, Kurt, help me!” Helga shrieked as
Oberst
Mueller brought the riding crop down across her shoulders, then the middle of her back, then straight across the ripest curves of her plump buttocks. She groveled on all fours, bowed her head to the floor and, thrusting out her pink tongue, began to lick up the odious puddle.

“That's excellent training for a bitch. It's a pity we don't have kennel shows, except at the big camps like Ravensbruck and Auschwitz. A real pity, boys. We could enter Helga in the
Pisschen
Sweepstakes, and clean up, hahaha!”

The two privates burst into bawdy laughter, nodding eagerly, each wanting to show his officer that he admired and respected the magnificent imagination of the
Gnadig Herr Oberst.

“Don't you find, Manfred, that this haughty wife of the Professor has a tendency to think herself better than she really is?” the officer pursued.

“Oh,
naturlich, Mein Offizier,”
the tall, angular private sniggered.

“Well then, Manfred, put your booted heel on her neck and force her face down against the floor. Make her stick her
Arsch
up a little more, and you watch and see how quickly she cleans up your piss, and let me know when she's lagging so I can thrash her properly,” the Gestapo chief proposed.

Manfred Strobel lifted his right booted foot, dug the heel into poor Helga Nordheim's neck, and almost mashed her face against the cold stone floor. Babbling and sobbing, she made slushing sounds as she scraped her tongue over the rough stones.

“Not too bad,
Herr Oberst,”
the private commented. “But I think on general principles a couple of swats on the tail wouldn't do any harm at all.”