Table of Contents

Slaves of the Swastika

Kenneth Harding

This page copyright © 2007 Olympia Press.

http://www.olympiapress.com

Friedrich Mueller is a ruthless Gestapo interrogator who goes to any lengths necessary to gain the information he requires. “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.'“ Helga's cries for mercy fell on sadistically deaf ears as the cruel “interrogation” continued. The Gestapo officer and his two understudies do not know that Helga knows nothing about her husband's Hitler-baiting underground newspaper—nor would they have cared if they had known. Their real purpose is to get perverted enjoyment out of seeing this lovely lady writhe; information is secondary.

CHAPTER ONE

Oberst Friedrich Mueller stood in the center of the interrogation room, his booted feet set wide apart, his gloved hands on his portly hips, his officer's cap tilted at an arrogant angle, staring contemptuously down at the cringing naked woman who crouched before him, her hands clasped together as in prayer and the pale milky skin of her shoulders and back already crisscrossed by welts inflicted by the black leather riding crop which lay on the stone floor to one side of his left boot.

The room was windowless and its floors and wall of gray stone. The steel door which opened into it was of that same dreary color also. It was one of the many interrogation chambers at the Gestapo headquarters at 39 Hedwig Strasze in Berlin. Outside the grim three-story building, it was a gray October morning in the year of 1944.

There were two pieces of furniture in this interrogation room, a low wide table whose dark, solid wood bore many sinister stains of dried blood, and a padded-leather-topped heavy wooden footstool. In the other questioning rooms, however, there were many devices and apparatuses utilized to inflict the cunning and overwhelming tortures by which the Gestapo broke down the human spirit and conquered the most indomitable courage and strength.

But this room was Oberst Friedrich Muller's favorite, and, indeed, he called it his “Reitschen-Zimmer,” his whipping room, into which he had brought before him the most tempting and sexually desirable female prisoners. This is not to say that the room was used only for the infliction of the lash, though the back and shoulders of the unfortunate young woman crouching before him bore witness to a prolonged and expert flogging. For inevitably any woman led into this chamber for a session with the fat Oberst would endure the ultimate sullying of violation, would be compelled to submit to the vilest and most obscene of sexual practices.

Oberst Friedrich Mueller prided himself on this terroristic technique. “You take a proud bitch who's been pampered and secure all her life,” he was fond of saying to his junior officers. “For the first time in her life, she comes up against authority and power. Well, now. If you treat her as an equal, because she is an enemy and because she hates you, she will find inner reserve to withstand you, sometimes even to the point of defying you and failing to give you the information you seek. But here in my Reitschen-Zimmer, I begin by ordering the bitch to take off her clothes. Slowly and without haste, you understand.” And then he would wink and wait for the salacious guffaws of the rapt and almost idolatrous attention of his young subordinates. “Naturlich, if the bitch is cultured and well educated and of a good family and used to money, she will grow indignant, she will become huffy and tell me that what I ask is intolerable to a woman of her breeding.” Then again he would wink. “Then I say to her, 'I am afraid, Fraulein, or Frau—as the case may be—that I must ask you to comply with my request. It is a rule that no female is allowed to remain clothed in this room.'“ And then again there would be bawdy laughter and eagerly lecherous plaudits by those of his staff who wished to ingratiate themselves with him. And he would go on with a mocking little smile, “But of course our subject becomes a little uneasy. She sees that we aren't showing the proper respect for Madame's pristine qualities. But what would you do gentlemen, this is war and we cannot observe all the niceties of civilian life, now can we?” And then there would be uproarious laughter.

And finally after a deliberate and dramatic pause, Oberst Friedrich Mueller would conclude: “As I say, Madame is a little uneasy by now. She glances around at Willi and at Manfred. They are standing there minding their own business, like gentlemen, with their hands clasped behind their backs. But they are looking at her insolently, in a way to which Madame is evidently not used. She blushes a little, her eyes shift nervously, she licks her dry lips, she stares at me and she tries to bluster. I ignore her. And then finally I say, 'Willi, will you have the goodness to assist Madame in her disrobing?' and of course Willi, perfect gentleman that he is, lends Madame a hand with her toilette, both hands, in fact. And in a few moments she is naked except perhaps for stockings and a garter-belt, depending on our whim of the moment. And now things are different. And now things have changed, Madame is no longer the sheltered and pampered bitch, but she is confronted with reality and she is also confronted with Die Peitche.”

Here he would hold up his black leather riding crop, and slash it down viciously to crack against his gleaming leather boot. “A dozen or so good Schlagen with my riding crop serve to give her the general idea that humility and loss of arrogance are essential in my little whipping room. Presently she becomes more docile, more eager to cooperate. And then the whip continues, just to show her that things don't go by her standards or her rules, gentlemen. And these lashes are over her breasts or her fine white Arsch. Soon enough she is groveling at my feet and telling me everything I wish to know and begging me to spare her. And then Madame discovers that Aryan manhood is a great deal more potent than whatever brand of fucking it is she has experienced with her husband or her sweetheart or what have you. So you see, gentlemen, the proper technique is to strip these bitches before you proceed to direct questioning. Prolong the ordeal, make your proud fine heroic prisoners conscious of the fact that they are going to lose everything they possess, their freedom, their decency and modesty, their indignation and, if they're not careful, their lives. You'd be amazed at the efficacy of this technique on which I particularly pride myself.”

His sensual lips curled in a reminiscent smile, as Oberst Friedrich Muller glanced up from the sobbing, naked, crouching woman at his feet to eye his two capable aides, Privates Willi Murtens and Manfred Strobel. They were perfectly suited for their roles as interrogators. Willi Murtens was beetle-browed, stocky, with a surly face, thirty years old. Before the war, he had been a butcher's apprentice in a little shop in the suburbs of West Berlin. He had a phlegmatic and murderously efficient aptitude for this kind of work which dealt, as he himself was fond of saying, with “human meat, and it's not so different after all from the cows and the sheep and the pigs I used to cut up for a living before our glorious Fuhrer led Deutschland into her rightful rank in this filthy world.”

Manfred Strobel was tall, angular, four years older than his colleague, and in some ways far more sadistic. He had been a confidence man before the war, fleecing elderly widows and spinsters out of their savings, because he had a certain dashing animal magnetism and a glib tongue. He was also very much a ladies' man in the bedroom. Eventually he had been caught and sentenced to ten years in Blenheim prison. Just after the declaration of the war, he had rebelled against the brutality of one of his prison guards, wrested away the man's riding crop and beaten him with such savage expertise that the guard had lain blubbering like a baby in the cell corridor, wriggling at Manfred Strobel's feet and gripping his ankles and pleading with him not to hit him anymore. He had been sentenced to be shot, but Oberst Friedrich Muller (then only Hauptmann) had heard of Manfred Strobel's act and had himself gone to Blenheim Prison with an order from the Gestapo to release the aforesaid prisoner into their custody. And after three years as first a guard of prisoners in this grim building and, for the past year under the supervision of Oberst Frederich Mueller himself, Manfred Strobel had displayed the most praiseworthy and patriotic qualities as an interrogator's aide.

The Gestapo officer winked at his two assistants, then resumed his impassive and stolid attitude of waiting as his eyes greedily scanned the voluptuous nakedness of the captive before him. She was Frau Helga Nordheim, thirty years of age, married for five of those years to Professor Kurt Nordheim who had been missing for the past week after one of his students had reported that the Professor was speaking ill of the beloved Fuhrer. A thorough search for the scoundrel had been made, but he hadn't turned up yet. Consequently Oberst Friedrich Mueller had had the professor's wife arrested, and she had remained for forty-eight hours in an isolation cell, with lentil soup and black bread her only fare, without toilet facilities save a porcelain chamberpot, and with guards constantly passing to and fro in front of the bars of her cell.

She had been given more soup and bread about seven this morning, and now it was nine-thirty, and she had been in the Reitschen-Zimmer for nearly an hour. Oberst Frederick Mueller had particularly enjoyed his interview with Helga Nordheim. She had that insolently supercilious look which bespoke her breeding and her sheltered life and the unshakable belief that she belonged to the elite and was hence untouchable. It had been about twenty minutes to dissuade her. He had begun by greeting her pleasantly, by inquiring as to her health and whether she had slept well the two nights before. Then he had blandly asked her about the whereabouts of her husband, and Helga Nordheim had avowed that she hadn't heard from him in all this past week and that he had told her nothing of his plans to leave Berlin. The Gestapo officer had become playfully confidential; “Perhaps, my dear Frau Nordheim, he has a mistress you don't know about, maybe he's got a little apartment the other side of Berlin and is hiding out with her.” And she had gasped, hotly flushing, “Ach, nein, I'm sure that's not true! He and I—well we—we're quite happy and I'm sure that that he's never looked at another woman.”

“Oh come now, Frau Nordheim,” Oberst Mueller had chuckled with a wink at Willi and Manfred, “You and I are worldly enough to know that chastity is a thing of the past. From all accounts, at least from what that pretty student of his—what's her name now, Manfred?”

“Kathy Flichtsen.”

“Just so, Danke, Manfred! Well now, Frau Nordheim, judging from what Kathy says, your husband is quite a good-looking fellow. Wouldn't surprise me a bit that maybe one of those pretty girls like Kathy herself was shacking up with him. It's a possibility, you know. Just as it is that you yourself might have another man.”

“Oh no, I assure you, Herr Oberst!” Helga Nordheim nervously exclaimed.

She had been wearing a blue cotton dress with polkadots, and it molded her magnificent figure. She was of medium height, and her flaxen hair was styled in quite a sophisticated upsweep. She had a rounded face, quite sensitive too, with a dainty little nose and very thin flaring nostrils, a full sweet mouth inclined to be tremulous, and gentian-blue eyes that were very wide and large, and set rather closely together. Her pure white skin was already beginning to excite him, but with the air of a connoisseur he had prolonged the moment until it should be all exposed before him and his aides. A cat-and-mouse game Oberst Friedrich Mueller played with his captives gave him indescribably sexual stimulus, and the longer the game, the greater his lust when it was finally concluded. She had full round highset breasts, a charmingly slender waist, and an Arsch just made for the whip, full solid cheeks, set closely together, and good round full thighs and interestingly curved calves.

And so finally, when he had asked her very politely to undress, she had recoiled with a cry of horror and put her hand to her mouth and turned scarlet. She had wanted to know what this had to do with her husband, and he had chuckled, “Everything, Frau Nordheim. Come now, don't keep me waiting. Perhaps we'll find in your clothes some hidden evidence of where your husband is. Or, then, once you're naked, we'll be better able to tell whether your husband's likely to want some other woman to fuck.”

This too was Oberst Friedrich Mueller's specialty: leading the victim unsuspectingly and with the utmost politeness and blandness to a sudden shocking obscenity which at once pulled the rug out from under the victim's feet and left her dazed and uncomprehending. And then events followed swiftly, at the proper psychological time.

Willi had ripped off Frau Nordheim's clothing, and a few hard slaps and pinches had made the sweeping blonde woman almost feverishly take off her shoes and pull off her hose so that she was stark naked. She was really something to look at. Privately, Oberst Friedrich Mueller didn't think that Professor Kurt Nordheim would need a mistress, not with a piece of Arsch like Helga here. A thick dark blonde bush over that plump kootzele of hers. Absolutely gorgeous Butzen with pouting dark coral nipples and wide brownish-coral aureolae around them and a wide shallow nook of a bellybutton, and that pale white skin without a visible blemish, until the riding crop began its work, of course. He had concentrated first on her back and shoulders, because he wanted to save the delicious pleasure of whipping her round bottom toward the end of the interrogation, when by then he would be ready to fuck her and to have Willi and Manfred follow in his wake.

CHAPTER TWO

“Come now, Helga,” Oberst Friedrich Mueller said in an ingratiating tone, “This must certainly be very distressing for you to be naked like this in front of Manfred, and I'm sure your back and shoulders must be stinging just a little. Wouldn't it be more sensible, my dear Helga, to tell me what I want to know, especially since you're going to have to do it anyhow, you know.”

Helga Nordheim burst into hysterical sobs as she raised her tear-ravaged face towards the Gestapo officer. Her hands still clasped and held up to him in prayer, she twisted her fingers in desperate confusion, stammering hoarsely, “But I swear before Gott Himself, Herr Oberst, that I don't know a thing about where my husband could have gone! Why can't you believe me?”

“Do you really want to know, Helga dear?” he chuckled sadistically; keeping the riding crop in his gloved right hand, he put his left hand under her chin and forced it up as he stared down into her tear-filled, dilated, fear-shadowed eyes. “Because I think you're lying, Helga, that's why. People always lie to the Gestapo, and it's such a pity and such a terrible waste of time. Now look at Willi and Manfred over there. They'd much rather be in a bierstube toasting Der Fuhrer and exchanging anecdotes instead of having to stay in this miserable, cheerless cell and be embarrassed by seeing you stark naked in front of them. They're well brought-up boys, you see, and their parents taught them that women must always be respected—unless, of course, they don't have any clothes, in which case they're nothing more than whores.” His voice suddenly grew harsh and domineering. “In about two minutes, Helga, I'm going to get very impatient with you, and then Willi and Manfred are going to take off their clothes, too, and you're going to be treated like a whore. But before they do that to you, I'm going to use this riding crop on your big naked Arsch, because you haven't felt it there yet, and that's the place to whip a woman, so she knows what a lowly creature she is in the presence of a man. Well, Helga?”

He had kept holding up her chin all this time, and he gloatingly discerned that it was trembling violently. Big tears broke from her eyes and ran down her flushed cheeks. Her naked titties rose and fell violently and the tremors of her full rounded thighs excited him. He could feel his prick swelling against the fly of his uniform trousers. He could already see that his two noncommissioned aides were more prepared to fuck Frau Helga Nordheim than he was at this very moment.

What the Gestapo chief was really after was the detection of a disloyal group of subversives, actual Berliners who had had the shameful and traitorous idea to ally themselves against the enemies of Der Fuhrer. About once a month, though without any predictable regularity, a little mimeographed newspaper made its appearance in some quarters of Berlin and throughout Germany, especially in the small villages where there had been great war-losses of husbands and sons. It was called Till Eulenspiegel, and its title was taken from a legendary and roguish hero from the Middle Ages, a kind of clown and buffoon who nevertheless had a particularly dissecting wit and grim realism to his commentaries on the foibles of mankind. This traitorous sheet actually dared to call Der Fuhrer insane, to intimate that all honest Germans would do better to go to the enemy en masse with a white flag of truce and ask for an end to this stupid and annihilating war, because Germany wasn't going to win it. A number of arrests had already been made, but they had been only of unimportant people connected with the treasonable venture, and Oberst Mueller had a hunch that some of those verdammt intellectuals were behind Till Eulenspiegel. Perhaps someone just like this Professor Nordheim.

He glanced at his wristwatch and barked, “You've got exactly sixty seconds, Helga to rack your brain and come up with an answer for me, or else I'm going to have Willi and Manfred forget they're gentlemen. And oh, what a trashing that big Arsch of yours is going to get with this,” he hissed the words with pleasure as he showed her the riding crop in his gloved right hand.

CHAPTER THREE

“Sixty seconds, Helga,” the Gestapo repeated, relishing the words as the naked blonde wife of Professor Kurt Nordheim bit her lips and stared imploringly up at him. His glittering eyes scrutinized her body and Helga Nordheim blushed violently and tried to clench her thighs to hide the extremely dark blonde bush which covered her succulent mount of Venus. Behind her, Privates Willi Murtens and Manfred Strobel stood impatiently waiting, hands on hips, attentive and taut with anticipation. They knew this type of kootzele only too well. She would try to brave it out for a little while longer, because she wanted to protect that bastard of a husband of hers, that dirty traitor who had put out all the nasty writings about the beloved Fuhrer. And then the Herr Oberst would make a sign to them, and all of a sudden Frau Helga Nordheim would find herself in real trouble with her big Arsch stuck up in the air and tasting the riding crop a couple of times. And then she would be ready to talk her fool head off, after which their gnadige Oberst would make another sign to them which would mean they could fuck her.

They were looking forward to that part of the interrogation. Naturally there were never any repercussions from such activities. Once a victim was in the hands of the Gestapo, he or she was done for; and if by some miracle of kindness his or her life was spared, he or she wouldn't be fool enough to complain to the commanding officer that he or she had been sexually abused. Not likely!

“Thirty seconds now, dear Helga,” the portly Oberst said solicitously as he stared down at the helpless, whimpering naked young matron. “I advise you in your own best interests to be quick about your decision. Willi and Manfred are waiting right behind you to carry out my orders. And you know what my next order is going to be, Helga. You are going to get the Peitsche on your big naked Arsch, and once I start on such a marvelous bottom as you've got, dear Helga, you may be certain I shan't stop very quickly. You have such fine firm satiny flesh, my riding crop is just itching to taste it.”

He really hoped she would hold out a long time. There was just a chance she knew something about that verdammte forbidden newspaper which made filthy jokes about the beloved leader of the Third Reich. But even if she didn't, nobody was going to know what was being done down here, not with his rank and not with his authority to exterminate these traitorous vermin. And nobody would hear her cries outside of this stone-walled interrogation chamber.

“Ten seconds. The time is getting very short, Helga my love,” he twitted her.

“In the name of Gott unser Vater, believe me, Herr Oberst Mueller,” Helga Nordheim burst out almost hysterically, “I swear to you I am innocent and so is my husband. I have never even heard of that paper you mentioned. I mean—”

Helga Nordheim had made a fatal slip. Until now during the interrogation and her previous questioning, not a single word had been mentioned of Till Eulenspiegel. The Gestapo officer's face lit up with an unholy joy. He bent down to the shuddering, naked woman, and the fingers of his left hand plunged into that sophisticated upsweep of hers and twisted the flaxen hair until she moaned and tried to turn her head to ease the traction on her tender scalp.

“How very interesting!” he hissed. “Now, have I asked you anything about a newspaper, Frau Nordheim? Have I? Be truthful with me, my dear woman. This is the only way to gain favor once the Gestapo takes the trouble to invite you here for a nice little chat. Isn't that so, Willi?”

He lifted his head and winked at his subordinate, and the beetle-browed ex-butcher's apprentice winked back and then saluted, a little afraid that perhaps the Herr Oberst might not entirely approve of his familiarity to such a high-ranking officer.

“Ja wohl, Oberst!” he heartily ejaculated.

“But perhaps Frau Nordheim was referring to the official publication of the Third Reich which every good German citizen is expected to read and to study. Wasn't that it, dear Helga?” the Gestapo officer purred. He was really in his element now. This cat-and-mouse game was dear to him, and it whetted his lustful senses to the utmost. With his left hand twisting her hair, with his right hand showing her the riding crop, his glittering eyes studied the cringing, stark-naked body before him, all of whose treasures he meant to know. He could already sniff the acrid yet pleasing odor of her body-sweat. This was a sure sign that Frau Helga Nordheim was getting very nervous, very afraid. The next thing, there would be the smell of piss. Even a strong man, brave though he might be, could be broken into a sniveling little coward just by suggesting, threats and a merciless mockery which would strip away—just as his clothes had previously been stripped away from him—all the cultured veneer of knowledge and respectability. Then you would be down to elementals and your victim would piss and even scheiss, lick your boots, lick the floor, babble promises to do just about anything, to betray his mother and father or his sweetheart or husband or even children, if only to escape. People were trash, utter Drek. But sometimes when a juicy piece of kootzele like Helga Nordheim came along, there would be a bit of really pleasant diversion down here in the interrogation room.

“Yes indeed, my dear Helga,” he purred sadistically, “you seem to have told me a great deal without telling me anything. So you do know about a newspaper. Yes, it's Till Eulenspiegel, and maybe your dear husband, with all his booklearning, might even be the editor. Who knows? I think we're going to try this interrogation on a different tack, my dear Frau Nordheim. And by the way, your time is up. Willi, Manfred, would you be gallant enough to assist Frau Nordheim onto the table?”

At once the two Nazi privates stooped down and seized poor Helga Nordheim by the fleshy part of her arms and lifted her up to her feet. At the same time Oberst Mueller viciously backhanded her across the cheek with his gloved left hand. Her head rocked back and a sobbing cry tore from her. Her eyes were huge and filled with tears, and the haunting shadow of a stark and agonizing terror was in their depths. An angry bright red blotch stood out on her satiny cheek from the slap. He observed this with relish as another nuance of his own erotic pleasure. Nothing was more satisfying than to see one's handiwork register on fine pampered skin which had never before felt anything but caresses—until now. Oh, the Gestapo knew how to caress, there was no doubt of it. But he wasn't sure that Frau Nordheim would appreciate the difference between their caresses and those which her husband probably gave her.

That filthy intellectual swine, his thoughts continued. What he really would have liked would be to have the two together, with the husband tied up and gagged and having to watch his darling wife stripped down and given a good switching. And then they would go to work on her big fat Arsch right in front of him, and finally they would fuck her. Or they would make her suck their cocks. He would bet a month's salary Professor Kurt Nordheim had never stooped to such a vulgar thing as making dear little Helga here put her lips to his prick.

His own prick was swollen now with frenzied desire, but like a connoisseur, he held himself back from taking any overt action on the naked, perspiring, shuddering body of this beautiful young matron.

At his impatient gesture, the two subordinates dragged Helga onto the table and laid her on her back. Willi Murtens knelt down behind the head of the table, seizing both her wrists and holding them tightly with his strong fingers. Manfred Strobel stood at the left of the table and, gripping her bare legs, hoisted them up in the air and then shoved her bare knees back to her panting titties. This was an obscene position, and a very effective one for a flogging. When a girl or a woman was posed like this, all her previous notions of shame and modesty were completely annihilated, and it became an interesting experience to teach her a new set of reactions for a situation for which she had never been conditioned or prepared. He had no doubt that it would be highly effective with this cultured and sensitive bitch right now.

He strolled over to the table, taking his position at the sobbing woman's right. He reached up with his left hand and grasped her right calf, and then he playfully lifted his riding crop and applied a tiny little flick, capricious and gentle, just over the base of the swelling, velvety bottom which as yet had not had a single blemish to mar its luscious contours.

“Oh God help me! Oh please, Herr Oberst, I swear I don't know anything about Till Eulenspiegel!” Helga Nordheim sobbed, trying desperately to close her legs so the three men couldn't see the shaggy bush of pussyhair and the shadowy groove which separated her luscious bare bottomcheeks.

Globules of sweat glistened in the soft, curly down of her distended armpits. Now the acrid-sweet smell of her flesh and her sweat came distinctly to Herr Oberst Mueller's nostrils, and he drank them in as he might savor the bouquet of a vintage wine. He licked his lips and gave her squirming, naked bottom another tiny flick. It was interesting to see gleaming black leather against pale white flesh, a voluptuous contrast which never failed to rouse his predatory instincts.

“I'm going to give you one last chance, my dear Helga. It's not that I have any pity for a traitor like your husband, a cursed intellectual who mouths vicious and unprincipled things about our Leader, or for you either, for that matter. To me and to all loyal patriots of the Third Reich, a wife is just as guilty as her husband, merely by association. If she knows he's a traitor and she stays with him at night and goes to bed with him and lets him fuck her, in my book she deserves the headsman's block and the axe, Frau Nordheim. You understand me?”

“Oh please, hilfe mich, I don't know what Kurt was doing—how could I know?”

“But you knew all about Till Eulenspiegel without my even telling you, Frau Nordheim! That's what I don't understand—all this show of protestation and relying on your wellbred background to save your big Arsch from a good little switching, which I'm just about ready to give you. And now it turns out that you give me the name of this damned traitors' puke which calls itself Till Eulenspiegel. How does it happen you know the name, or that you even know it is a newspaper? That's what I'm going to find out now. With the help of this!”

So saying, he drew back his right arm and applied the riding crop with a savage CRACK over the base of both upturned naked, pale white bottom-globes. Helga Nordheim uttered a scream of pain, lifting her head, and her legs jerked violently, so that Manfred Strobel had to grip them vigorously with both hands. He shoved her knees back down against her titties, flattened them against the luscious globes as they heaved in agonized turbulence. The muscles of her bottom contracted spasmodically in her natural instinct of self-concealment, for she was dying of shame at the thought that these men could see the most private and secret regions of her anatomy, which only dear Kurt had ever seen before. She had been a virgin when she married him nine years ago. She was gentle, shy, even though she loved Kurt passionately. But here under the light glaring doom on her from the stone ceiling, on this table which swelled of the sweat and blood and horror of the past, in the most obscene and lubricious of positions, her bottom burning from the savage cut of the riding crop, Helga Nordheim felt herself abandoned and helpless, and her only anxiety was to save her life and to spare herself the intolerable and prolonged torment of an ordeal which only the Gestapo knew how to inflict to the very last degree of human endurance.

“Twist her wrists just a little, Willi. I want Frau Nordheim's faculties unimpaired. I want her at her most alert,” the portly Gestapo officer commanded.

The surly-faced subordinate chuckled, understanding his master only too well, and he dragged down Helga's wrists, his dirty, jagged fingernails biting into the pale white skin. Helga Nordheim whimpered as she felt herself thus exploited. The flesh of her bottom was tight now, and the scorching kiss of that first vicious slash seemed to permeate through the whole gluteal region. She found that she was unable to control the spasmodic tensing of her bottom-muscles; and the sinuous groove between the cheeks of her behind, she was aware, was alternately yawning and closing, displaying all the secrets of her naked body which, till now, only beloved Kurt had seen and touched and explored in their connubial ecstasies together.

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.

CHAPTER FOUR

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!

“You know, Helga,” he said conversationally as he paused now, the toothpick still clutched in his three fingers, “you're a damnably attractive bitch. I can't see for the life of me how that professor could have passed you over in favor of that young student of his—what was her name? Oh yes, Kathy. Myself, I've always preferred ripe fruit to green. Now if you and I were alone together, my dear Helga, I could make certain advances to you. They would be most discreet, but very flattering, I can assure. But you see, your obstinacy forces me to be very ungentlemanly. Do you think I enjoy having these buck privates fingering your most intimate flesh this way? Feasting their eyes on your naked body stretched out on this table as if you were just another sow for the butcher's knife? Of course I don't. Now, why don't you be sensible and tell me the truth? Let's just pretend, you and I, that we're playing a little game. Let's pretend, for instance, that your man has had one of those hot flashes that I'm told married men sometimes get after a dozen or so years of matrimony, and he gets the hots for a cute little bitch in his class. Maybe she crosses her legs and shows him her panties and he'd like to know what's inside them, nein? Well then, you know how a man is, my dear Helga. I don't have to tell you, since you've been married and getting it regularly. Then all of a sudden you don't get it regularly any more, and your man starts reading his newspaper and staring out the window and wishing he were in bed with his little Kathy. Maybe she does a few things for him that you never thought of doing. You know, that's possible. Maybe she uses her mouth. Do you know what I mean? I wouldn't want for the world to offend you, not a woman of your delicate susceptibilities, my dear Helga.”

He was grinning as he spoke, his voice a soft, insinuating evil, and Helga Nordheim groaned and shuddered violently as the overtones of that speech crept into her conscious brain. But as he had suspected, the very audacity and vulgarity of his words began to prompt dubious misgivings and terrified reactions in the captive. Yes, yes, it was true... maybe a little of it, anyway. Kurt had been distracted lately, and one that little slut Kathy had actually dared to come up to their place and ask for him. There was something about a meeting for special study, she'd said. Oh God, why couldn't she remember everything now? She couldn't stand pain, she didn't want to be hurt, and the whipping had hurt her so dreadfully already. And now those horrible brutes were opening her—opening her 6-6-bottom and the pain was unbearable by now.

“You see, you're beginning to think about it,” he congratulated her. Now he began to prod her left calf with the two toothpicks, even more lightly than he had done with the other toothpick. “And you see, also, if he would desert you for that little immature bitch, he's not a man you ought to give your life to defend, my dear Helga. It really isn't worth it. There are so many other appreciative men in the Third Reich who could do justice to that lovely body of yours. Myself, for instance. Under happier circumstances, if I were simply Friedrich Mueller and you just Helga, we could have a little dish of sauerbraten and a stein of beer in some bierstube down on Linzer Strassze right now. And then you'd invite me over to your place, and you'd swoon in my arms, and I'd be kissing and caressing you—not doing what I'm doing now. It really pains me to hurt such fine white skin, my dear Helga.”

This time he jabbed her left knee-hollow vigorously, and the naked woman started up from her bench with a cry of pain, the muscles of her bottom making frantic efforts to clench, despite the lewd and unyielding grip of those degrading fingers which forced her to show that spot of animal functions which was most detestable in her voluptuous body.

“Still stubborn, hein?” he now pursued after a pause. “Well, don't say I didn't warn you. A little later, even when you do tell the truth, I may not be so merciful. You're wasting a great deal of time, you know. But it's my duty, you understand. No hard feelings, my dear Helga.”

He nodded, his lips curved in a rictus of enjoyment. Privates Murtens and Strobel fairly dug their fingernails into the shuddering bottomglobes of the sobbing victim, tugging them apart to their maximum, till it seemed the tissue of the perineum would rip apart at any moment. And then Herr Oberst Mueller leaned forward, closed his right hand over that plump, twitching asshole, and dug the sharp points of the two toothpicks into one of the lips with all his might.

“EEEYYAAAAARRRRRHHHHREEEEEWWWOUOU!!!!! NICHT MEHR! I can't bear it. OH GOD, THE PAIN, THE PAIN! HAVE MERCY ON ME, HERR OBERST!! NOT THERE, I CAN'T TELL YOU ANYTHING MORE—I SWEAR IT ON THE BIBLE ITSELF —OH, YOU JUST HAVE TO BELIEVE ME, HERR ORBEST!”

As Helga shrieked out her desperate plea, her body arched and jerked in the grip of fitful convulsions. Both Strobel and Murtens were surprised at the furious agility of her behind, for in spite of their strongest grip of those luscious rotundities, she very nearly managed to clench the cheeks together again.

“No?” Again his voice was pleasant, almost confidential. “What a pity! I'm going to have to hurt you a little now, not too much, but then, don't forget you're bringing this on yourself. I have an obligation to my Fuhrer, and if you're stupid enough to try to hamper me in serving him, then you're just going to have to take the consequences, I'm very much afraid, my dear Helga.”

He threw the toothpicks away and reached for the bone darning-needle. He flourished it about in the air, licking his lips and winking at his two “boys,” who chuckled and winked back. Helga Nordheim dug her nails into her sweaty palms, arching her body, stiffening all her muscles, whimpering pathetically.

The bone needle dipped down towards the coral fissure of her tender asshole. The sharp point prodded the other lip now, then gave it two or three quick little prods, and then suddenly slipped between the lips to enter the rectum itself.

Helga Nordheim's head flung back, her mouth gaping in a raucous shriek: “OUUUUUUUUUU!!! EEEEEE ARRRRHHHH!!! TAKE IT OUT, TAKE IT OUT OF ME. I'LL TRY TO TELL YOU, OH MY GOD THE PAIN, TAKE IT OUT—OH PLEASE TAKE IT OUT—I'LL TELL YOU!!!”

CHAPTER FIVE

At the same time that poor Helga Nordheim was undergoing the depraved and viciously scientific tortures of the Gestapo, her husband and the young student Kathy Flichtsen were meeting in the basement of a ramshackle house in the poorer section of Berlin, near the Platz Rittersted.

There were two young men present also, and their two girl friends, and all of these five young people were students in Professor Kurt Nordheim's class.

It was a kind of council of war, for what Helga Nordheim did not know was that her husband was actually the editor of the forbidden underground newspaper, Till Eulenspiegel. And it was to be poor Helga Nordheim's misfortune that her husband inadvertently left the latest issue of that illicit publication where she had found it... and it was this piece of evidence which the Gestapo chiefly relied upon in subjecting this gently bred and beautiful young matron to the fiendish and demeaning tortures which we have just witnessed and which, we may add, had only just begun....

Professor Kurt Nordheim was thirty-six years old, about five feet eleven inches in height, with curly brown hair, and a Vandyke beard. He had pleasant blue eyes, his cheeks were rather angular and his eyes seemed to be hollowed because of the pronounced prominence of his very shaggy brows and the planes of his cheekbones. He had a Roman nose with rather sensuous nostrils, and his mouth was firm and yet a trifle fleshy, betraying a somewhat hedonistic temperament.

He had been married to Helga for exactly nine years and eight months, and she had been a virgin indeed when he had married her. He had always led an academic life, but the brutal war and Hitler's manipulation of the German people had inflamed his sense of rectitude. He had an older cousin who fought in the French Resistance, and a letter had been smuggled in from the German border to reach him explaining what the Maquis was doing to counteract the brutalities and terrorism practiced by the Nazis. Professor Kurt Nordheim did not want to involve his beautiful and somewhat ingenuous wife. It had been his sorrow that she had never been able to give him a child, but what he did not know, or Helga either, for that matter, was that she was sterile. Still, that was no great matter at the time, for in the midst of this all-out war which Hitler was waging virtually against the world, there was really no place for babies and young children. And the older children were being taken into the Hitler Jugend and corrupted to testify even against their own parents and to denounce even their friends and schoolchums to the Gestapo.

So, a year ago, when he had taken his class to Dresden on a lecture tour, he had been contacted by a member of the Maquis, a German-born young man whose sympathies were with the French and the Allies. This man had suggested that he as a leading professor with wide influence over the impressionable teenagers and future citizens of Germany, could wield great influence for good. The agent had suggested the publication and dissemination of a satirical leaflet or paper. Out of this suggestion, Professor Kurt Nordheim had created Till Eulenspiegel.

But the Professor had gone one step further in his passionate desire to end the war and save the German People before Hitler could plunge them all into a cataclysm of defeat and total disaster, a greater economic disaster than had followed the end of World War 1. He had asked this member of the Maquis to arrange a kind of code for him whereby if he found out important news which would be of value to the Maquis and the Allies, he could print it as a feature story in this publication, in a kind of code that would be understood only by the top military leaders.

The Gestapo had not yet discovered this code within a code; for them, it had been enough that the forbidden newspaper contained scabrous articles about the mismanagement of the war, about some of Hitler's corrupt generals and Hitler's maniacal behavior. A high price had been placed on the unknown editor's head, but thus far he had not been captured. Oberst Friedrich Mueller had been assigned to the Berlin headquarters of the Gestapo to ferret out all those who were connected with this illegal and treasonable publication.

The Gestapo officer who had been torturing the Professor's beautiful wife Helga had made some lascivious speculations to the unfortunate woman as to her husband's being unfaithful to her with the student Kathy Flichtsen. In one sense, he had been partly right: Kurt Nordheim was having a mild affair with the pretty nineteen-year-old brownette. But the Professor was conducting this seemingly squalid little amour out of necessity so that, indeed, one might whimsically say that his infidelity to his own wife was pardonable because of its patriotic motive.

The reason was very simply this: Kathy Flichtsen's elderly father owned an old-fashioned but still workable printing press, which he had forgotten he ever had. It was located in the basement of the old two-story house on Blumen Strassze. Kathy had found it some months ago and managed to stay after class on that particular afternoon to tell the Professor about her discovery. And he had seen a heaven-sent opportunity for publishing Till Eulenspiegel on a genuine press, rather than mimeographing it to a much smaller audience. Moreover, the code which the military experts had sent him via a reliable Maquis messenger could be handled by the ingenious technique of cartoons. The liaison officer in charge of military coding for the Allied war effort had devised a most imaginative system, creating characters who should have names that would stand for certain geographic fronts on which Hitler might be operating. And the captions would indicate what was taking place on these fronts.

But Kathy Flichtsen was also romantic and she had just lost her fiance in the war. He had been a youth of twenty, a high-school sweetheart, who was not especially sympathetic to the Nazi viewpoint but had been conscripted and had died in France from a sniper's bullet in the brain. Kathy lived with her aging and almost senile father, her mother having died five years previously. She was lonely and passionate, and she had almost lost her virginity to her fiance. And so she had stipulated to the virile and mature Professor that in return for her letting him use her father's printing press, he must become her lover and satisfy her pent-up desires.

The Professor had been in a quandry. He loved Helga very deeply, and he didn't want to hurt her, nor would he involve her. Anyone who knew of Till Eulenspiegel might easily confess under torture and implicate others. If his wife knew absolutely nothing, only an absolute brute interrogating her would persist in harming her to learn something she did not know, he had reasoned. So he had never taken Helga into his confidence, and he had been gone many times without explanation, which had started to puzzle her and now in the terrible subterranean interrogation room, and at the suggestion of Oberst Mueller, began to haunt her with the thought that perhaps indeed he was having an affair with this young girl and preferring Kathy to her.

The other two couples in this room were Max Dornburg, a bearded student of twenty-two, whose poor vision and fluttering heart had kept him out of the Army, and his sweetheart Trudy Heinzelman: and Erich Luvrow, twenty-three, and his girl friend Eva Jung. Trudy was twenty, tall and slim, with closely cropped black hair styled very much like a boy's, small orange-like titties, a very supple waist, coltishly long legs with slender thighs and highset calves and a very solid, compact pair of buttocks, and soft pink skin, and gray-green eyes and a snub nose. Eva, on the other hand, was twenty, buxom and golden-haired, the true prototype of the Aryan beauty who was held in high esteem by the scientific assistants to the Fuhrer in proposing their infamous “love camp.” Here, many girls of good families, who had pure Aryan blood and lineage to recommend them, were taken for scientific breeding with Nazi soldiers and airmen, the purpose being to produce a super race. It was not looked upon as whoring, but as a noble and patriotic endeavor, and it went under Dr. Goebbels' phrase of “Strength through Joy.”

Professor Kurt Nordheim looked around at the little group and said gravely, “We are all of us in great danger. My good neighbor, the baker Klausmann, who is loyal to the Allied cause because he is an old man and has no living relatives, and therefore does not fear death, managed to get a message through to me that those Gestapo pigs have taken my wife into custody.”

“Herr Gott!” Kathy Flichtsen gasped, biting her Lips. “How terrible for you, dear Kurt! But it is worse than that, because she may denounce you and then they will look for all of us.”

He gave her a glance and hid his feelings. She was vain, lustful, a completely amoral creature, but she was necessary to his project, the project whose ideal was to drive Hitler out of power and to restore sanity to Germany before it was too late. He regretted having had to go to bed with her— though it was pleasant, undeniably so. Yet it had to be done. Now she was more concerned about her own skin than poor Helga's, and God alone knew what those Gestapo devils could do to a woman in one of those questioning rooms of theirs.

“I don't agree, Kathy,” he said levelly, “because I've always been careful never to let Helga know what I'm doing. Yes, I admit, they might be able to question her and perhaps even torture her, but they are experts at this sort of thing, you must remember. And they'll soon find out that she's absolutely innocent. In some ways, she has the mind of a child.”

Kathy came over and stood beside his chair, then put her arm around his neck, bent and kissed him on the mouth, whispering, “That's why you should divorce her and marry me, Liebling!”

Kathy Flichtsen was brown-haired, and she wore her shimmering tresses in two long thick braids which fell nearly to her hips. She had an arrogant but exquisitely lovely oval-shaped face, with dark blue eyes, an uptilted little nose with widely flaring wings, and a small elfish ripe mouth. Her body was really voluptuous, and Professor Kurt Nordheim, though he may have regretted the necessity of taking this selfish and vainglorious girl to bed with him, physically had to tell himself that she was truly remarkable in her insatiability and her inventiveness.

Indeed, there had been nights after his return from a seance with Kathy that he had been so exhausted that he could not even get a hard-on for beautiful Helga who lay beside him, softly weeping because he did not seem to show her attention, did not love her anymore. And of course he hadn't dared to tell her the truth. It would be too dangerous. But now Till Eulenspeigel had already scored many successes, and some important German installations had been bombed out of existence, thanks to his own humble endeavors. So he could justify it one day when the war would be over and he could tell Helga the whole story.

“When are we going to put out the next issue?” Trudy wanted to know. She glanced back at her lover and proudly arched her titties, delighted to see the flickering glint in his eyes as a proof that he was still mad about her. She had a pretty good idea that her stuck-up friend Kathy really had the hots for that nice and dignified Professor Nordheim. Matter of fact, if ever she got a little bored with her boyfriend, she herself wouldn't mind a weekend or two with the Professor. He was a nice mature man and he talked beautifully in class, and she had no doubt that he knew how to talk in bed too. And do something else besides talk, judging from the look of him.

Professor Kurt Nordheim frowned thoughtfully. “We'll have to be very careful, Trudy. If the Gestapo searched my place, they're sure to have found whatever I may have left unguarded. I've always been very careful. Now reading the newspaper itself isn't entirely a crime, though the Gestapo may think so. It would be a far cry for them to prove that just because there happens to be a copy lying around my living room or bedroom, that I'd had anything to do with it. Actually, the Gestapo is after the people who are putting it out.”

“But, Professor Nordheim,” Eva interrupted, “if they have your wife, can't they make her tell and wouldn't she tell them almost anything to escape the torture they would give her? I—I'm awfully sorry to say such terrible things, but we all know what the Gestapo is capable of.”

“That's true. But as I've said before, the interrogators are particularly intelligent men in their field, and they can tell when someone's lying. Poor Helga doesn't know a thing, I give you my word on that,” the Professor declared. “But now to answer your question, Trudy. I'm expecting some very important news from over the border in about ten days. We're going to lie low until the immediate chase is over. Then we'll try to get a paper out in two weeks. In the meantime, all of you should keep your ears and eyes open and get me what news you can. Trudy, you work in that bierstube on Maximilian Platz, and there are lots of officers there all the time, aren't there?”

“That's true. Some of them from the Russian front. Some of them back from Paris, but most of them from the defense of their own homeland. There is a Kolonel Strasser who comes almost every night. I think he's got a crush on me.” Trudy laughed self-consciously, glanced at her lover and gave him a little wink. “I know he'd like to get me alone in bed, but I haven't given in yet.”

“And you better not either!” her boyfriend angrily declared.

Trudy leaned down to pat his cheek, then to give him a stinging kiss on the mouth. “No fear of that, Liebling,” she murmured. “Unless I have to do it to get vital information to help the Allies. That I would do for my country, because just like the Professor and all the rest of us, I can't see poor Germany being destroyed because of a madman.”

“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.

CHAPTER SIX

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.

Reluctantly he pulled out with a squishy “Plop!” and Helga moaned and turned her head to the other side, her eyes now closed, her naked titties rising and falling erratically.

No sooner had Manfred Strobel clambered down from the table than Willi Murtens, without even bothering to let down his trousers, simply unbuttoned the fly and liberated his bulging prick. It was broader and thicker than his companion's, and he at once flung himself down on the table and over the whimpering naked captive. He did not mind the wetness of her vaginal sheath, for there was a perversity in his mind which gave him great pleasure in degrading any female captives who fell into the hands of his master. With savage, jerking thrusts, he impaled her to his balls at each stroke, and Helga Nordheim's face began to turn this way and that, her eyes rolling and then closing, her brows furrowed, her fingers clawing into her palms as she arched and strained and twisted to evade this violently zealous penetration.

Like his comrade, he thrust his forefinger into Helga's asshole and began to work it energetically in and out, drawing whimpering sobs and groans from the unhappy captive. Her body jerked and shuddered as he plunged back and forth inside of her, his teeth set, his eyes squinting with an evil glow. And when at last he flooded her cunthole with his bubbling gush, she writhed and sank back, face turned to one side, her titties heaving, half fainting. But she had not yet attained climax.

The Oberst had lighted a cigarette now and was amusing himself blowing smokerings up at the ceiling as he watched his two subordinates ravage the naked wife of the missing Professor Nordheim. When Willi Murtens had concluded his rape, he now gave an order in a barked-out angry tone: “I want this whore hung by the heels from that hook in the ceiling, you understand? Bind her wrists behind her back, and let her dangle upside down. If the blood rushes to her head, perhaps she'll recover her memory along with that. And at the same time, having watched you two go at her as if she were a piece of liver from the butcher shop, I'm going to show you gentlemen how to enjoy oneself with a handsome bitch like Helga Nordheim!”

The unfortunate naked woman hardly had strength left to resist her tormentors as they laughingly dragged her from the table and to the center of the room. There they roughly set her down on the floor on her back, and while Willi Murtens crouched over her and held her by the wrists, his colleague looked up at the ceiling and saw a heavy metal hook from which was tied a sturdy rope. He caught the end of the rope and made a slip-noose, which he adjusted around the naked woman's ankles as Willi Murtens lifted her up in his arms with her legs uppermost and her head dangling towards the floor. When the noose was tight, Manfred Strobel nodded and Willi Murtens released the weeping and pleading victim. She swung in the air in a kind of pendulum, back and forth, until her momentum slackened. The rope had been so adjusted that her head was only about two feet from the floor. Manfred Strobel had clambered onto a heavy wooden stool which he had drawn out into the center of the room just in front of the hook to accomplish this maneuver.

Willi Murtens now took a length of rope, the same as he had used to bind her wrists to the table, and bound her wrists this time behind her back. Now Helga Nordheim was absolutely helpless, and a sense of cringing terror congealed her entire body as she dangled from the hood upside down.

The Oberst pushed the stool in front of her head, seated himself on it after first unbuttoning his trousers and liberating his broadly thick and commendably long angrily stiff prick. In his right hand there was the riding crop again, with whose flap he began to flick at her nipples, already swollen and darkened and excruciatingly sensitive from the work of the tweezers. “If you feel like stopping this for a few moments, my dear Helga,” he blandly told the weeping woman, “all you have to do is swing yourself a little towards me until your mouth manages to reach my cock. It's like catching the gold ring on the merry-go-round, you might say, my dear Helga. And then if you can give me a good blow job, I might be inclined to give you a little rest before we proceed with the rest of the interrogation. Do you understand me, my dear? Very good. Let's see how energetic you are. You're getting a little fleshy in the hips and tummy, I've noticed, so the exercise will do you a world of good.”

With this, laughing uproariously—in which his two subordinates greedily joined him—the Gestapo officer began to flick at Helga's titties and belly and the insides of her thighs with the flap of the leather riding crop, while the shrieks and imploring, incoherent pleas of the unfortunate captive rang out in the interrogation chamber. Jerking her bound wrists, twisting and arching her shoulders, she managed to achieve a slight movement back and fro, which the quickened and more cruelly stinging flicks of the riding crop encouraged, until at last she was swinging about a foot this way and that. The stool brought his loins to almost an exact level with her mouth, which of course he had calculated in advance. He spread his legs, and with his left forefinger beckoned to her as he would to a dog: “You're almost there, Helga... ach gut! Just a little more will do it—there you are, now try to hold it—oh, too bad, you missed me! Better luck next time, you pretty bitch!” And, to punish her for failure—for her lips had just managed to graze the straining tip of his swollen prick, the Gestapo officer lifted up the riding crop and slashed down between her naked legs right on her hairless pussy, wresting an indescribable and prolonged shriek of maddened agony from the desperate naked woman.

Her jerks and contortions in the air made the two privates roar with salacious laughter, and it also stiffened their pricks for a new encounter in her already ravaged quim. But the unfortunate wife of Professor Kurt Nordheim could think of only one thing, to stop this merciless, inhuman torment, and she swung and twisted herself until at last her lips managed to clamp over the prickhead of the Nazi officer and then, directed by a wicked cut of the crop over the base of her bottom, she began noisily to suck and to mouth that obscene weapon.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The two young couples had taken pains not to draw suspicion on themselves when they left Kathy Flichtsen's house. But luck was against them on this particular occasion. Max Dornburg, though wearing glasses and rejected by the Army because of his poor vision and excitable heart, happened to look sturdy and robust. And in October, 1944, the sight of a perfectly healthy young male walking the streets of Berlin and not in uniform was subject to immediate questioning by the SS guards as well as by the many Gestapo plainclothes men who were forever roaming the streets.

Trudy Heinzelman was clinging to his arm and chatting away volubly as they walked down the steps of the old two-story house on Blumen Strassge and made a turn to the North. Trudy was almost as tall as her sweetheart, and there was a perverse mannishness to both her figure and her hair style, which Max particularly enjoyed. Because of his tachycardia, he had often found it most relaxing to lie on his back in bed while his charming brunette girl friend mounted atop him, inserted his stiff prick into her dainty quim and sat down to impale herself and then did all the work. In fact, Trudy herself recommended this so that it wouldn't be too great a strain on his heart, for she was an exceptionally passionate girl. However, unlike Kathy, she was very sentimental and solicitous about people, and this was to cost her a terrible ordeal in the hands of the dread wearers of the swastika.

They walked on slowly, not wanting to attract any attention, and Trudy held him very close by the arm and looked up at him with a roguish wink, murmuring, “You know, Max, I've got a pretty good idea why Kathy wanted the Professor all to herself just now. She wants to screw him.”

“You think so, Trudy Liebchen,” he chuckled, with a warm responsive hug. “Well, you can't blame the poor girl, she did loose her guy, you know. A sniper got him in France. He could have really given her what she needed, so I guess it is natural for her to want an older man who knows just how to take care of a woman the way the Professor truly must.”

“Well, don't you worry any, Max,” Trudy teased him, “I'm not the least bit jealous of Kathy. You want to know what I want you to do now? Take me to your flat and love me up good. You know, just the thought of poor Professor Nordheim's wife Helga being taken by the Gestapo got me all quivery inside. I know it's dreadful, I know how those beasts hurt women. Just the same, I happen to see in my mind's eye Helga all naked and maybe tied up by the wrist and maybe standing on tiptoe with all the Nazi brutes around her pinching her and poking her and hitting her with whips and making her talk. And then I see myself in her place, and you there doing it to me and I get all squirmy and melting inside, and then lieber Max, I need it from you right now. Let's hurry home, please!”

Max Dornburg gave his betrothed a passionate look and nodded, flushing like a schoolboy. The two of them had been sweethearts for nearly a year now, and after he had been rejected by the Army, the brunette had generously made him the gift of her own virginity while at the same time removing the burden of his. He had been afraid of women then, but he had felt so depressed and so inferior by the Army turndown that Trudy had wanted to mother him and make him feel like a man. So she reasoned that the best way to do that was to let him fuck her. And ever since then she had clung to him faithfully, though she had certainly had many propositions from other far more handsome and healthier male specimens, particularly overbearing soldiers just back from the front on leave who had promised they would make her insides churn if she'd only let them fuck her just once.

Suddenly the sound of a whistle broke the stillness of the street. Trudy's eyes widened and then she muttered in a low voice to Max, “Ach, Gott, it must be the police! Don't run, now, just let's go on as we have been, talking like this. That way they won't be suspicious.”

“Sure, Trudy honey,” Max said in a trembling voice. His heart was beginning to pound wildly again, as it always did when he was nervous or upset. He was scared stiff, and he couldn't stop himself. Now again the whistle sounded and it was very close to them. Max, who was at the curbside of the sidewalk, glanced to his left and there was a police car with the lights flashing, and a man in a brown uniform with a swastika armband was gesturing to him and calling out in an angry voice, “What the devil's the matter with you, fellow? Can't you hear a whistle? Don't you know that means to stop? Secret Police! Just stand where you are, the two of you!”

Max cast an imploring look at his sweetheart, who bit her lips and imperceptibly shook her head and said, “Don't panic now, for God's sake, Max. We've done nothing, we were just visiting Kathy, and that's all.”

The man who had accosted Max Dornburg now got out of the car, and from the back seat two Plainclothes men emerged as well. They were both stocky with bowler hats and overcoats against the raw October afternoon. The SS soldier wore sergeant's stripes, and he turned his head to confer with the two other men, who both nodded. He then went up to Max Domburg and said, “Your papers, schnell!”

Max fumbled in the pocked of his coat under his thick overcoat and drew out his identification. The SS noncommissioned officer seized it, scowled at it, handed it to the two men who in turn examined it. “And the girl?” the sergeant demanded.

“Why, she's my fiancee, sir,” Max Dornburg said politely.

“Speak when you are spoken to. All right, you,” the sergeant jerked his thumb at Trudy, “let's see what you've got to prove who you are. And make it fast, girlie!”

“Why, I'm a student at the university, that's all,” Trudy said in a clear brave voice, “I'm afraid I didn't bring any papers, sir, but everybody knows me. My professor can vouch for me, my name is Trudy Heinzelman, and I five at 38 Kirchevasser Boulevard.”

“Where did you two just come from, girl?” the sergeant demanded.

“Max and I were visiting our friend Kathy Flichtsen, in that house back down the street, sir,” Trudy explained. “She's a student too. We had some other friends there too. We were just talking about a composition we had to do, and about the work ahead in our class, that's all.”

“I see. Wait a bit, there's another couple!” The sergeant suddenly raised his voice and turned, for down the street came Erich Luvrow and his girlfriend Eva Jung. “Those the ones you mean, girl?”

“Yes, that's Erich and Eva,” Trudy said as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Just the same, her mouth felt terribly dry and her mouth felt clammy and her heart was beginning to pound as bad as Max's.

The two plainclothes men now went down the sidewalk to intercept Erich and Eva and to demand their identification papers. Trudy pricked up her ears and tried desperately to hear what was being said to her friends, but she got only an unintelligible mumble. Meanwhile the sergeant hadn't finished with her: “Pay attention when I'm talking to you, girl! That's the trouble with you damned intellectuals, you forget that there is a war on and that the Fuhrer expects you to be patriotic citizens too in return for your schooling! Now then, who lives with you at home, at the address you just gave me?”

“My father and mother, sir.”

“Any brothers in the service?”

Trudy shook her head. The sergeant eyed her with a mocking little smile, and he suddenly flung at her: “Do you know about Till Eulenspiegel?”

Trudy hadn't been prepared for so abrupt a transition in the questioning; consequently she hesitated for a tiny but fatal moment, and her cheeks flushed as she wet her lips with her tongue and then stammered, “Why, isn't that the name of an orchestral work by Richard Strauss?”

“Very good, I congratulate you, Fraulein,” the sergeant jeered. “But you waited just a bit too long to think that one up, didn't you? Oh, it's clever, I'll grant you that! I think you'd better come along down to Gestapo headquarters, Trudy.”

“Oh please—I've done nothing—I'm just a student—I tell you,” Trudy began to panic herself, her eyes dilating and she felt as if her legs were trembling so hard that they were going to give way any minute beneath her.

“You can prove all that down at headquarters! Come along, get in the car!” the sergeant snapped.

“Max, for God's sake, run.” Trudy hissed to her sweetheart. She turned to follow the sergeant who had hold of her elbow, and the bearded young student suddenly broke into a run down the street. The sergeant shoved Trudy towards the car with his left hand, drew a Luger out of its holster with his right, took careful aim and fired a snap shot. Max Dornburg uttered a shriek, flung up his arms, pitched forward on his face and sprawled into the gutter. He was quite dead.

Trudy stared unbelievingly, and then covered her face with her hands. She was numb with terror and despair. Because now she knew that the Gestapo was going to question her and when they found that her parents were dead, contrary to what she had told the sergeant, they would probably search her place, and when they did, they would find copies of the latest issue of Till Eulenspiegel.

The two plainclothes men had already decided that Erich Lovrow and Eva Jung ought to be brought along for questioning if only as a mere formality; after all, they had been witnesses to a most unfortunate attempt to escape by an arrested prisoner, a suspect who was about to be charged with treason. And Erich Lovrow, in his terror that his parents who were very upright and bigoted might find out about his liaison with beautiful gold-haired Eva, lost his nerve and began to beg the two Gestapo undercover men to let him go and to say nothing to his parents because otherwise he and his girlfriend would get into trouble. This naturally convinced them that he had something to hide.

And so the three young people were herded into the car, the door slammed on them, and the uniformed chauffeur drove off to the South towards the grim building in which Helga Nordheim was still undergoing her atrociously prolonged and brutal interrogation by Oberst Friedrich Mueller and Willi Murtens and Manfred Strobel...

Whimpering, half-fainting, the naked wife of Professor Kurt Nordheim frantically sucked Oberst Muller's aching prick while he playfully continued to flick her dangling upside-down body with the stinging flap of his riding crop. “Now mind, Helga,” he purred, “you're to swallow every drop, otherwise I shall have to punish you for being a sloppy bitch. It won't do to have my good German seed wasted on this dirty floor. Tell me, Liebchen have you ever done this to your dear Professor?”

“Ohhh—mfff—aggghhh—n—n—no, oh God, let me down, let me down, I'm going to faint, I'm going to die, it hurts me so—oh have pity on me, I'm doing what you want, Herr Oberst!” Helga Nordheim panted.

“You simply will not learn that when an officer of the Gestapo puts a question to you, you must answer him,” he said silkily. He raised the crop, suspended his arm, paused for a moment, and then brought it straight down, and the flap of the weapon hit home against the inflamed hairless cuntlips of the agonized naked woman.

A gurgling shriek tore from Helga Nordheim as her entire body seemed to lunge and jerk, and in so doing her mouth left the aching meatus of the Gestapo chief.

“But that's no answer, you bitch! And look what you've done, you've stopped sucking me just at the point that I was ready to fill your mouth with my good German spunk.” the Oberst snarled. “Willi, help the lady!”

“Jawoll, mein Oberst!” The Nazi private chuckled as he clicked his heels and saluted. Then he strolled over to the swaying naked body, licked his lips and thrust his right forefinger into Helga grateful to us for effecting such a tender reconciliation. Look out now, I'm going to get ready to spurt right into your mouth, you sweet bitch! Swallow it all down like a good girl, or we'll make you swallow a quart of castor oil and leave you here all night long tied up like this, and I mean it, Helga!” His voice suddenly grew raucous and strained. He closed his eyes, tilted back his head, his breathing heavy and quickened. Helga Nordheim, mad with shame and terror, feeling the stinging bite of the riding crop which Willi Murtens still continued to flick across her tender legs and bottom, prepared herself. And then with a bellow, the Gestapo officer gave out with the bubbling viscosity in his hairy balls, and Helga Norhheim spluttered and choked and coughed but, luckily for her, managed her very first time to swallow every drop.

“Not too bad, for a beginner,” the Gestapo officer languidly observed. “You can take her down from the hook now, boys. Put her back on the table, but this time on her belly, and tie her and blindfold her. We'll give her a little rest while we think up something new. She's getting to the informative stage, now. Pretty soon she'll be very eager to tell us all she knows about Till Eulenspiegel.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

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.”

“Of course you're right. There!—and there! and perhaps this one, too. Gracious, I've never seen a bottom waggle so quickly! She makes me feel as if she were trying to coax me to bed, wirklich!”

The portly Gestapo head had applied three whistling, crackling strokes of the leather riding crop over the base of Helga Nordheim's naked, piteously welted behind. Each had drawn a wild shriek from her, and her hips had twisted uncontrollably, offering up in the lewd distension of her posterior the lascivious sight of her hairless cunt, whose lips were still wet and stickied from the gismic tributes which the two Nazi privates had paid her. It was this involuntary but lascivious proffering which had made the Oberst allude to Helga Nordheim's “enticement.”

At last the demeaning ordeal was completed, and the two privates lifted Helga Nordheim by the armpits, their fingernails digging into those tender, sweaty niches, and made her stand before their superior. He took a monocle out of the lapel pocket of his gray uniform, adjusted it to his right eye, squinted at her, and smirked with satisfaction: “Well, I'll say this, Frau Nordheim, you don't exactly look like a housewife who's had a bath recently, and you do smell bad. Are you ready to talk yet?”

Slowly, as if there were weights tied to the lids, her beautiful eyes opened, haggard and bloodshot, filling with new tears, and her lips began to tremble so convulsively she could hardly speak. Faintly, falteringly, there came this almost incoherent petition: “Oh God, have me shot... anything... but no more! In the name of God the Father, I beg you as a decent human being... kill me... I don't know any more... before God Himself I couldn't say any more than I have to you. Oh please... please...”

“Do you suppose she's telling the truth; Herr Oberst?” Willi Murtens hazarded.

“Of course it's possible. She keeps clinging to this story in spite of everything. Now you see, Willi boy, you're a little more clever than in the days of the Inquisition, do you see? Now there, they'd torture a bitch like this until she'd confess she had slept with the devil himself just to have the torturers stop their work. Well, that sort of confession isn't any good. It can always be repudiated. I'm sure that if I took that pair of pliers and tore off Frau Nordheim's fingernails and toenails, and then lit a good cigar and sprinkled the hot ash over the raw wounds, she would probably tell us she had planned to assassinate Der Fuhrer himself. But you see, Willi, if you're going to be an officer, you have to learn to differentiate and to discriminate. That comes with experience, my boy. Not that you haven't done well—I'm very pleased with you, and with Manfred too. But at this point, what we're going to do is leave Frau Nordheim on the table as she was just before you tried to give her a drink, Manfred. And then we're going to walk out and leave her, and let her think about what can happen to her. A naughty girl like this doesn't deserve a clean swift death at the headsman's axe. Not at all. Nor hanging from a meathook with piano wire around that soft white neck of hers. No, that's too quick. Myself, I'd like to put a wooden stake up her dainty Arsch-hole, tie her hair to ropes from the ceiling and her thumbs up in the air to the ceiling too, so she'd balance herself. And when she got too tired, she'd let herself down to the stake and naturally it would penetrate into her bowels, which would hurt her a good deal but wouldn't kill her right away. We wouldn't make the stake long enough to reach the heart, naturally. Maybe that's what we'll do when we come back. I think we've earned a little beer and schnapps, boys, and maybe a bit of roast chicken. Let's go see what Frau Schneider, our good cook, has prepared for the evening meal.”

And the three Nazis walked out of the interrogation room and slammed the door behind them. They ignored Helga Nordheim's despairing shrieks of “Oh God—oh no, don't leave me, I swear I can't tell you anything more, but don't do that to me! Shoot me, behead me, kill me quickly, in the name of heavenly mercy! Oh Kurt, Kurt, why don't you come and save me—it hurts me so—I'm so afraid!”

CHAPTER NINE

When the police limousine arrived in front of the Gestapo headquarters, the sergeant who had shot Max Dornburg and arrested his lovely companion and sweetheart Trudy Heinzelman turned to the plainclothes men who were guarding Eva Jung and Erich Luvrow and remarked, “I've got a hunch that our fish belonged to the net that Oberst Mueller is putting out. Before you take them in for questioning, let me go on ahead and get in touch with him.”

The two men who were undercover agents for the Gestapo were quite familiar with the citywide search for those malefactors behind the publication of Till Eulenspiegel. One of them said, “You're quite right, Sergeant Katzmire. Good thinking. You do that, and we'll watch over your prisoners.”

Trudy Heinzelman wasn't thinking about escape, not after she'd seen her own lover shot down in the street before her very eyes. She wept helplessly, covering her face with her hands, while Erich and Eva in the back seat between the two agents, held hands and stared helplessly at each other as they looked out through the window of the limousine to see the grim gray building which all Berlin knew housed the implacable organization known as the Gestapo. It was the most terrifying secret weapon in the Third Reich. At any time of the day or night anyone within its range of operation knew when there might be a sudden hammering on the door and a command to open... then soldiers with rifles and Lugers would enter, headed by some mild-looking little man who you'd think didn't look anymore important than a mailman. But before he finished, someone in that dwelling was led out and maybe never seen again. And in the occupied countries, the Gestapo worked just as vengefully and swiftly, with a murderous silence and a far-flung organization which even the Allies grudgingly admitted was just about foolproof. Nowhere in Germany was it safe to say freely what one thought. A harmless remark to one's neighbor while standing on the corner waiting for the bus might mean, even a few minutes later, someone's tapping you on the shoulder and arresting you in the name of the Gestapo.

It was no wonder that Erich and Eva quailed before the sight of that building, though they could only guess what they would find there....

Oberst Mueller was feeling quite pleased with himself. He'd spent about two hours with this blonde bitch, and she was getting nicely pliable without being too spoiled. It would really be a shame to have to shoot her or behead her. What a fine plump Arsch she had, and such good firm solid Butzen! And how soft and feminine and helpless she was, especially when she felt the good Peitsche cracking down on her bare white flesh! He was very fond of bitches who sang out lustily when the whip was at work, and who let him observe every detail of their suffering by even crying out in advance and babbling the most stupid and abject promises. Why, it was like punishing a little child who had been naughty. The allusion made him chuckle with salacious irony. Yes, very much like that indeed. Here was this charming Helga, whose living room you'd love to visit for an afternoon tea and exchange a few polite words with her and stare politely at her titties as they thrust out against a nice expensive dress. The Professor earned a good salary and of course he lavished a good deal of attention on the dear lady, which was natural. If he wanted to chase around for a pretty piece of koot-zele like that Kathy Flichtsen, he'd have to lull his wife's suspicions and so he'd probably give her lots of little gifts. Well now, sitting with a saucer balanced neatly on one's knee and a napkin on the other knee with a little plate of cake or maybe a sweet roll on it and smiling and paying attention to the conversation so as to put in an intelligent word every now and then, that was what you'd expect to find in Helga's living room.

But here in their little Reitschen-Zimmer, things were vastly different, oh yes indeed they were! And the minute she had got in there and been obliged to undress for them in her ladylike and shy way, she'd become just like a naughty little girl who had been told she was going to get a good sound thrashing. All the signs were there, from the first trembling of the lips, to the widening of the eyes, the sudden quickening of the pulse and heartbeats, the clamminess of the skin, the dryness of the lips and the throat, the nervous stammer, the gradual lack of assurance in those sweetly-pitched words of hers. It was really a science; no, it was better than that, it was like the unfolding of a great symphony by Beethoven or Schumann, from the first few notes into the development of the major theme and then finally the triumphant finale.

And he, Oberst Friedrich Mueller, was the conductor of that symphony, and he could call for forte or pianissimo just as he pleased. No, she wasn't really too badly spoiled, and with a little schnapps and some coddling, she'd be ready for another little session.

He and his two men had gone upstairs to the main floor of the building and down the hall to the right to a little room marked “Private.” Willi Murtens had gone all the way back to the kitchen to ask fat gray-haired Frau Schneider for something good to eat for the Herr Oberst and for himself and his companion Manfred. The Gestapo officer opened the door and disclosed a pleasantly furnished little lounge. A couch, some deep low, thickly upholstered armchairs, a pretty rug on the floor, even pictures on the wall, photographs blown up and framed showing the beloved Leader addressing a rally at Nuremberg, or there walking among the troops and personally decorating soldiers for their valor with the Iron Cross. There was even a little wind-up phonograph on the table near the window, with some records of Wagner, music to which the Leader was especially partial. It was a place, in a word, where a hardworking man could relax after an exhausting piece of business. He sat down in one of the armchairs, exhaling a sigh of deep content, stretched out his legs, and closed his eyes for a moment.

Helga had just taken the edge off his rut by sucking him off, the amusing little sow! It had been the first time she'd ever done that, and she'd said as much. Well, perhaps she had other virginities to offer. There was still the little matter of that dainty pink hole between the cheeks of her big sweet Arsch. And he was sure that the Professor had never tried to put his prick between the valley of those juicy big titties. To hold them in his hands and squeeze them together against his own ramrod and to rub it back and forth would be almost as good as having it inside her kootzele.

He unbuttoned his military tunic, patted his belly. Then he frowned. He was going to have to do something about that. A little too much weight in the gut. That was surprising, considering how much activity he had down in that basement interrogation room. You would think that a good workout such as he'd just had with Frau Nordheim would have taken at least a couple of pounds off his middle. But these days there wasn't time to consider one's personal vanities. The war was critical now. Traitors and saboteurs, all people who weren't loyal to the Leader, must be found out and punished and eliminated. That was the only way to victory.

There was a respectful knock at the door, and he called out, “Herein!” And the door opened and it was his two “boys.” He felt most paternal towards them, though there really wasn't that much difference in age. He himself was in his early forties, and if he could find out who was responsible for that accursed paper, he could very easily become a general. “Now that's very thoughtful, boys,” he beamed. Willi and Manfred each carried a tray, and his eyes lighted up when he perceived what they had coaxed out of Frau Schneider. Some ham hocks, big mugs of scalding-hot coffee, a good-sized chunk of liverwurst, and several pieces of Apfel-strudel.

His two subordinates fawningly served him, let him take his choice, but he was in a generous mood and left them enough tidbits. They'd been very useful just now, and they were going to be still more useful in getting the truth out of that timid, shy bitch downstairs in a little while.

“Do you think she might be pissing again, Willi?” he chuckled as he daintily forked a bit of ham hock, put it into his mouth and luxuriously savored it.

“I wouldn't be surprised at all, Mein Oberst. I'd say she was ready to give out with just about everything,” the beetle-browed private grinned. He looked back at his companion with a smile. No two ways about it, if every officer in the Third Reich was as understanding and as man to man with you as the Herr Oberst, those verdammte Allies would have been wiped out long before this!

He glanced at his wrist watch. “We'll give our little friend another quarter of an hour. It's good to get one's second wind when one is dealing with a difficult and obstinate patient,” he explained. They grinned and nodded. Then suddenly there was a knock at the door. He frowned, set his plate down on a little tabouret beside his chair, and rose to his feet with a grimace of annoyance. He jerked his thumb at the door, and Willie Murtens sprang to his feet and hurried to open it.

It was the sergeant who had shot Max Dornburg. “Respectfully begging your pardon, Herr Oberst,” the Sergeant said as the portly figure of the Gestapo chief confronted him, “But Herrn Lukas and Witte and myself have just brought in three students, all from that Professor Nordheim's class. We thought you might want to have a go at them, sir. We think it might have something to do with the Till Eulenspiegel business.”

“Excellent, Sergeant Katzmire! Tell you what. You said three?”

“Jawohl, mein Oberst.”

“Male or female?”

“Two girls, mein Herr, and a fellow. There was another fellow too, but I had to shoot him because he was trying to get away. I think his girl's pretty broken up, sir, and she might just be willing to talk, now that she's seen what happens to traitors.”

The Gestapo chief's fat face darkened with annoyance. This sergeant was getting a bit too big for his boots. “For your information, Sergeant Katzmire, I am in command here of interrogation. It's for me to decide who is going to be questioned and how soon they are going to talk, you understand?”

“Of course, of course, sir,” the sergeant gave him a deferential and swift salute which he languidly returned.

“That's better. Just so we know the order of things. Germany is great because it maintains order, never forget that, Katzmire. Very well then. Find out from Lieutenant Klaus Mann where the Nordheim bitch is being questioned. Then have the two girls taken into the adjacent chamber. We'll get to them directly. As for the fellow, just lock him up in a solitary cell, he'll keep. One more thing—is the other girl his sweetheart, do you think?”

“I'm sure of it, Herr Oberst.”

“So much the better. If he's left to cool his heels a while, he'll start worrying about what we might do to his girlfriend. And if he's slept with her at all, he'll be jealous if he thinks that we might just have a go at her kootzele. So when you go back to his cell in a little bit, Sergeant, strike up a conversation with the fellow.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Yes, be sympathetic and confidential. Tell him it's a terrible thing to have his girlfriend taken by herself to be questioned without his being there to comfort her. Tell him that sometimes some of the non-commissioned officers and the privates get a little too enthusiastic in the name of our beloved Fuhrer. Tell her that sometimes they use the whip rather vigorously on a girl's bare ass and titties, and even in between her straddled legs. Now he wouldn't want his little sweetheart marked up there, I'm sure, not if he wants to fuck her from now on. You understand the tone, Katzmire. That'll start him thinking and worrying, and maybe he'll want to chatter like a parrot. Be off with you now!”

“At once, Excellenz! Thank you, Excellenz!” The sergeant saluted, wheeled, and left the lounge room, closing the door behind him.

CHAPTER TEN

Sergeant Ludwin Katzmire was thirty-one, bulky, nearly bald, about six feet in height and he hated women. He had caught his own bitch cheating on him about five years back and had just about beaten hell out of her and given the other guy a broken jaw and a ruptured hernia. Since then, he'd had a couple of sluts who'd lived with him a few months at a time and then pulled out because they couldn't stand his sudden fits of furious rage and his brutality. When he wasn't seized by such vicious tantrums, Ludwig Katzmire was exceptionally crafty and close-mouthed. He had been a sales manager in a department store before the war, and he had been invaluable to the store manager in pointing out who was slacking and who was cheating, and even stealing from the till. So naturally he had found his way to the Gestapo and although he had only the rank of sergeant, he was considered by no less a personage than Kolonel Dietrich Dortmund, who was the chief intelligence officer of the Gestapo in Berlin, as a highly skilled and very conscientious worker for the cause of expunging the traitors from Germany's midst.

Sergeant Ludwig Katzmire was congratulating himself on the find he'd made. That Trudy whose boyfriend he'd picked off with that quick shot from his Luger—now there was a real piece of cunt. Come to think of it, he'd not had his ashes hauled in over a month now, because somehow whenever he brought in women for questioning, the high-ranking officers had hogged them all to themselves. But this Oberst Mueller looked like a pretty decent sort of chap who believed in fair play. After all, hadn't he personally accounted for no fewer than four suspects in the Till Eulenspiegel affair. That was certainly worth a piece of cunt, if nothing else. And if by great good luck they happened to be really connected with the case, he might even make Lieutenant. Then the girls would have to take notice of him.

After receiving his assignment from the Oberst, Sergeant Katzmire hurried down the corridor and made his way to the door facetiously marked “Admissions.” That was a good one, that was! He didn't know what the percentage was, but it certainly couldn't be more than two or three percent of the people who came to that office who ever left that building on their own two legs, am zwei Beinen. He went in, smartly saluted the monocled gaunt lieutenant, and enquired where Frau Nordheim was being interrogated. Receiving this news, he then respectfully requested the whereabouts of the three prisoners which he and the two plainclothes men had brought in here, and was told.

As he left the office, whistling the “Hoest Wessel” song which was just about Germany's patriotic anthem these days, the stocky, almost bald noncommissioned officer of the S.P. felt remarkably pleased with himself. He went down the stone stairs, curtly explained his errand to the corporal who sat at the desk guarding the long corridor of subterranean cells and interrogation chambers, and then walked down to the room where poor Helga Nordheim was still enduring her prolonged martyrdom. Opening the door very quietly, he peeked in and grinned with salacious enjoyment.

Gott, what a beautiful arsch the bitch had, and they'd worked it over a bit, you could see that. How he'd like to get between those cheeks and drive home his plunger and grease her up. It would be just as good as an enema for the lady, and it would do them both a world of good.

He turned to the right, after closing the door, and went down the hall about half way. There were two cells, one next to the other, with heavy metal doors and no windows inside, and just a footstool as furniture. Sometimes a cell like this had to do for a prisoner, especially if the traffic was heavy, for two or three days. Of course it was too bad, but then if these bastards wouldn't be disloyal, they wouldn't be coming here. He opened the first door and smirked at Erich Luvrow.

“Tough luck, kid,” he said colloquially. “Say, you know, I've just seen them take your little girlfriend into one of the interrogation rooms. Oberst Mueller is handling things. That's not so good for her, you know.”

“Wh—what do you mean?” Erich quavered and bit his lips. He was very pale and he was trembling. That was an excellent sign, too, when they started getting afraid even before you called them in, the sergeant thought to himself.

“Oh, nothing really. Except that he's one of the toughest men in Berlin. He doesn't stand any nonsense, especially from broads. You know, if I were really fond of a little bitch who got pulled in here, I'd do just about anything to save her neck. And it's not only her neck you'll have to save, my friend.” He gave Erich Luvrow a wink, as between two men of the world. “You see, fellow, once a bitch is stripped down naked, you can see everything she's got. Well, the Secret Police and the Gestapo are flesh and blood men, just like you and me, though you wouldn't believe it. But it's a fact, take it from me. By the way, I'm Ludwig Katzmire. And don't let the name fool you. There's no Jew on either side of the blanket for at least a dozen generations, so far as my old man could figure out from the family tree. What's your girlfriend's name?”

“E-Eva J-Jung,” Erich Luvrow's voice trembled and was very faint.

“That's a nice name, that is. Just like Mother Eve. I'll bet she's just as beautiful, nein?” This with a salacious wink.

“Yes, she is. She's got lovely yellow hair and—” Erich stopped, biting his lips as his anguish mounted.

“There, you see? I suppose you've slept with her? Oh, come on, don't be so damn shy. We're men together, aren't we? I could have a son about your age—well, maybe not, but I feel like that. I'm not a bad sort of guy when you get to know me. Lots of times people come in here and it's a mistake, and maybe it's that way with your girlfriend and with you. I sure hope so, for your sake. But I'll tell you as friend to friend that you might be thinking about whatever it is they pulled you in for.”

“Why are you talking to me like this? You were the one who arrested me! You were the one who shot my friend Max Dornburg!” Erich suddenly broke out.

“Gently, gently, boy. I had to shoot him. He was trying to escape. It could have been my job, and I could have wound up in a place like this myself if I hadn't done my duty. You'd have done the same thing in my place, take it from me you would. Now listen, I just have orders to pick up any suspicious characters, and we happen to know this damned traitor newspaper is probably being put out by one of your professors where you go to school and get smart, see? So get real smart, and if you know anything at all about it, or if Eva does, or even if she doesn't, you ask to see the Herr Oberst, understand? You know, if I had a cute girl with yellow hair, I wouldn't want to see her stretched out on the table tied down so hard the ropes bite that pretty skin and make ugly marks that will last a while. And they'll take a whip and use it on that bare bottom, you can depend on that. They always whip a woman on the behind. Makes her feel like a little kid getting thrashed by her daddy, and it starts her talking. And then, if she doesn't cooperate, there's lots of other things they can do to a girl. Believe me, they've got lots of imagination here and all the time in the world to use it in. Well, Erich, don't say I didn't warn you.”

Before the aghast youth could protest or utter a syllable, Sergeant Ludwig Katzmire walked out of the cell and clanged the door shut behind him.

He went directly to the cell to his left, unlocked the door and smiled to see Trudy and Eva standing against the back, their arms around each other's waists like orphans of the storm. He'd seen that old Amerikanischer movie by that same name with that simpering Lillian Gish and her sister. It had been about the French Revolution, and the two broads had been in jail, very much like these two. And they had been so scared of the guillotine and what the men were going to do to them. Well, that was just play acting—this was for real. And now that he saw Trudy and Eva, he was beginning to feel the need for getting his ashes hauled in one hell of a hurry.

“You're to come with me at once! Schnell raus herein!” he barked.

The two young women exchanged an agonized look and slowly left the cell. He let them go ahead, so as to get a look at their legs. Not bad at all. He liked that golden-haired piece. No wonder that kid Erich would have the hots for a piece of kootzele like this.

“In here,” he ordered.

They stopped before a door directly next to the room in which poor Helga Nordheim lay tethered to the table. He unlocked the door, gestured to them to go in.

This room was larger, and it had several more sinister devices, a fact which made Trudy and Eva shudder and gasp simultaneously. Sergeant Ludwig Katzmire chuckled.

“Now don't get upset my dears. If you're innocent as babes in the wood, you've nothing to worry about. You might say this is somewhat psychological. You see, when we put a nice person in here, he or she sees these things and, with any intelligence at all, says to himself that it's a lot better to be frank and honest and truthful right from the start than to be annoyed and inconvenienced. Sometimes our questioners are a little short-tempered. That's because of the war, you understand. My advice to you, the same as your own father might give you, is to hold nothing back and to tell the absolute truth at all times. The people who are going to question you will know all about lying and truth, believe me. Now let's see. I'm supposed to ask you to take off your dresses first. Just a formality, my dears. Don't be disturbed by my presence; I'm an old hand at this.”

“But we've done nothing!” Trudy protested.

The sergeant's face hardened and his fleshy, hard mouth twisted in a cruel smirk.

“That's what they all say. Now, I've got my orders, and they're from the Herr Oberst himself. Start undressing, or I'll call some men and they'll take your clothes off by force. I don't suppose you'd like that, nein?”

Trudy and Eva looked at each other in consternation and both girls blushed. But they were frightened already by the fearsome devices placed in this room, not only for impressing them, as Sergeant Katzmire had implied, but also for coercing them into revealing every single thought that had ever crowded into their young minds since their birth. For this was the deadly and diabolical aim of the Gestapo.

Trudy was first to comply with the sergeant's order. She stooped and pulled up her brown cotton dress, after having removed her overcoat. Under the dress was a modestly cut, cheap white ersatz cotton slip. She hesitated a moment, her cheeks crimson, but the sergeant jerked his thumb at her.

“That thing, too, Miss,” he snapped.

When the slip fell, Trudy stood tall and slim, and Sergeant Ludwig Katzmire licked his lips. This one was sort of like a boy, with nice small, firm titties and delightfully long legs. The way she kept her black hair short gave her that boyish look, too, but his prick knew she wasn't a boy, damned if it didn't!

She had gorgeous creamy skin, and her cami-knickers (a one-piece pink cotton affair with shoulderstraps and a kind of tunic over her small titties joining a pair of rather wide-legged panties whose hems came down to about mid-thigh) were quite cute and provocative. Personally, he liked a bitch like this golden-haired piece of kootzele, this Eva. Now there was a pair of hips and a pair of titties you could hang onto while you poked her good and hard. But Eva Jung hadn't started to undress yet, still ashamed and frightened by this sudden, terrible drama which had taken place. While she could give thanks that dear Erich hadn't been hurt, she still had before her eyes the hideous sight of poor Max Dornburg sprawling in the gutter, and this man had fired the shot that had killed him.

“What are you waiting for? A personal invitation from Der Fuhrer himself?” he barked. “Off with it, like your girlfriend there, if you know what's good for you!”

Eva Jung was about five feet five, two inches shorter than Trudy. Her face was heartshaped, exquisitely sweet and feminine to the core. Her large, widely spaced blue eyes had long, thick lashes, to which she had put a cheap mascara which was beginning to run. Her nose was Grecian, with delicately fluted wings, and she had a rich, ripe, full mouth just made for kisses. Erich could tell you that—and Erich was thinking in his cell right now that perhaps that sweet mouth was going to twist in torment and gape in cries of pain. Erich was sweating by now and walking back and forth, the sergeant had no doubt of it.

“Why, yes—s-sir,” Eva quavered as she stooped and took off her black woolen dress. It was severely cut, because her elderly aunt (her parents had died of pneumonia last winter) had insisted that she dress like a respectable young woman and not like a Dime. Nonetheless, it could not hide the glorious jut of round, closely spaced titties nor the amplitude of mouthwateringly curved hips and succulently upstanding buttocks. She, too, had been wearing a plain cloth overcoat with a tiny strip of rabbit fur around the collar and cuffs, for show if not for warmth. That lay on the floor, like Trudy's, and now the dress joined it. Under the dress she wore a white batiste slip, rather coarse and somewhat frayed and yellowish from frequent launder-ings with the soap substitutes which had been rationed out during this abominable war. She hesitated, but a hard look from the sergeant convinced her of the folly of argument, and so the slip joined the little pile of garments at her feet.

Now Ludwig Katzmire really goggled, and he felt his prick swell and throb inside his fly. Herr Gott, this was a real piece of ass, this was! The blue-eyed, golden-haired Eve, a true Nordic, Aryan type, just meant for fucking by good Aryan soldiers! And what a nice appetizingly pale carnation skin the little bitch had!

“That's better, girls,” he conceded. “Now, I've got orders to tie you up and leave you here until the Oberst has time for you. But don't be frightened. This is just a regulation, you understand. Nothing personal meant, believe me. Why, if I had girls of my own, I wouldn't treat them any more tenderly than I'm going to treat you.”

“What—what are you going to do to us? Oh please, don't hurt us,” Eva sobbed, bursting into sudden tears.

Trudy was very pale and she was trembling, but she hadn't given way to hysteria yet, despite the terrible loss she had sustained. She would never forget the sight of dear, gentle Max throwing up his arms and screaming out, then pitching forward like a felled tree, and lying there so very still in the dirty, rainy gutter.

“I'm going to do nothing at the moment except tie you up and get you ready for questioning. Now get over here!” Sergeant Ludwig Katzmire roughly commanded.

In the center of the room was a heavy steel triangle with its base set into the floor. It was an isosceles triangle, and there were handcuff-like gyves set at each side of the base and a pair at the top, to fetter the captive's wrists and ankles and stretch her nicely. On the other side was the same arrangement. In this way you could put two bitches together, belly to belly, face to face, and tickle them a little with the Peitsche and make them rub pussies together. That was a lot of fun. Now that the Herr Oberst had two such sweet little kittens to work with, he sincerely hoped that these girls might be fixed up this way. When he had gone in to the lounge room and talked to the Oberst, the latter had told him to see that the girls were tied and left alone together to think things over for a little while. A daring thought came to him. Perhaps if he showed a little ingenuity, if he put the two together to share their misery, the Oberst would take special notice of him. After all, why should privates like Murtens and Strobel have all the fun? Here he had gone all this time without a piece of ass, and those bastards were probably in their glory, fucking that sweet piece of kootzele in the next room.

“Both of you,” he made up his mind in a hurry, “get over here! Stand facing each other! Good— now lift your arms up. And don't try any tricks, or it will be the worse for you. I, Sergeant Ludwig Katzmire, tell you this in all honesty, so you can believe it!”

Within a few minutes the two unfortunate girls found themselves with their wrists shackled high above their heads and their legs spread a full yard, while their ankles were clamped by the metal gyves at the base of the triangle. Thus, in their deshabille, their every movement meant the most embarrassing physical contact, although neither girl had to this moment ever experimented with the secret pleasures of Sapphism.

Sergeant Ludwig Katzmire surveyed his handiwork with a genial smile. It was all he could do to keep from falling upon them and amusing himself for a while. He had it coming, by God. But unfortunately he was only a sergeant, and even a Lieutenant just out of military school could break him of his rank and send him to jail. So, with a heavy sigh of disappointment, he stood a moment watching the two lovely young women squirm and shudder there in their bonds. Then he turned, walked out of the interrogation room, and slammed the door behind him.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

As soon as Trudy Heinzelman and Eva Jung had been tethered to the steel triangle facing each other and reduced to the scantiest of apparel, Sergeant Ludwig Katzmire went back to the lounge where the Gestapo chief was enjoying a cigar and a last glass of schnapps with his two aides Willi Murtens and Manfred Strobel. Smartly saluting, he reported, “By your orders, Herr Oberst, the two females are in the interrogation room next to the one you and your assistants have been using.”

“Zu befehl, Katzmire. We'll be along to attend to them presently. And that dear little Helga has first call on our services, naturalich!”

“If I may say so, Herr Oberst, I took the liberty of arranging these young ladies so that you will find it more convenient and practical to work on them.”

“Oh, you did, did you, Sergeant? May I ask what you did without authorization?” the Gestapo officer scowled.

Sergeant Ludwig Katzmire squirmed uneasily, and his face grew flushed with worry. Perhaps he had exceeded his authority, it was true, but it was all in the interest of getting the truth out of these young bitches, these snotty intellectuals who certainly couldn't be as loyal to Der Fuhrer as a man like himself who wore the uniform of his country. “Well, to be exact, Mein Oberst,” he declared, “I put them together at the triangle, and I had them take off their outer clothes. “But they're not naked, I assure you.”

“That was ingenious and you didn't touch them or fondle them or take undue liberties with them, did you, Sergeant?”

“Good gracious, no, mein Oberst! The sergeant was really sweating now. “I wouldn't dare think of such a thing your Excellenz knows that.”

“I'm not so sure, Katzmire. You look like a man who could stand a good piece of kootezle. Well, with three bitches to examine, there ought to be enough for all of us. And you've done very well. The boys in the field have just told me how you shot down that young renegade Schweinhund who tried to escape.”

“Thank you, Your Excellency!”

“Still,” the fat Gestapo chief plucked at his chin, “you might have done better to have disabled him. That way, you see, he could have been questioned and we might have learned something. The next time, while I admire heroics as much as anyone else in the Third Reich, Sergeant, think a little first before you act. It's the difference between a noncommissioned man and an officer like myself, Versthe?”

Now, Sergeant Ludwig Katzmire was tugging at his collar which had suddenly grown much too tight and hot for him. “Yes, yes, certainly, Your Excellency,” he stammered hastily, “And I'm grateful to Your Excellency for such excellent advice which I shall try to follow.”

“See that you do, but don't look so downhearted, Katzmire. The Knaben with me may get a little tired before the day is over. Stick around and I'll see that the Lieutenant in charge gives you a couple of hours to work with us. You may have a talent for interrogation which I hadn't yet suspected. Only for God's sake, Katzmire, don't bring your Luger in with those two pretty young bitches. We don't want them shot down trying to escape. We've more interesting things to do to them, haven't we, boys?” He turned to look back at Murtens and Strobel, who grinned and nodded and saluted.

At last the Gestapo chief finished his schnapps, unbuckled his belt a notch, patted his belly and emitted a sigh of comfort, then a belch. “Come along, Kindern,” he addressed his subordinates, “there is work to be done, and it's never polite to keep a lady waiting, especially when she's naked and eager to see you again.”

The sergeant and the two privates broke out again into loud guffaws. Then they followed the portly Gestapo officer down to the stairway and back to the subterranean interrogation chamber where poor Helga Nordheim lay, sobbing and moaning, her mind tortured by the feverish images which the Oberst's sly allusions had evoked in her overwhelmed brain.

As the steel door clanged, she uttered a piercing cry of terror, and turned her face towards it. She saw the two privates enter, and her blood ran cold as they winked and grinned at her, nudged each other and made salacious comments which she could only half-hear. The face of the sergeant was new to her, but it filled her with unreasoning terror all the same, so now there were four men here and she was alone with them and tied down on a table and already suffering from the torture and the whipping and the violations she had been compelled to endure.

“I brought a new playmate, Helga darling,” the fat Oberst purred. “This is Ludwig Katzmire, a sergeant of the Secret Police. Sergeant, I want you to meet our charming hostess, Frau Helga Nordheim, the wife of the Professor we are trying to find and who we believe may have something to do with Till Eulenspiegel.”

“A great pleasure to know you, my dear Frau Nordheim,” the sergeant said, being a great one for observing all the amenities, regardless of their irony in this present situation. He clicked his heels together and bowed low from the waist. The two privates burst into lustful laughter at this sight, but the Oberst fixed them with a cold glare which swiftly silenced them.

“As I recall, darling, we've tried the toothpicks, the manicure tweezers, the darning needle in a very tender place which I'm sure you recall, and my riding crop. Let's see what we have left to play with in this drawer.” The Gestapo pulled it out and chuckled: “Well now, we have some dental pliers, a nail file, some sandpaper and a tiny little hammer, the sort a housewife like yourself might use to put a thumbtack in the wall.”

“Ohhh, Gott, no more, don't hurt me anymore! I'll do anything you want, but please let me be now! I've sworn to you that all I can tell you is that I found a newspaper and I didn't know what it was and I read it and then I saw that it was this thing you mentioned,” Helga Nordheim babbled.

“Gently, gently, darling. Don't upset yourself. Oh, I forgot, you haven't had any refreshment. And we did. Aren't we the selfish beasts? Here you could have stood a glass of water, but then after all, I let Manfred try to give you something to drink and you spat it right out, you naughty girl. Let's see now, on an empty stomach I should prescribe a little hammer. It has a certain insistent irritation to recommend it. Let me begin with it and you'll tell me what you think of it, hein?” Taking up the little silver hammer, which actually was used by dentists to chip away with a chisel the hardening wax or cement of impressions, he selected a spot along Helga Nordheim's deeply indented spinal column near the cheekbone, put his fat left forefinger just above the spot he intended to touch, lifted the hammer and brought it down with a sharp little rap. Helga uttered a stifled groan and her body nervously jerked on the table.

“Aha, this must be the spot. Did you ever read any American history, my dear Helga? No? A great pity. Some three hundred years ago, if my memory serves me right, they had a plague of witches in a town called Salem. Most extraordinary. And they had a witchfinder who had the girls stripped naked, naturally, and then probed them all over their bodies with a needle. If there was one place which did not seem to cause them pain when it was stuck, the witchfinder said that was where the Devil had placed his mark. It was a most effective little ordeal, I can assure you. I'd say that you're a beautiful witch, Helga, but all that beauty is not going to get you out of this room till you tell me what I want to know.” This last sentence was said with a harsh metallic ring to it, and Helga Nordheim's teeth chattered and her body shuddered at the menace implicit in those words. He struck another smart rap against the chinkbone itself. Her naked, welted hips arched, then flattened, then weaved violently, and a raucous cry exuded from her gaping mouth. Her fingernails were clawing her sweaty palms, tearing the skin, and splotches of blood appeared mixed with sweat.

Very carefully now, lingeringly, like an esthete, the Gestapo chief continued the tapping with the hammer, ascending the spinal column up to the vertebrae of the neck. Helga was half fainting, and her hysterical plaintive cries were heartrending. Her body jerked and squirmed fitfully against the table, and Sergeant Katzmire's dark eyes blazed with an unholy rut.

“Look at our little companion, meinen Knaben!” the Oberst chuckled. “He's forgetting himself isn't he, Willi, Manfred? He wants to fuck that nice naked bitch on the table, doesn't he? Shall we let him?”

“Why not?” Willi Murtens said boldly.

“I like you, my boy. You're frank with me, and you're not afraid of my rank. That's very good. No, why not indeed? All right, Katzmire, if you want to relieve yourself of that bulge in your pants, I've no objection. It may even impress our dear little hostess into being more communicative. Suppose you open up your trousers, and get on top of her and give it to her good and hard. In the Arsch, if you prefer!”

The sergeant's eyes widened with disbelief, then glittered with ferocious joy. “Thanks, mein Oberst!” he panted. He began to unbutton his uniform trousers, glancing from time to time at the Gestapo officer as if fearful that the latter would suddenly rescind his decision. But the Oberst made a gesture to Willi Murtens: “Slide that panel open, will you Willi, that's a good fellow. I'd like the two new bitches to be put into the mood for the little session we're going to have with them by and by.”

The beetle-browed, surly private hurried over to the farthest wall, slid back a camouflaged panel, which left bare a three-inch square opening connecting both interrogation rooms. He crouched and squinted, and he saw Trudy, and Eva at the triangle, arms over their heads, legs enormously straddled, in their deshabille. He whistled low and approvingly, then smacked his lips. What he wouldn't give to be right next door now with that golden-haired piece of kootzele!

He turned back and saluted: “It's done, Herr Oberst!”

“Thank you, Willi. All right, Katzmire, show us what you're made of and make sure Helga knows too,” the Gestapo chief bawdily chuckled.

Sergeant Ludwig Katzmire climbed onto the table, his prick already jutting out of his unbuttoned fly. He lay over the sobbing woman, and his prickhead nudged between the distended cheeks of the flaxen-haired young matron's buttocks. She uttered a wailing cry, “Oh not any more, Oh please, don't do it to me, oh for God's sake, spare me, spare me, Herr Oberst!”

“Why, Helga, it's an honor to a woman like you without too much sexual experience to be mated to one of the stalwart noncommissioned officers of our Third Reich. You should be grateful to us and humble, as is proper when deign to notice scum like you. Proceed, Katzmire!”

Sergeant Ludwig Katzmire was so ecstatic over the feeling of those warm, quaking bottomglobes against his stiffened cock, of lying over her with his hands pressed against the sides of her swelling titties, that he couldn't speak. But he didn't have to. He knelt up now, sank his fingers into the inflamed and striped buttocks of the unfortunate young woman, and opened them with a brusque gesture. Helga Nordheim shrieked again as she felt her anus fearfully stretched and exposed. A moment later, her head flung up and her eyes were glassy and exorbitant as she felt Ludwig Katzmire's prickhead gouge against the tender, inflamed and super-sensitized lips of her virgin asshole.

In the other room, hearing those cries and sobbing pleas, Trudy and Eva shuddered and jerked at their bonds on the triangle. Trudy's eyes were huge with fright, and she panting whispered to Eva, “Oh God, it's that poor woman they've had in there for God knows how long. They must be asking her about the paper. We can't talk, Eva, no matter what they do. Remember that. Oh, if she would only stop screaming!”

But Helga Nordheim was going to go on screaming for quite some long time before silence would finally reign over the interrogation cell.

CHAPTER TWELVE

As Helga Nordheim's frenzied shriek rung out to betoken the deflowering of the virginity of her anus by Sergeant Ludwig Katzmire, the two young women handcuffed and straddled to the steel isosceles triangle in the adjoining interrogation room stiffened and their eyes widened, in a communal horror. Through that open section in the wall, the harassed, shrill, agonized cry of another victim had just wafted to them. And they were trembling, for they had already been terrified by having been led down so unceremoniously into this subterranean level, thrust into a windowless stone walled room whose grim apparatus silently but eloquently spoke of the agony which could be expected for all those who entered here to be questioned by the Gestapo of Hitler's Third Reich.

Lovely slim brunette Trudy, who faced that section of the wall through which the sound had come, gasped to Eva, her golden-haired friend who faced her and whose shuddering scantily clad body often pressed against hers throughout these last few moments of their incarceration together, “Ach, mein Gott, they are hurting someone, some poor person who probably has done nothing, like us!”

“Like us?” Eva whispered back. “That's to laugh, my dear Trudy. If they ever found out that we're helping the Professor put out that paper, they'd throw us to the rats!”

“Shhhh!!” the slim brunette hissed, her eyes widened with an almost hysterical fear, “you mustn't talk like that, or even think like that! We're just students, we like the Professor, and that's all. We don't know a thing about him, verstehe? If you dare say a word, Eva, you and your big mouth, I'll claw your eyes out with my fingernails, so help me! I've suffered enough already—my poor Max shot down like a mad dog, a kid who never hurt a soul, a kid so gentle and confused and shy that I practically had to take it away from him and show him that he needed a woman. Don't you dare, Evan Jung, endanger everything we've worked for with your flytrap!”

Eva, who was naive but industrious, was cowed by her friend's passionate declaration, and she nodded, half turning her head as if to try to see through that wall of stone, and learn what was being done on the other side of it.

As for Sergeant Katzmire, he was in a seventh heaven of sexual glory. He'd always wanted to bugger a girl, right in her tight warm little asshole, but somehow he'd never been given the chance. Once he'd tried it, when he'd had too many steins of beer, and he'd got his face slapped and she'd tried to kick him right in the nuts. But now here was this juicy piece of whiteskinned lovemeat, tied down hand and foot so she couldn't resist him at all, and what was more, he was performing before his own commanding officer. He had to make a good showing, and he did indeed at poor Helga Nordheim's expense.

Once he had gouged the tip of his prick just inside the resisting and obstinately yielding ring of sphincter muscles which controlled the mobility of Helga Nordheim's bottomhole, Sergeant Ludwig Katzmire gave himself a quick shove forward, till he found himself burrowed into that tight rectal passageway for about half his total length. The muscular spasms which her bottom made to eject his stiffened prick excited him enormously. He kept her buttocks yawned apart with his dirty, calloused fingers, while the dainty little anus tried to shrink and clench against this abhorrent invasion. But it was no use. By sheer brute force, the sergeant forced apart her rectal walls and did not stop until he had gouged into her until his pubic hair scraped her welted bottom. A long sobbing, wailing, defeated cry tore from the flaxen-haired martyr, and she lifted her head, her eyes bulging from their sockets, her nostrils flaring and shrinking, her mouth gaping in a constant and prolonged hoarse cry of indescribable suffering. She tried to arch herself, to disengage the tight sheath between her buttocks from the blazing breadth and length of his sexual weapon.

She could do nothing. She turned her head back to look for Oberst Mueller, but he had seated himself on the low footstool and was busy lighting a fresh cigar. She was conscious now of a thousand and one little details, things she would never have noticed in her own home. The smell, the acrid and troubling smell which gradually permeated this entire chamber. She hardly realized that it was mostly hers. The sound of hoarse, muttering voices, in whose unending cadence she could distinguish occasionally this word or that, and they were always words which abused and demeaned her, which relegated her to the degradation of a mere receptacle for their usage.

The rough, chafing feel of the wood against which her body lay stretched and drawn so tightly, and the bite of the cords into her wrists and ankles. The embarrassing and even shameful trickling of the drops of sweat which oozed from her armpits down her shuddering, heaving sides, and between the valley of her breasts.

But all these things were driven out of her mind as Sergeant Katzmire drew back his prick, took a long breath, and then crammed himself back to the very hilt inside her tight if fleshy asshole.

This time he forced apart the rectal walls, pitilessly furrowing her to the very bottom of that secret tract never before used by man, not even by her own husband. The pain was like a white-hot knife thrust down into her entrails and then twisted about slowly, back and forth. She howled like an animal tortured by a fatal wound which did not kill quickly; she flung her head back, her eyes straining up at the ceiling, and her body clattered on the bench as she tugged madly at the bonds which held her to it.

“I like this sergeant,” the Gestapo chief congenially remarked to his two privates. “He goes about his work with gusto. No fancy frills or subtleties, just straight, undeviating action. Maybe that's the best way. Then you see, you don't become emotionally involved. Now I've developed such a high regard for little Helga here that it would grieve me to have to have you fellows lead her out into the court yard in front of the platform, on which there will be standing a block draped in black velvet with a special anvil-like frame into which she will bow her lovely head so that she can present her neck to the headsman's axe. But orders are orders, and duty is duty, as all of us know. Still, I do hope that Katzmire won't hurt her too much, because I haven't really finished with her yet. And neither have you, Knaben, unless I miss my guess, eh?”

By a shake of their head and a guffaw and a snigger as well as a quick and very efficient salute, both Nazi privates assured their superior officer that they hadn't yet tired of Helga Nordheim the least bit.

Nor had Sergeant Katzmire, for that matter. Now he had his prick planted to the very balls inside her tight asshole. The poutingly clenching cheeks of her bottom seemed to try to break off his prick at the roots, but he wouldn't let her do that. He stretched out his hands, for there wasn't any need to hold her bottom open now, and he reveled as his fingers prodded the sides of Helga Nordheim's heaving titties, crushed down against the hard wooden table. He traced his fingertips back up to her armpits, discovered that they were sticky with perspiration and matted with her fine dark blonde private hair. Malevolently, with thumbs and forefingers, he stealthily plucked sprigs of that armpit hair and tensed at it, while his prick wallowed inside her clenching and churning anal canal. The pain of his distension was indescribable for Helga Nordheim; not even all these years of marriage with Professor Kurt Nordheim had inoculated her with the avid desire of becoming the whore or the camp follower of this or that man, nor had they evoked lust for anyone save her beloved husband.

“Well, Katzmire seems to be well placed, boys,” the Oberst rubbed his hands gleefully. “Now why don't you two get busy and distract our charming hostess? Apparently she never had it there, so she needs to have her mind taken off it. Katzmire, can you hold out a little longer?”

“With all due respect, Herr Oberst, I could go on all night long! Gott, how tight she is, how she grips me with that sweet Arsch of hers!” the sergeant groaned, glancing back with flushed face and glittering eyes at his superior officer.

Willi Murtens and Manfred Strobel had moved back to the drawer at one side of the table, examining the contents. The former butcher's apprentice took up the little nail file, while the tall angular Strobel decided on the sheet of coarse sandpaper. Each of them took their places behind the lecherously paired couple, and Willi Murtens began to jab the point of the nail file into the tender sole and heel of Helga's left foot, while Manfred Strobel seized both sides of the sandpaper and rubbed it back and forth over the other naked foot.

Helga Nordheim's cries became deafening, piteous, inhuman. Excited by her frenzied contortions, by the maddened plunging and squirming of her naked hips which served to contract and tighten the walls of her rectal sheath against his swollen prick, Sergeant Ludwig Katzmire began to quicken his thrust and piteously furrow her with single digs that began at the very brink of her asshole and traversed the entire narrow channel.

And in the other room, Trudy and Eva, their bodies shiveringly pressed together as if in seeking comfort against this unknown yet horrifying ordeal of that unknown victim, groaned and sobbed with their own mounting terror... which was precisely what the fiendishly inventive chief of the Gestapo intended. It was thus that the Gestapo broke its victims, no matter how great their courage or physical stamina. The power of suggestion, the most ancient and terrible weapon of all, was part and parcel of the bag of torture tricks utilized by the fat sadist who was conducting this interrogation.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

By the time Sergeant Ludwig Katzmire had voided the overburdened contents of his testicles deep into the tortured rectal sheath of the unfortunate Helga Nordheim, her cries had reverberated throughout the interrogation chamber and, thanks to the ingeniously contrived opening in the wall just beyond her head, to the ears of the trembling and tethered young women waiting their own turn in the next room.

This act of sodomy had been particularly painful for Professor Nordheim's beautiful mature wife because the two “Knaben” had continued, all the time it was going on, to prick and prod her bare feet with the nail file and to rasp the coarse sandpaper sheet over her feet and ankles and calves, till the skin was mottled and scraped and raw-looking.

When the heavy set sergeant had at last emerged his limpened cock from his victim's bowels, he had grunted with satisfaction as he clambered down from the table: “Teufel, das war wunderbar! My thanks to the Herr Oberst! With all due respect, sir, I haven't had a piece of ass like that in longer than I care to remember. I'm grateful to the Herr Oberst!”

Perched on his low footstool, the Gestapo chief nodded and waved his hand in comradely fashion. “Quite all right, Sergeant. You deserve a treat now and then for the work you do out in the field. Someone has to pick up the dirty traitors and bring them to us before we can get to work. My, my, I'm afraid that our charming hostess soiled you a little. Why don't you use her hair as a towel, Sergeant?”

Sergeant Ludwig Katzmire chuckled lewdly as he glanced down at himself and verified the accuracy of his superior officer's observation. “Wonderful idea, sir,” he agreed. He moved back around the table, put his left hand under Helga's trembling chin, lifted up her face and sadistically added, “But I've got a little better idea, sir, if I may.”

“By all means, carry on. We're always looking for fresh imaginative concepts down here, Sergeant Katzmire.”

“Thank you, sir. Now then, my beauty,” he turned to address the sobbing, half-conscious naked woman, “I'm going to clean myself a little. What I don't clean off with your hair, you're going to do with your mouth and tongue, verstehe? Otherwise, I'm going to ask the Herr Oberst's permission to give you a really nice thrashing. And do you know where, Frau Nordheim? Right on your titties, yes, that's right. So pay attention.”

“Capital, capital, Katzmire! I've really underestimated your capabilities. If you'd like, I can arrange a transfer to my own personal staff,” the Gestapo chief smilingly proposed.

“That would be a real honor, sir. But only if you really need me. I want to work where I'm best fitted to help Germany win the war.”

“A most admirable spirit. I wish all our young men at the front could hear you talk that way, Katzmire. You may proceed.”

Friedrich Mueller leaned back, patted his knee with his left hand, and took a puff at his cigar, luxuriously exhaling a thick cloud of aromatic smoke. Sergeant Ludwig Katzmire now plunged his fingers into the disheveled flaxen hair of the weeping naked woman, and arched his loins out. The table was low, placed at about the height of the middle of his thighs. It was quite easy, therefore, for him to lean forward and to rub the flaxen tresses against his stickied organ. When he had completed this, he moved back a little and proffered himself to the horrified gaze of the victim: “All right, Helga, you can see that there's a job to be done yet. Get with it, or I'll ask the Herr Oberst to have you turned over on your bottom so that I can take a belt to those nice bit butzen of yours!”

Helga Nordheim gagged and wretched, closing her eyes and twisting her face to one side. The sergeant viciously slapped her face several times, and then looked over at his superior officer, who nodded. Murtens and Strobel promptly approached the table, untied Helga's wrists and ankles, and tied her once more in a straddled and spread-eagled pose, tightly drawn over the low rough wooden table. Her face turned from side to side, and long, shuddering spasms wrenched her sweating, whip-marked and torture-stigmatized body. The sergeant dragged his heavy leather belt out of the loops of his trousers, stepped back and, lifting his right arm, brought the belt down with an angry Thwack! across both of the naked woman's heaving round titties, flattening down the turgid nipples, already exacerbated by the ordeal of the manicure tweezers.

Helga Nordheim's body seemed to leap up against her bonds, her head flung back and the cords of her neck stood out so violently that one would believe they were about to burst through the skin. She emitted a hoarse, incredibly prolonged bellow of a beast in pain, no longer human. And once again she lost control of her bladder, and the two grinning Nazi privates pointed to the telltale yellow stream that plashed down onto the stone floor.

“Well, Helga,” the sergeant inquired, “how does that feel? I think about a dozen more in the same place ought to make you a little more grateful when you're offered the chance of cleaning off the prick of a good loyal Nazi!”

“Well put, Katzmire, admirably put,” the fat Gestapo officer applauded him as he clapped his gloved hands together.

But Helga Nordheim's eyes fixed on the glistening black leather belt, broad and thick, which had already left a ferociously darkening band over the sweating white flesh of her panting bubbies. “Ach, Gott, nein, nein, nein! Don't hit me there again, oh my God, please not again! I'll do what you want, oh please don't beat me anymore, I hurt so, oh how I wish I were dead!”

“That can always be arranged, Frau Nordheim,” the Oberst sadistically purred. “But it's not a quick death. It won't be the axe or the gallows, Frau Nordheim. I think we'll just hand you up from that hook again and let the blood rush to your head and eventually kill you. And there'll be the whip and a few other nice little things to while away the time until you kick the bucket. You see, I've thoroughly lost patience with you. I've been treating you like a high born—like a Hochwohlgeboren, but that's over now. You're going to get the works, Frau Nordheim. We're going to give you a little rest, and it'll be the last one you'll get. Just think that over. We're going into the next room where we've got a couple of young pullets waiting to cackle the right tune. If they do, as we think they will, you're certainly going to be implicated. And then you can kiss your ass good bye, Frau Nordheim. The other room has lots more interesting little gadgets for making a stubborn bitch like you see the light of day. If you'll fix your eyes on that little section in the wall right ahead of you, you'll see that there's an opening, so you'll be able to hear what we're doing over there. Listen carefully and pay good attention. That's the best advice I can give you. Come on, Knaben, let's go visit our young college students.”

“Ohh—aaahhh—in the name of merciful heaven, what more can I say to you than I already have,” Helga Nordheim hysterically pleaded. “My husband taught class and loved his work, and he isn't guilty of anything, I know he isn't. I've lived with him for almost ten years, and he's never done a traitorist thing in all his life. And don't hurt those poor girls, they can't tell you anything either, anymore than I can!”

“What charming solicitude,” the Gestapo chief sneered. “But you'll have your chance to talk again this evening when we've finished with the girls in there. Who knows, Frau Nordheim? We might even find out that they've been sleeping with the Professor. Maybe he's more of a lover than you think. All right, let's go.

* * *

When the door to the room in which they had been imprisoned swung open, Trudy Heinzelman and Eva Jung both simultaneously gasped with terror and turned their strained, blanched faces towards their tormentors. The sight of the Gestapo Colonel, swinging his riding crop in his right hand and brandishing both his leather gloves in his left, his uniform trousers rumpled in the most suggestive manner, together with the two grinning Nazi privates, made the young beauties shudder in apprehension.

Sergeant Ludwig Katzmire walked in a moment later, having dallied in the other room long enough to pinch poor Helga Nordheim's titties and to slap her piteously welted naked bottom a couple of times while assuring her of the pleasure he had enjoyed while his prick had been lodged inside her tight, quaking asshole. “I'll be back, darling, and before they finish you off, you and I are going to have a couple of nice times together. I owe you that much. Besides, I haven't stuck my rod into your kootzele yet, and we can't have you executed till I've made sure whether it's as nice and tight and hot as your other hole was. Auf wiedersehen, schones Gattin!”

“Well now, Katzmire,” the Gestapo officer observed as he adjusted his monocle and slowly approached the triangle to which both girls were fettered, “my congratulations! It was very thoughtful of you to save time for the boys here. There won't be much to take off now, once we get to working on them.”

“Thank you, Your Excellency,” the heavy set sergeant grinned. “It's true they're not as ripely made as that flaxen-haired Dime in the next room, but my guess is they know what it's like to have a man working on them. That tall boyish-looking slut belonged to the bastard who was trying to get away from me.”

“You murderer!” Trudy burst into sobs, twisting and jerking at her handcuffed wrists, arching her body this way and that, “God will punish you, you'll see! He was just scared, and he didn't know a thing, but you had to go and kill him!”

“Yes, Katzmire,” the Gestapo chief affected distress as he scowled at the noncommissioned officer, “it was very thoughtless of you, Katzmire, to rob this long-legged black-haired bitch of her regular fucking partner. You could have wounded him in the leg or in the arm or the shoulder, you know.” Then, turning to Trudy, his eyes devouring her lithe figure, he tucked the gloves under his right armpit, and patted her bottom, tightly encased in the cami-knickers. “You are a little lean, Fraulein, but on the other hand you're young and fresh and you've got a very nice skin and good long thighs and calves. You're the sort of lively little slut who bites and claws and scratches when she's in heat, I'm quite certain. So Katzmire shot your boyfriend, did he? Yes, it's a pity. But never mind, my dear, we'll try to take your mind off it now.” Trudy closed her eyes and ground her teeth to keep from crying out as she felt the Nazi officer's pudgy hand roaming over the jouncy, compactly tight cheeks of her voluptuous young bottom. He now turned to the golden-haired captive facing Trudy, standing to her right and admiring the agitated swell of her superb round titties in the thin bra. “Now you remind us very much of dear little Helga in the next room. What's her name again, Katzmire?”

“Eva Jung, Excellenz!”

“Very appropriate. Her last name means young, and that she is indeed. And the name of Eva is, as you may recall, Katzmire, that of a heroine in Wagner's great opera, Die Meistersinger. As I recall, she was golden-haired too, just like this one. Very nice. And what a lovely pale pink and white skin, just right for blondes. I like a little variety when I'm questioning bitches, boys, so let's not hurry things with these, because they're younger and fresher and likely to have more stamina than our charming hostess back in the other room.”

“Why are we here?” Trudy now courageously demanded, bluffing to the bitter end. “We're just university students, that's all. We don't know anything about treason or anything else. Our Professor at school can tell you all about us.”

“Now you're getting things mixed up my dear Trudy,” the Oberst chuckled. “It's this Professor of yours we're really after, because we think he's the damned traitor who's been putting out a stinking newspaper attacking our beloved Leader and all the glorious effort of the Third Reich. And if he's involved, then you girls must be also, if you're his students!”

“That's not true,” Trudy protested, her face turned to the right as she stared through tear-blurred eyes at the gross sadist who was the chief of Gestapo interrogation in this grim gray building. “Why can't you believe that people just mind their own business and go to school and study to be decent citizens and aren't mixed up with treason?”

“Now there's a very pretty speech, Fraulein Trudy. You're a very excitable young lady. Of course, I had forgotten. You must excuse me, I have so many things on my mind these days. You're naturally upset over what happened to your boyfriend. Well, we'll see if we can't console you for his loss. Now take a good look around the room. I don't think you've been paying too much attention. You'll see some of the interesting equipment I've had brought here specially to loosen the tongues of those who aren't the least bit cooperative. Go ahead, take your time. We've got all evening and night, you know.”

It was true indeed that this room, larger than the one in which poor Helga Nordheim had been tortured, contained terrifyingly sinister objects the very sight of which made the blood curdle and the throat and lips grow very dry. It wasn't a question here of a box of toothpicks or a nail file or manicure tweezers or even a bone darning needle. In one corner, there was a sharply ridged wooden saw-horse with buckling straps over which a victim could be straddled with atrocious discomfort to the private parts. In another, there was a St. Andrew's cross with gleaming iron gyves for the wrists and ankles. At the opposite wall, one could see an old fashioned pillory, with yoke holes for neck and wrists, and a curious little rectangular stand about two inches high and a foot long and half as wide, studded with tiny little spikes.

Finally, opposite this, in the other corner, was a solid leather padded chair with heavy wooden arms and very thick legs. There was a curious little box on the floor beside it with wires running from it to the seat of the chair, and on closer inspection one perceived that there were metal clamps at the end of each wire, about a dozen in all. These clamps could be attached to the nipples or the vulva or the nostrils or the mouth or the ears, or, for that matter, to the hairs of the armpits, or the pubic hair, and when the lever on the box was pushed to the opposite direction, a charge of electricity would flow through the clamps into the victim's tortured flesh. The Spanish Fascists had used this during the Civil War back in 1939, and the French themselves, the allies, were to use it against the Algerians a decade later. For the erotic lure of sadism has no political conscience whatsoever.

Trudy and Eva stared about them, and Eva began to cry, bowing her head and panting, “Oh God, oh God, have mercy, we're just girls, we don't know anything about politics or the war, you've got to believe us!”

“Anyone could say that before getting down to brass tacks, my lovely golden-haired Gattin,” the Oberst jeered. He now transferred the riding crop to his left hand and the leather gloves under his left armpit so that he might have his right hand free to caress Eva's succulent, ripely rounded, quivering buttocks through the thin cotton panties which seemed to shape out those luscious globes like a second skin. Eva caught her breath and whimpered, lifting her face towards the ceiling and dragging on her handcuffed wrists. “You don't like to be touched, Eva? That boyfriend of yours—what's his name, Katzmire?”

“Erich Luvrow, Excellenz!” the sergeant promptly replied.

“Oh yes, thank you, Katzmire. Well now, Eva, doesn't our boyfriend Erich like to pinch and squeeze and feel your big juicy Arsch? Because you really do have exceptionally tasty Hinterbocken, you know. Oh yes, I quite forgot to tell you. He's in the room directly ahead of you, and he can hear our little conversation.”

“Begging Your Excellency's pardon,” Sergeant Katzmire broke in, “but he can't really hear. There isn't any arrangement for that. But of course I did tell him that his girlfriend is going to have a nice little friendly meeting with Your Excellency just on the other side of the wall of his cell. I know he's thinking about it, mein Oberst.”

“That was thoughtful of you, Katzmire, to let the poor boy know how his little golden-haired Schatz is coming up in the world. This morning a university student, this afternoon invited by the Berlin Chief of the Gestapo himself to converse with him.”

“You mean that Professor Nordheim is suspected of doing something wrong against the Vaterland?” Trudy Heinzelman exclaimed.

“That's right, Liebchen.” The Oberst grinned at her, gave Eva Jung's pantie-sheathed plump bottom an affectionate little pat which made the golden-haired girl cringe and close her eyes, then moved back to his left to study the beautifully graceful, lithe, slim body of the attractive young brunette before him. “And right now, from the way he's keeping out of our clutches, I'd say that Professor of yours has really got something to hide. An honest man would be at home or in his classroom. Now look, this isn't a tea party, young ladies. I think you can see from what's in this room that our way of entertaining our guests isn't all gentle and sweet. We aren't going to recite poetry and pass around cups of tea, not likely. You two girls were in class when this Professor Nordheim made a disparaging remark about the war effort and the Fuhrer himself, weren't you?”

Trudy glanced quickly at Eva, whose blue eyes were filled with tears and who had begun to tremble again. “I never heard him say one word of treason, that's what,” she stoutly declared.

The fat, Oberst stared at her a long moment without a word. Then he drew back his right hand and brutally slapped her across the mouth, rocking her head back and drawing a stifled cry of pain from the courageous sweetheart of the murdered Max Dornburg.

“Let that be a lesson to you, Trudylein, to keep a civil tongue in your head. I have the rank of Kolonel in the Gestapo, and I don't take kindly to insolent little bitches like you insulting what we're doing to keep Germany clear of traitors and swing!” the fat Oberst hissed. “Sergeant, do you have any children at home?”

“Unfortunately not, Excellenz. But if I did, I'd use the strap on them if they weren't respectful, begging your pardon, sir.”

“Now that's a very fine suggestion. I think these two young ladies wouldn't be any worse for a little strapping on their bare Hinterbocken, because it might convince them that we mean business. Willi, Manfred, get them ready for it.”

The two Nazi privates, their eyes glittering with delight, sprang towards the two helpless young victims at the triangle, and a moment later Trudy tried to jerk away, dragging at her handcuffed wrists, as with a cry of intolerable shame she announced her nakedness. Willi Murtens had ripped away the cami-knickers, exposing her boyishly slim figure naked save for stockings and the elastic garters which held them up, and her pumps. Oberst Mueller's piggish little eyes squinted greedily at the surprisingly thick, almost shaggy black muff between her straggled thighs. He licked his lips with anticipation. This little bitch had an exciting figure, though her tits were rather small. But she had a springy Arsch and lovely long nervously muscled legs which would certainly wriggle and squirm about when they felt the kisses of a good strapping.

But Eva Jung was by far even more mouthwateringly desirable to him than Helga Nordheim had been. The weeping golden-haired girl bowed her head in mortification, as Manfred Strobel ripped off the cotton panties and left her there in her bra and stockings and pumps. The voluptuous rotundities of her carnation-tinted bottom contracted, accentuating all their resilient plumpness, but that plumpness was deceptive for the agile muscles and the velvety flesh in those almost opulently rounded hillocks bespoke a fascinating firmness and jounciness.

“Now there's an Arsch you boys can really work on,” he exulted. “I tell you what, Willi, Manfred. Give them each about twenty good Schlagen with the strap. It will be amusing to see how they press themselves together when they feel it begin to bite their bare bottoms.”

“Indeed it will, Excellenz,” the sergeant spoke up with a lewd wink and a quick salute towards his superior officer, “With all due respect, it'll be as if we were watching girls that sleep with one another, if you know what I mean, sir.”

“I do indeed, Katzmire,” the Gestapo chief returned the wink as a fellow man of the world for whom rank meant very little when he was among such gutne Knaben as these three. “Lay the strap on heavily, boys, so that we can watch to see if maybe they don't have a taste for that naughty little game the sergeant was talking about.”

He tucked his gloves into the pocket of his uniform trousers, grasped his riding crop with both hands, straddled his legs and stared with hungry anticipation at this exciting and perverse spectacle. Trudy and Eva had closed their eyes and lifted up their faces, stiffening their bodies as they heard their sentence pronounced. The two Nazi privates had gone to the panolopy on the wall opposite from them and taken down two black leather straps about four feet long, a quarter of an inch thick, two inches wide and cut at the last six inches into three narrow strips, not unlike the famous Scotch tawse. When they took their places behind the condemned half-naked young women, it was seen that Willi Murtens had selected Eva's magnificently ripe bottom for the demonstration of his flagellatory ability, while the tall, angular Strobel announced himself as quite satisfied with the compact, tightly set quivering bottom of the courageous brunette whose fiance had been murdered by Sergeant Ludwig Katzmire.

As the two torturers drew back their straps, Trudy quickly whispered to the trembling Eva, “For God's sake, be brave. It's better to die this way than to break down and tell those monsters anything. Remember that, Eva!”

“Yes, yes, I know, but I'm so afraid, I— EEEEOWWWW!!!” The whispered reply of the beautiful golden-haired captive suddenly broke off as Willi Murtens' strap bit with a sonorous crack across the ripest curves of both naked bottom-globes. Her body lunged convulsively forward, her head fell back, and her mouth gaped in a wildly strident cry of suffering. On the pale carnation epidermis of her voluptuous young behind, the strap had left an almost obscenely glistening crimson band. With expert skill, the beetle-browed torturer had dealt her a blow without using the three “fingers” at the end. He was reserving these for later in the thrashing.

Manfred Strobel waited just a moment until after his comrade's implement of fustigation had attacked poor Eva before sweeping his strap across the base of Trudy Heinzelman's charmingly boyish posterior. Trudy sucked in her breath noisily, her eyelids fluttered violently and disclosed her dilated eyes blurred with tears, but only a stifled gasp was heard as testimonial to her suffering. Nonetheless, she could not control the sudden forward lurch of her almost naked lithe young body, and her thick shaggy black pussyfleece merged with the dark blonde muff of Eva Jung's cunt.

“Not too quickly, boys,” the Gestapo leader anxiously instructed his two subordinates, “I want them to feel every good stroke. Willi, you lucky dog, you seem to have more terrain to work on than your companion. Let's see what a skillful designer you are on such a broad and plump Arsch!”

Sergeant Ludwig Katzmire watched, his hands clasped behind his back. He licked his lips, envious of his two companions at arms; he would have given a week's pay to have been able to wield one of those straps. But the sight of these two almost naked bitches with their arms drawn high above their heads and their legs spread a good yard, jerking together under the strap, squirming around and rubbing pussies made his prick swell with a new urgency which even his buggering of Helga Nordheim hadn't been able to alleviate.

Oberst Mueller lit another cigar, his eyes greedily following the duel flogging. His two “boys” knew his taste well enough by now not to hurry the thrashing. The strap fell but at erratic intervals, sometimes with as much as half a minute between strokes, or again a flurry of two almost successive lashes followed by an even longer pause. This was done purposely to weaken the nervous systems and the resistance or the victims, particularly when they were women. Trudy Heinzelman endured her thrashing with magnificent stoicism, a stoicism which angered Manfred Strobel. After a dozen blows of the strap which he had concentrated across the upper summits and the base of her compact bottom, she had not once cried out aloud, though the hoarse gasps and convulsive jerkings of her body told of her suffering.

But with Eva Jung, whose sensitivity was apparently greater and whose courage was far less, it was a different story. The grinning Willi Murtens had begun to use the “finger” of the black leather strap as he whipped the golden-haired beauty. After ten lashes, she was in tears and turning her face back to entreat mercy from her torturer. The last two lashes, especially, had hurt atrociously; he had stepped farther over to the left, swung out the strap so that the fingers disappeared right into the shadowy cleft between those plump arse-cheeks of hers.

Sobbing hysterically, twisting about uncontrollably, Eva Jung had unconsciously begun to rub her pussy against Trudy's, in perhaps a subconscious attempt at distracting herself from the blazing heat that was martyrizing her naked bottom.

“Well, look at that now, Katzmire!” the Gestapo chief chuckled. “Just as you predicted, hein? That blonde little bitch is getting awfully itchy between her legs, I'd say, wouldn't you, Katzmire?”

“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!”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

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.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

While Sergeant Katzmire and the two secret agents had been arresting Kathy Flichtsen at her house, Oberst Mueller and his two subordinates had been amusing themselves with Trudy Heinzelman and Eva Jung.

Lovely golden-haired Eva who had found strapping so agonizing that she could not retain her stoicism, had gained very little by her betrayal of Kathy—though actually it had really not been a betrayal at all, since the sadistic Gestapo officer had put two and two together after learning that Kathy's father owned a printing press and possibly still had it.

But having been so successful with so mild a persuasive argument, and inflamed by the voluptuously ripe beauty of the golden-haired victim, he had himself ripped off her brassiere and left her naked except for stockings, garters and pumps, and then had libidinously commanded, “Now then, you little whore, you're to amuse us while we're waiting for your girlfriend Kathy, you understand me? Unless you want Manfred to use the strap on your backside again, you're going to rub yourself against little Trudy there until either of you comes. Do you know what I mean by that?”

“Oh please, for the love of God, oh no, don't make me do such a shameful thing,” Eva Jung had pleaded.

“Don't give me this little modest act of yours, you Hure!” the Oberst sneered. “I'm quite sure that neither of you has any right to the respect we good Aryans give a virgin. Boys, find out for me, why don't you right now?”

“With the greatest pleasure, Excellenz,” Willi Murtens gloated. Stepping up behind poor Trudy, he lowered his right forefinger and brought it up between her buttocks, playfully jabbing in the very narrow crease between those compact, jouncy creamy cheeks of hers, already violently striped with the angry red bands left by the black strap. Trudy uttered a cry of indignation, twisting herself, glancing round, her eyes flashing with loathing and shame at this Nazi brute. But gyved as she was to the triangle, she could not escape, and after goosing her several times, the beetle-browed private drew his finger away, only to reach between her thighs and up into the thick black curls which covered her vulva. “Noooo!!! you filthy swine, you beast, you brute!” Trudy cried shrilly as she twisted and jerked herself, dragging at her shackled wrists with all her strength. But Willi's finger had penetrated the thick silky down, probed between the palpitating soft pink petals of her cunthole, and inserted itself inside the vaginal sheath. “She's no virgin, mein Oberst!” he proclaimed. His colleague had meanwhile, gone behind the weeping golden-haired Eva, inserted his right forefinger in the fissure between the young woman's seriously streaked bare buttocks, and after goosing her playfully several times, made the same test. And with the same result: his finger is furrowed to the hilt inside her quaking cunt, and he too informed the Gestapo chief that Eva Jung had no tactual evidence of maidenhood.

“Just as I thought,” the fat Gestapo officer jeered. “It's always the little whores who are sleeping around with their boyfriends who by some trick or another have kept out of the Army, who are the holiest! Just lay a finger on them, and they shriek that they're the purest of maidens! Bah, what nonsense! Well, girls, since you're not maidens and therefore don't deserve our gentlemanly respect, you're going to do exactly as we say, or we'll find ways of persuading you. Manfred, give Eva's big Arsch a few good hard smacks with your hand, just to remind her what it's like.”

The grinning Nazi soldier immediately complied, and his right palm crashed four stinging times against the ripest curves of Eva's bare, welted buttocks. Her plaintive cries and sobs excited all three men, as she wriggled her hips and jerked her body convulsively.

“That's very good. Now then Eva, go on. Do what I told you to. Next time, Manfred will use one of those whips on the wall, the kind which will tear your skin to shreds. Such nice skin, too, just like a fresh carnation. I wonder if your boyfriend is remembering what it looks like when you strip naked for him before he fucks you, Fraulein Eva.”

Eva Jung turned her tear brimming eyes to the wall on which the hideous array of flagellatory instruments hung, and shuddered. She could not bare pain, and her bottom already was hurting her terribly. That was why, when the Gestapo officer again commanded her to rub her cunt against Trudy's she closed her eyes and submissively began that lascivious and suggestive movement of her voluptuous naked body which ground her loins against her partner's.

“Before you both get too enthusiastic, my dears,” Oberst Mueller sniggered, “I think I ought to put some sort of prize on this little contest. The girl who comes first will be spared a flogging. And then I myself will honor her with a good fucking, just so that she doesn't think that in wartime a pretty girl has to work her feelings off in this filthy way. But the loser, the one who doesn't come, she'll get “a good sound thrashing and then my boys here will stick their cocks inside her Arsch understood? Go to it, you dirty little sluts!”

To emphasize the diabolical threat he had just made, the Gestapo chief himself walked to the wall, reached up and took down a cat of nine tails made of supple brown leather, the tips of whose thongs ended in arrowhead-like points. He swished this through the air several times, so that both girls could not help seeing it, and Eva gave a sobbing little cry and frantically began to grind her cunt against poor Trudy's.

The three sadistic torturers gloated at the sight of these two lovely young university students bound to the triangle facing each other and forced out of their repugnance over the odious conditions he had imposed, to perform this lubricious and inverted act.

As the Oberst had suspected, it was Eva Jung who first began to experience sexual gratification from this coerced friction, because of her own terror, and because the threshold of her sensitivity had been keenly exacerbated by the strapping inflicted on her bottom. So after a few moments, it was seen that her head fell back, her eyes closing, and her lips parted to emit feverish gasps, and that the muscles of her calves and thighs rippled and flexed and jerked almost uncontrollably as her hips began to rotate more and more quickly.

Trudy Heinzelman had closed her eyes and bitten her lips, submitting herself passively to her friend's frantic Venus-veneration, and she prayed for a quick death. And then suddenly she heard Eva utter a sobbing groan, and felt the golden-haired young woman fuse her body in a long and violent and straining cohesion, and then she felt the seeping moisture of Eva's lovecream against her own quivering cunt.

Eva was therefore pronounced the “winner” of this heartless game, and at the officer's order, the two privates unshackled her from the triangle, only to turn her around to face the Oberst and then again gyved her wrists and ankles into the metal cups. Now, straddled, panting, her face crimson with shame, her head bowed, her magnificent ripe titties rising and falling turbulently, she was offered to him as he unbuckled his trousers and let them down, he then drew his swollen prick out of his shorts and, stepping up to her, greedily squeezed her titties with his fat fingers as he prodded with his cockhead for the moist matted curls of her cuntfleece. Slowly, holding his breath with ecstasy at the tantalizing warmth and quivering of that exquisite nook, Oberst Friedrich Mueller slowly pressed his prick home to the roots inside Eva Jung's churning cunthole.

The two privates now seized those cruel black straps whose ends were cut into three tapering “fingers.” Each stationing himself to one side of Trudy Heinzelman, and at a given signal, the two men began to flog her and already vividly streaked creamy buttocks with the black leather bands, using the terrible biting tips of the straps to flick against the edges of the bottomglobes, or, at times, against the extremely narrow shadowy groove which separated her boyishly compact posterior globes.

And even Trudy's courage could not withstand this double flogging, so after about a dozen of such lashes, she began to cry out and to jerk and twist. These maneuvers naturally rubbed her cunt against Eva's whipstreaked and swollen bare bottom, and her lunges and squirmings under the lashing forced the sobbing Eva to arch herself out at the rutting Nazi satyr who was fucking her with furious digs while his fingers pitilessly pinched and tweaked and kneaded her titties.

But Trudy's cries were as nothing when, tiring of whipping her, the two soldiers cast away the straps and prepared to sodomize her. Willi Murtens was first with her. Avidly digging his fingers into the quaking, jouncy cheeks of her well-flogged bottom, he gaped them apart to expose the dainty thin-lipped orifice of her virgin asshole, and then a despairing shriek rang out as Trudy stiffened and jerked to feel the hideous distension of that phallic weapon within her narrow and hitherto unprofaned bottomhole.

Manfred Strobel followed his companion, and again Trudy's cries grew desperate and hysterical in the torment of this brutal frictional assault upon that most intimate and tenderest spot in all her live young body.

When it was done, the Oberst hitched up his trousers, and passed out cigars to his two “boys” urging them to take a little rest until Sergeant Katzmire could return with Kathy Flichtsen....

By the time all three men had finished their cigars, Sergeant Lulwig Katzmire knocked at the door of the interrogation cell and was admitted by Willi Murtens. He entered, leading Kathy by the wrist, and shoved her forward into the chamber. “Look what I found,” he exultantly announced. “Look at her getup, too. Just like a man, I guess maybe she was going to try to sneak away.”

“Well, young lady, I've been wanting to meet you for quite some time,” the Oberst drawled. He walked over to her, not bothering to button his fly, and Kathy shuddered as she stood facing him in her sweater, trousers and workman's shoes. “So you're the one who's giving Professor Kurt Nordheim that nice pussy so that he ignores his darling little wife, nicht wahr?

“I—I don't know what you mean.”

“You know well enough, you lying little whore!” His hand flashed through the air and crashed against her cheek, making Kathy Flichtsen stumble back with a cry of pain. “I'm going to give you a rough treatment right from the start, because I think you've got the answer to this nasty little business of the newspaper that dares to insult our beloved Leader. All right, boys and you, too Katzmire, strip her stark naked and put her in the electric chair. Tie her down nicely, just enough to hold her but let her have a little freedom. I want to see her wriggle when she feels the juice going through her. Maybe if we find the right spots, we'll make her wriggle as much as she does when she fucks with the Herr Professor, hein?”

Kathy cried out and tried to run to the door, but the three Nazis caught her and dragged her back towards the solid chair. In a few moments she writhed between them, naked as the day she was born, her long brown braids dancing in the air as she twisted this way and that trying to free herself. They forced her down to the chair, bound her wrists and elbows along the arms, tied her ankles tightly to the front legs, passed a rope around her waist and the back of the chair, and then the Oberst himself approached, picked up one of the electrode clamps, and while Sergeant Katzmire stood behind the chair and seized both her braids in his hands and yanked them so as to tilt her head far back, the Oberst made the clamp fast to her left nipple. He held the bare wire which directed the current into that clamp close to it and then nodded to Willi Murtens, who squatted down by the black box on the floor.

With a salacious chuckle, the private pushed the lever forward. Kathy Flichtsen arched from the chair, and her head lunged forward even though her braids were still gripped tightly. Her eyes bulged in their sockets, her mouth gaped until they could almost see her palate, and a hideous gurgling shriek tore from her. In the room there rose the smell of burning flesh... and the adorable dark coral bud of her nipple became black and swollen.

The Gestapo chief moved the live wire away from the clamp. The current was still humming, so that all he had to do to repeat the dose was to touch that wire to the clamp which still pinched the unfortunate young woman's nipple so viciously. “Now you'd better talk and talk fast, because the next clamp I put on you is going to be right where Professor Nordheim puts his prick, verstehe? We know all about the printing press your father had. And I'll bet he's still got it. Is that true?”

“I—I—I don't know what you're talking about —oh please no—oh my God—take it away— UUUUEEEOWWWARPvRHHH!!!!!”

Once again the live wire touched the clamp fixed into Kathy's nipple, and once again her naked body fought her bonds, straining and jerking, the muscles of her calves and thighs and shoulders and arms standing out against the sweating skin. Once again there was the hideous stench of burning human flesh, and the already swollen and blackened nipple, seemed to double in its exaggerated size. Foam appeared on her mouth, and her eyes were mad with suffering.

He lowered the five wire at last. “Well? Tell you what, I'm going to use both at once. Hand me that clamp nearest you, Manfred. I'm going to put it on that little kootezle of hers.”

“Oh no! I'll tell! I'll tell you everything! Only put that horrid thing away! I'm going to die, it hurts me so! I'll talk, yes, yes, there is a printing press in my father's house... and it's used... and it's used?”

“Don't tell him, don't tell the swine,” Trudy Heinzleman shrieked from her triangle.

“Don't listen to her, Kathy,” the Oberst snarled. “It's all very well to be noble and brave, but if I send this voltage through your cunt and your nipple again, and at the same time, I don't think the Professor will want to fuck you anymore. I think it will all be burned out of you. Pass me that clamp, men—”

“Oh no, wait, wait, please, oh dear God, not again—no more—yes, they print the newspaper on it—I'll tell you, only let me go, let me go!”

Kathy Flichtsen bowed her head and burst into hysterical sobs. With a satisfied grin, the fat Gestapo chief rose. The lever was shoved back, the clamp was removed from the tortured, blackened, swollen nipple. “That's a good girl,” he purred. “We'll come back to you a little later. You're a very juicy piece of cunt, and I would have hated to have spoiled that soft pink little hole of yours with electricity. Now perhaps Trudy and Eva can supply us with a few more details.”

* * *

Professor Kurt Nordheim got into his car and drove to the gray building which housed Gestapo headquarters in Berlin. His heart was pounding, and he felt as if he were going to faint. But he forced himself to carry out this mission, because otherwise there would be nothing. If they killed Helga, all the heart would be taken out of him. And besides he had to do what he could to save the other girls, even selfish, lustful Kathy.

He parked the car at the curb, walked calmly up the steps, answered the salutes which the soldiers guarding the steps at the sight of his captain's uniform, and walked on into the hallway. He went up to the desk of the lieutenant of admissions, thrust his hand into his lapel pocket and produced the document bearing the forged signature of Heinrich Himmler.

“Yes, Herr Hauptmann! The young lieutenant stammered, rising and saluting again. “What am I to do for you?”

“At once, it is the order of a Deputy Minister that the prisoners Helga Nordheim and the students who have been arrested in connection with this woman be delivered into my custody at once. I am to take them to Herr Himmler's office in the Reich Stag at once!”

“Zu befehl, Herr Hauptmann!” the young lieutenant nodded. “I'll take you downstairs. That's where they are. Oberst Mueller is questioning them now, I believe.”

Professor Kurt Nordheim kept an arrogant sneer on his face and walked with the stiffness of a true Nazi officer. He prayed for strength to carry out this imposter's role. If it failed, he'd die, but that didn't mean anything; the worst would be that they'd kill Helga. This was the only outside chance of saving her, but he had to take it or he wouldn't think himself much of a man. There were times when even an intellectual had to use violence against evil, which thrived on violence and perhaps could be destroyed only by its own weapons.

The young lieutenant paused before the door of the interrogation cell in which Helga Nordheim lay bound and naked on her torture table. “It's in here, Herr Hauptmann. Either that or the one to the left. Do you need me?”

“Not at all, Lieutenant. My car is at the curb in front of the stairway. You will see that it is cleared for an immediate departure to the office of the Deputy Minister!”

“This moment, Herr Hauptman,” the young lieutenant snapped a salute then hurried back up the stairs.

Drawing a deep breath, Professor Kurt Nordheim opened the door of the interrogation cell and uttered a choking groan. His wife lay there, her head turned to one side, and only the slight movement of her naked breasts showed that she was still alive. He strode to the table, cut her bonds and lifted her down. Her head lolled against his shoulder as he whispered hoarsely, “Helga, it's I, Kurt! Hurry, Liebchen, there isn't much time! Oh those filthy swine!”

Slowly her eyelids fluttered, and then she recognized him, and was about to cry out when he put his hand over her mouth and shook his head. “No, no, darling! Quickly, try to put on your dress if nothing else, and your shoes. Hurry, I'll help you.”

With his left arm around her waist, the naked flaxen-haired matron stumbled towards her discarded clothes, and Professor Kurt Nordheim quickly picked up the dress and drew it over her head, and squatted down and tenderly eased her bare feet into her pumps. Then he led her to the door, opened it, saw that there was no one down the corridor, and whispered, “Stay there, I'm going to get the others. Say a prayer for me. Darling—if things go wrong, I—I'll save one of these bullets for you so they won't torture anymore!”

She leaned against the wall, trembling fearfully in aftermath of this ordeal. Her lips moved in prayer as he tiptoed down the corridor to the next door. Slowly he turned the knob, the Luger in his right hand and entered.

The Oberst, the two privates and the Sergeant were enjoying their naked victims. They had not expected any interruptions, and so they had cast aside all difference of rank or purpose, indeed, of the interrogation. Sergeant Katzmire was kneeling on the floor, with the weeping and hysterical Kathy kneeling between him and Willi Murtens, whom she faced, sandwiched between the two men, she was being sodomized by the sergeant while Willi Murtens fucked her, the two men shouting encouragement to each other.

Near the triangle, Manfred Strobel lay atop of Trudy, vigorously fucking her, while her face twisted to one side she futilely pushed at his face with her slim hands. And beside this rutting couple, the fat Oberst was mounted over the half fainting Eva Jung.

“What the devil—Hilfe—” Sergeant Katzmire to the left of the door and facing it, was the first to see Professor Kurt Nordheim. He dragged his prick out of Kathy's tortured rectum, and staggered to his feet. The Professor aimed and shot him through the heart. At the sound of the explosion, the Oberst uttered a cry and twisted his head round to stare with incredulity at the unexpected intruder. Then with a vile oath, he dragged himself up from Eva's prone sprawled body, his prick still stiff and bobbing, as he plunged his right hand towards the holster strapped to his belt. He did not reach it. A second time the Luger roared and jumped in the Professor's hand and the fat Gestapo chief uttered a gurgling cry and pitched forward onto the stone floor.

Very calmly Professor Kurt Nordheim shot Manfred Strobel through the back of the head and then despatched Willi Murtens who was running towards him.

“Be quick, girls,” he cried. “Get your dresses on and come with me. I've got a car outside, and an order signed by Himmler himself which ought to pass us through these filthy beasts!”

The three naked young women burst into tears, but it was Trudy who perhaps had suffered most because of the murder of her fiance, who urged them not to waste time in lamentations or exclamations of thanksgiving because they weren't saved yet. She put on her dress and thrust her feet into her pumps, and then aided the sobbing golden-haired Eva to cloth her nakedness. Kathy, feverish with the pain of her scorched nipple, fumbled with the corduroy trousers, and Professor Kurt Nordheim hurried to aid her.

They came out into the hall where Helga waited, and then Professor Nordheim whispered, “Now then I'll have my gun drawn, and the four of you march ahead of me by twos. Look downcast, and it won't hurt to cry a little, and I'll see if the bluff doesn't work.”

Up the stairs they went, and out past the young Lieutenant who saluted again. “Your car's waiting, Hen Hauptmann. I'll telephone the deputy Minister's office that you're on the way with the prisoners,” he exclaimed.

“Excellent, Lieutenant! I'll commend you personally to the Deputy Minister himself,” Professor Nordheim said coldly.

Down the stone steps and to the car was like an eternity. He wanted to run, but he knew he didn't dare. Several noncommissioned officers hurried up the steps, saluted him, glancing curiously at the four women. He barked out, “Come on you bitches, scum like you don't keep the Deputy Minister waiting! You'll get the Peitche good and hard if you make him wait a minute, you filthy Dirnen!”

They were in the car, and he got under the wheel. He started up the engine, and thank God it responded at once.

As he pulled away from the curb, the corporal came running out. Someone had heard the shots and wondered what was going on. And then they'd investigated and found the four dead men in the interrogation chambers.

A private on the steps lowered his rifle, knelt down, took careful aim at the back of the car which was gathering speed in the murky twilight. He fired a shot, and Kathy Flichtsen uttered a sobbing little cry and then slumped forward between Eva and Trudy.

Then the car disappeared down the next street, and the slaves of the swastika, those frail creatures whose beauty had inflamed the brutal lust of the sadistic master of the Gestapo had at last found freedom....

We cannot know what happened to them all, except, of course that Kathy died from the bullet in her back. We know only that within a few more months Hitler's mad empire crumbled and he himself died of a self-inflicted bullet in a bunker under the streets of Berlin.

But history does append this final note. Two years after the submission of Hitler to the Allies, in a peaceful little village in Bavaria, a new weekly newspaper of commentary upon the new Germany sprang into being. And it was named Till Eulenspiegel.

THE END