Slaves of the Swastika (12 page)

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.

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.

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.”