Chapter 4

Whipped Cream

Simone awoke to the touch of soft fingers stroking her forehead. She opened her eyes to see the face of another woman, not unfriendly, who bent over Simone with a bit of brown paper, wiping away the dirt and sweat from Simone's body.

Seeing that Simone was awake, she placed a soft gentle kiss on Simone's forehead. "I am Deborah Weiss."

Simone saw that the dark-haired woman was pale, slender to the point of being thin, but very beautiful. The almost, papery whiteness of Deborah's flesh contrasted strikingly with her shoulder-length jet black hair, and gave her an appearance of being extremely fragile, perhaps almost translucent.

Simone looked at the rising and falling motion of Deborah's breasts beneath the wrinkled grey prisoner's shirt, and had an almost overwhelming desire to reach out and touch the woman there.

Deborah, apparently detecting the stiff movement of Simone's hand, placed her hand over Simone's and whispered, "Don't do anything but rest, my dear. It will be all right."

"What will they do to me?" Simone rasped in a voice hoarse from screaming.

"You are fortunate. You are blonde. You will undoubtedly become the Hauptmann's favorite. It is seldom they take prisoners other than Jews, unless they are so old they are not fit for the Bordello."

"You mean they keep a brothel here? In the prison?" Simone asked incredulously.

"It is not only that prisoners are available and expendable afterwards," Deborah said, "it is also because we are in the heart of Berlin. On the front soldiers can fraternize with the liberated peoples, but here at home it would not do to have the soldiers soiling the Reich's image by appearing before civilian courts on rape charges. That is one thing about the Nazis, they protect their women," Deborah said with a sneer.

"Why are you here?" Simone asked.

"My brother deserted from the army. Sturmabteilung came to my house, searched it, and arrested me. After they questioned me politely, they found records that my grandmother was a Jew. So I was detained, my property confiscated. The Hauptmann took a fancy to me, and so I was not sent to a concentration camp."

Simone told Deborah briefly about herself and the Belgian Students Union.

"Oh, you didn't tell them about the others yet?" Deborah asked.

Simone shook her head.

"You must. You don't know what it's like here. They can mutilate you until life wouldn't be worth living," Deborah said frantically.

"But I don't, know anyone except my contact." Simone lied.

"He was your lover and you won't betray him," Deborah said knowingly. "Oh, for the number of times I've heard that. Listen. You are a beautiful blonde girl. You can serve the jailers until this war is over and begin a new life. That's what I intend to do. If they asked me to betray my own mother, I'd do it to survive."

Deborah must have noticed the look of disdain on Simone's face, for she continued, "You've been here only one day. You have no idea what does go on here. Do you know what they do to you after they're through ripping you apart? They make soap out of you."

Simone objected acidly to Deborah's dramatic callousness.

"What's so strange? Soap? That's all we are to the Glorious Third Reich. So much raw material that could be used in whichever way would best serve the New Order. Soap. If you can't fuck them any longer then you should serve the Fatherland in another way. Ever wonder how any race could think of land as its father?"

Simone made no response then, but wondered silently how anyone like Deborah could be so spineless as to serve her captors in the Bordello.

Sensing Simone's attitude toward her, Deborah said self-righteously. "And you, my little Aryan princess. You're too good for this, you are thinking. You, the little blonde who played weekend warrior in the underground. Have you never sung the Horst Wessel Lied? Never Deutschland Uber Alles? Have you never slept with a Nazi officer? Never greeted someone 'Seig Heil?' "

Simone put her face down, looking toward the floor. Perhaps she was being too critical of her cellmate. Simone recalled her student friends, most of them Nazis. Drunk. Singing anything that would rouse their wobbly bodies to action. Stimulation if you were drunk and had to go home in the snow or even to the John. Good music to take a leak by. Especially if the room is rocking like a boat and you have to keep the beat or fall on your face and wet the floor.

But still, doing what she had done, and doing what Deborah was promoting, were two very different things, Simone decided. When the guards came for Simone later in the day, she was firm in her determination not to implicate anyone from the Belgian Students Union. And she was too proud, too angry, to seek a merciful alternative in the Bordello.

Naked, Simone was taken to a room where she was thrown to the floor. She looked up to see the Hauptmann looking down at her. His heavy jackboots shone in the light of the single electric lightbulb above his head, which cast a halo around his curly blond hair. The three diamonds of his rank coruscated grandly on his collar.

"You will tell me about your underground comrades, you understand? Good. Names, please." He prodded her naked ribs with his boot.

"I don't know any thing," Simone retorted, a little too firmly, she thought while she spoke.

As she feared, the Hauptmann interpreted her firmness of voice as insubordination, and kicked her shapely large tit. "Swine! Pig!" he yelled at her. His voice was naturally bassy, and when he raised his voice in anger it seemed even deeper and more commanding.

Suddenly her side ached with pain. The Hauptmann had produced a whip which was coming down across her exposed ribs. She felt the stinging lash across her chest and saw that it raised an instant angry welt.

Simone howled like a banshee and rolled away from the lash, her movement exposing her vulnerable cunt. Too late, she tried to bring her knees together. The boot slammed cruelly into her groin and made her double over.

"Please, please, please stop."

Her entreaty was met with a barrage of kicks and stinging lashes. She crawled for the protection of a wall, then toward a corner. Having reached the corner under the continuing rain of blows she realized that she was trapped, with no hope of escape. She tried to scream out the name of Alex-the name of a professor-anybody's name at all, anybody's, but was unable to catch her breath.

"Uhhh, owww!" she begged beneath the toe and heel of the jackboot and the striking slashes of the whip that found every available surface of her skin.

She groveled, trying to hide her face, and found that this only succeeded in revealing her buttocks. She was aware of the blood mingled with the perspiration of her fear. Her cuts were bleeding now, the torn skin that was opened under the savage boot.

There seemed only one way to mitigate the torture.

She forgot her pride. She forgot everything but the pain. She finally managed to get out a few syllables. Names... anybody's name. She screamed. But the blows continued. There was no sign that he even heard. It was as if the Hauptmann was beating her for the pleasure of beating, rather than for the information. Like an animal roused by blood, he put more and more muscle behind the whip arm.

At first Simone was terrified by the whipping. After a while, the surprise and much of the terror dissipated and she was almost getting used to it. And, in the process she discovered not only that the agony was not as insufferable as it had been in the beginning, but that in a perverse way she was actually getting a kind of thrill from, it. It hurt, but not as much as at the start, because the blows were landing on skin already numbed by previous blows and bruised by the jackboot. The welts and cuts were anaesthetized by the searing pain, so that the additional fire of the stinging whip gave a thrill rather than a feeling of pain.

By contrast, the cold of the cement wall and floor gave her another sort of perverse pleasure. Kicks from the booted foot of the stately soldier struck her ribs and back, the cold salved her bruises. Since the first kick at her crotch, when it seemed that she would be forever paralyzed, the Hauptmann had seemingly taken care not to injure her private parts.

But the rest of her body bore the full brunt of the beating: Then he seemed to tire of kicking and instead placed the sole of his boot squarely beneath her. He kicked her backwards, so that she lay on her welt-swollen back. He placed his booted foot firmly on her chest between her breasts, with their unaccountably turgid nipples. She was his prisoner. His slave. To her utter humiliation, he was pressing her down onto the cold floor in order that she recognize that fact.

Simone thought she was experiencing a nightmare. Only in a dream could she experience such total surrender to another. Only in a nightmare could she consider such degradation acceptable and find any redemption in completely surrendering her will to a master.

With the cold cement at her back, she found that she was almost welcoming the less forceful strokes of the whip. His arm must be tiring, she guessed. Her one thought now was to prolong the period of her subjection-the pleasure, for she admitted now in a crazed unstable flash of insight, that she enjoyed what he was doing to her.

She knew now that she wanted to kiss that shiny boot that was pressing her down, to kiss the supreme majesty of that symbol of her insignificance, the shining leather symbol of man's mastery of a woman. She wanted to kiss the symbol and what it symbolized: the officer rightfully raining down blows upon an insubordinating twat of weak femininity.

But the masculine arm was noticeably tiring weakening under its task of subjugating her to his will. She squirmed, trying to stir the strength into his blows. Then she realized that the only way of overcoming the Hauptmann's weakness was to defy him.

Simone spit on his boot.

And she experienced the triumph.

Blows were striking: Cutting. The boot was bruising: Crushing out her air. The heavier the weight of the man's boot on her chest, the more she was suppressed, the more her senses delighted. Every lash thrilled her like a kiss; every blow like a thrust of cockmeat.

She was excited beyond belief, and could see that her nipples were long and red and her areola were puckered with yearning so strong, that she could not hope to control herself any longer. She was crying now with pleasure, sobbing from joy. The joy born of being the fine Hauptmann's slave. Entirely powerless. Humiliated beyond normal endurance. Experiencing a sensation that went to the limits of sensory experience itself.

Each new wound was a source of erotic delight. Her whole tender body was one enveloping erogenous zone. She could not feel any single extremity any longer; she was just a mass of searing nerve endings that dissolved in anonymous unity somewhere in her brain. Somewhere that brain was telling her that her open pussy was beginning to gush clear sticky fluids. Her viscera throbbed in the familiar yet heightened sensation of orgasm. Her master continued to bear down on her with renewed vigor as she climaxed, writhing obscenely, beneath his crushing boot. The orgasm was draining her, like a puddle of liquid, sapping her strength, her awareness. Simone was fainting, she knew, as she felt the unceasing blows on her aroused body. This! This was the way it was meant to be! The lowly subjugated to the ruler.

Simone awoke after her lapse of consciousness. She stirred and found her eyes swollen shut. The lids would not open. With an effort she managed to open one just a crack, sufficient to identify the cell she shared with Deborah. With the racking ache of her frame, Simone remembered the degradation to which she had succumbed.

Now the joy the had felt in the humiliation toward the end of her awareness no longer remained, and she could barely recall, and still less believe, how she could have thought the blows brought pleasure. She must have been completely crazy with the pain, Simone thought. Her mouth was dry, and she realized that her lips and face seemed swollen. She needed water. Simone concentrated first on moving her head. Her whole body was sore and stiff, and every muscle ached. Some hidden fear made her want to check her genitals for mutilation, and she gradually moved one hand down her bruised and welted body to her cunt. It seemed everything was all right, but her fingers were numb and so was her cunt. Everything was partially numb. It was hopeless; she would have to look at herself to be certain. She concentrated on opening both her eyes then.

She heard a whimper. She forced her eyes fully open to see the beautiful waxen beauty of Deborah leaning over her. Lying on the cot with Simone, Deborah let her tears fall on Simone's naked breast, where they persisted in stinging.

Simone put one weak hand forward to reassure her friend, but it fell limply on the brunette's breast where it could be felt beneath Deborah's shirt. Slowly, Simone recalled that her other hand was lying numbly on her own thigh, and moments later that had found the delicate, tender membrane that folded over her clitoris.

Simone was relieved that at least one part of her body retained feeling. Then Simone felt another finger stroking the inside of her thigh. It was Deborah, fascinatedly watching Simone's own fingers rolling her clitoris. Simone saw Deborah's breath quicken, and felt the sudden rise of Deborah's titbud beneath the shirt.

Simone could feel her own breath catch in her dry throat. Her cunt was wet though, and she could feel her legs twitching as if by themselves. Simone strummed her incredibly sensitive clit now.

Deborah was pulling her prison panties down to her knees, grabbing at Simone's wrist impatiently. Simone's hand was drawn to explore the space between her friend's slender columns of thighs. Simone inhaled the musk as her fingers were gripped by Deborah's spasming cunt. Those lips were moving as though controlled by invisible magnets. Deborah's pussy oozed copious syrup down Simone's hand, and Simone smeared the juices down into the hairy asscrack and across the smooth small asscheeks. The little ass was pumping furiously, expanding and contracting in an ever quickening rhythm,

"Oh, I'm going to cum if you don't stop that," Deborah whispered. "Here, let me do something for you." Deborah got up and stripped the prison panties the rest of the way off her legs. Then Deborah got on her knees, straddling Simone's supine figure, and put her lips to Simone's steaming inner cuntlips. Deborah searched with her tongue tip for the little stub of tissue that Simone had recently been pinching to full erection between her fingers. When Deborah located the tiny bud, she fastened her teeth tenderly and gnawed on it gently.

Simone writhed and twisted in ecstasy as Deborah laved the tiny erection, momentarily dipping that tongue down in Simone's honey-sweet sexhole. Deborah ran her sweating palms along the insides of Simone's thighs as her legs rocked gently to the rhythm. Deborah ran her tongue along the sides of the large hairy labia and around the smooth swellings of Simone's ass. Deborah's tongue paused at the entrance to the blonde's asshole, and Simone begged her in a soft whisper, "Do me there, honey... please."

Deborah probed the tight puckered opening with the tip of her tongue, spreading the welt-swollen legs even further apart in an attempt to gain entrance. Deborah held her tongue there for a time, while she reached up and eased Simone's legs backward against those cut and bruised breasts. Suddenly, the hole admitted Deborah's tongue, and Deborah skewered it in as deep as she could. Simone reacted with several spasms of impending climax, and Deborah rammed her nose hard into the crotch, rubbing the sore asscheeks, twisting them and gouging the lash marks on them. Deborah's chin was lodged tightly under Simone's pubic bone, and Simone involuntarily began pumping down wildly, thrashing her young hips about and squeezing her asscheeks in the throes of frenzied ecstasy. Deborah pistoned her tongue in and out of the little asshole with rapid strokes, and Simone began trembling with an overpowering orgasm. Simone's stiff and aching back arched up, curling high, so that she rested only on her torn neck, her swollen raw shoulder blades, and her flayed, bleeding shoulders. Simone's ass rotated nonetheless in big semicircles as she did something which she would have thought impossible before. In gratitude, Simone brought her face up to kiss Deborah's buttocks. Simone's tongue probed strangely and deeply into her friend's humid cunt.

Simone's tongue parted the greasy coral folds in torrid, demanding ways, coming to rest on the very point of Deborah's cunt. Simone greedily pulled Deborah's knees apart, spreading her legs farther and farther, exposing the brunette's lush membranes to the rasping file edge of her tongue. Simone's tongue went everywhere. It went in wide swaths across the outsides of Deborah's richly hair-crowned labia. It went around, and momentarily into, the orgasmically convulsing hole of Deborah's cunt. Simone placed one fingertip on the tight anal ring, and Deborah tried desperately to crawl away. But Simone, blind with the passion of her own impending orgasm, mercilessly drilled her finger through the ring of anal muscle guarding Deborah's rear entrance.

Simone's legs, which were weak and powerless from the Hauptmann's beating just a moment ago, now clamped around Deborah's head. Up and down, up and down, Simone's legs twitched in a futile effort to drive the brunette's head right up inside her pussy. Simone could feel her buttocks expanding and contracting at an ever increasing frequency.

Finally the rhythm exploded in a shower of sparks that left both women limp.

But the limpness lasted only a few hours.

The sex seemed to invigorate Simone, and. combined with the careful attention to her cuts and bruises which Deborah administered with cool water; Simone was up and about within three days. At least, it felt to Simone that three days had passed, as they had been served three meals of gruel. No one talked to the prisoners, and they were unable to see out of the brick walled cell with its steel door. But they would occasionally look up to see the round peephole of the door open while a matron watched them from the corridor.

Six or eight times a matron came for Deborah, and she was gone for up to an hour. Deborah would never talk to Simone about these interludes at the Bordello, however.

On the fourth day two matrons entered the cell and wordlessly took both women out. They went in different directions, and Simone's sudden realization that she was out of the familiar protection of her cell made her freeze with apprehension. Were they to be tortured? Gassed? One does not live in Germany without hearing rumors. Rumors somehow take on a different certitude when one is a prisoner without access to the outside world, Simone realized.

Simone was taken to a room where she was told to put on clothes which rested on a wooden table. Slightly sweat-stained and soiled, as though worn by someone before her, there were sheer black nylons, bra, and panties. They were a good, but not perfect fit. When she had finished dressing, she was wearing a black dress with a tiny pink floral print. It was sleeveless, with a low neckline. The material was gathered in front from neckline to midriff, and had a little bow behind at the waist. The dress hung to just below the knees m the current fashion.

There was no mirror, but Simone knew that she looked good. Was this her introduction to the Bordello? She doubted it. Was this how she would be handled? Had she indeed convinced them that she knew nothing about the underground? Was she to be released?

The Hauptmann entered the room a short while later and handed her a whip. "Come," he said briskly. Don't waste my time standing around and gawking."

He led her to another room where Deborah, now nude, lay shuddering in painful spasms beneath the whip of a matron. "Oh!" Simone yelled "Stop! Don't you see you're hurting her?"

The matron turned at the admonition and raised her whip as if to strike Simone. But on some signal from the Hauptmann the matron turned and left the room.

Deborah lay cowering, her back bloody and flayed from the whipping. She turned to look up at Simone, and the eyes bore none of their former friendliness. The eyes were frightened, contemptuous, pleading all at once, and it made Simone bend to touch her in sympathy.

A word from the Hauptmann, now Simone's master, was all that stopped Simone.

"Get her up," the Hauptmann grunted.

"Here," Simone urged Deborah, holding out her hands to the naked brunette.

"No'" thundered the Nazi. "That's why you were given a whip!"

Simone turned to took at the officer in disbelief.

"I don't want to have to use my whip on your pretty face again. Now do it," the Hauptmann ordered.

Simone could see no alternative as the Nazi flicked the end of his whip tentatively into the palm of his hand. It was either beat Deborah, or be beaten. Simone certainly did not want to suffer another beating. On the other hand, she had only one person now that she could turn to for solace, and that was Deborah.

"Your alternative," the Hauptmann reminded Simone, "is to tell me all you know about the Belgian Students Union. If you do that, we can all sit down together and be civil, you understand?" The Nazi smirked.

A tear rolled down Simone's cheek. A large, hot tear. It was impossible to make such a choice. If she betrayed even one of her underground contacts, the Hauptmann would demand more information from her. Eventually, she might tell all she knew but they would still want more names. It would come back to the same standoff eventually. Simone was trapped. In the meantime everything was being done that was humanly possible to strip Simone of her dignity and self-respect. The Hauptmann was softening her, Simone realized, for the acquiescence; for the final betrayal of all that Simone held dear and sacred. But what was it that Deborah had told her? That Deborah would betray her own mother if it enabled her to survive to the end of the war? The only thing that mattered was that, survival. On the Nazi's terms: On the devil's terms. Simply survive.

Simone turned from her temporary master and touched her friend Deborah with her whip. It was not a heavy blow, but it was symbolic. It told them both, her master and her-yes she admitted unconsciously-her lover, that she had made a decision. An irrevocable one.

Deborah struggled clumsily, stiffly, to her feet, using the wall for leverage. Only minutes ago Deborah had been normal, healthy, and alert. Now her eyes were glassy, with a look of vacant pain.

"Go on, use the whip!" the Hauptmann commanded. And Simone did so. Lightly at first, experimentally. Deborah was shaking now, the strokes were effective.

"Drive the Jew bitch into the hallway!" their master ordered.

Deborah wobbled, as if trying too hard to comply before Simone slashed Deborah's beautiful white skin and left another ugly red welt. But it eventually became evident to Simone that Deborah was hanging back and stalling much more than her injuries necessitated. Simone had choice but to strike her friend, and Deborah must have realized that. In Deborah's position, Simone would be moving quickly to avoid the inevitable beating. Why was Deborah being so obstinately slow? Simone struck Deborah a hit harder, trying to make Deborah realize the position the two of them were in.

The Hauptmann cracked his own whip angrily then. "You are here to whip that Jew-bitch, not to coddle her. I don't give a damn whether she is your lesbian love or your twin sister... I have given you an order to whip the wench and you will do so. You understand?" he punctuated the question with his own whip upon Simone's silk-clad ass. Simone jumped in surprise and pain, then said to Deborah, "Hurry along. Hurry up!"

Another crack of the Hauptmann's whip stung more effectively yet, and, unable to hurry Deborah in any other way, Simone applied her own whip more fiercely. Simone watched as the whip stung the nude brunette beneath the breast, the whip reaching around Deborah's smooth belly and snapping at the cleft of her dark bushy cunt. Simone watched Deborah wince, and saw, comprehending now, the took of sensual joy which Deborah seemed to show when the whip stung.

The nude girl shuffled, her bare feet leaving moist footprints on the cement floor. Tentatively, but with almost a sense of achievement. Simone let the whip flick harder, and strike the more vulnerable places of Deborah's body. Gradually, as the trio moved into the corridor, Simone noticed how much satisfaction she was getting from doing this. It was a rewarding feeling, this playing at master. She liked the pliable resiliency of the whip handle when she swung it. If Simone held the right amount of detachment from the pain Deborah was suffering, she could enjoy whipping her friend with the hurtful lash. Nothing was quite like the exercise of power one felt at making another human being surrender to your will and suffer. The welts on Deborah's sides and breasts were ample testimony to the cruelty with which Simone applied herself to her task. For almost without realizing it, Simone had begun to hit Deborah harder and harder. Simone was becoming sexually excited at the writhing movements her friend made under her lash. Simone remembered what Deborah was like in bed, when they explored each other's bodies so completely. She remembered what Deborah did to ease her wounds, and the tears of sympathy Deborah shed for her. Now, that pale, paper thin flesh was being torn open to bleed, and the lovely pleading dark eyes were filled with tears of a different kind. Tears of suffering and anguish, but also of gratitude for that suffering.

The brunette wobbled, fell. Simone applied the whip more firmly, and the torn young woman struggled to her knees and inched forward, leaving huge splatters of blood and sweat that dropped, at intervals, from her body. Simone's arm tired. She wondered how poor Deborah could tolerate the beating. Yet the nude woman struggled gamely forward, until with a sigh, she fell flat on her face.

"UP, up!" Simone was shouting in a frenzy. Simone lusted to watch the pale pitiful slip of a girl inch painfully forward once again. Simone struck the girl repeatedly, until the flesh clung to the end of the whip and blood splattered up onto Simone's dress. Only then did the Hauptmann grab Simone's wrist and wrench the whip from her trembling hand.

Simone looked at her hand. It was a bloodless white from the pressure she had been exerting on the whip. It trembled from the frantic arousal she felt. She only gradually descended from her hyper-excitable state, to slump, feeling nauseated, against the brick wall.

"Having a good time, are you?" the Hauptmann spat at her. "For that, this!" he struck her across the face with the whip. Simone winced, and was struck again. Then the blows were falling everywhere, over her tits, against her legs. The dress was flying about her knees with the rain of blows, the pink flowers on the border looking like a field on a windy day.

Simone bent under the blows. The whip touched her breast again and she could feel the nipple harden as he struck it beneath the cloth of her clothing. She screamed in momentary pain, and he struck her across the month with the whip handle.