Read Online Slaves of the Swastika by Kenneth Harding - Free Book Online
Authors: Kenneth Harding
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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
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
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