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
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
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