lover.
‘Yes?’ I said. ‘What do you want?’
‘I’m collecting for the Reich,’ she explained, playing games with her eyes. She held a bag of material out, as if to corroborate her story. ‘The Party Economy Programme. Oh, the concierge let me in.’
‘I can see that. Exactly what would you like?’
She raised an eyebrow at that and I wondered if her father thought she wasn’t still young enough for him to spank.
‘Well, what have you got?’ There was a quiet mockery in her tone. She was pretty, in a sulky, sultry sort of way. In civilian clothes she might have passed for a girl of twenty, but with her two pigtails, and dressed in the sturdy boots, long navy skirt, trim white blouse and brown leather jacket of the BdM — the League of German Girls — I guessed her to be no more than sixteen.
‘I’ll have a look and see what I can find,’ I said, half amused at her grown-up manner, which seemed to confirm what you sometimes heard of BdM girls, which was that they were sexually promiscuous and just as likely to get themselves pregnant at Hitler Youth Camp as they were to learn needlework, first aid and German folk history. ‘I suppose you had better come in.’
The girl sauntered through the door as if she were trailing a mink wrap and gave the hall a cursory examination. She didn’t seem to be much impressed. ‘Nice place,’ she murmured quietly.
I closed the door and laid my cigarette in the ashtray on the hall table. ‘Wait here,’ I told her.
I went into the bedroom and foraged under the bed for the suitcase where I kept old shirts and threadbare towels, not to mention all my spare house dust and carpet fluff. When I stood up and brushed myself off she was leaning in the doorway and smoking my cigarette. Insolently she blew a perfect smoke-ring towards me.
‘I thought you Faith-and-Beauty girls weren’t supposed to smoke,’ I said, trying to conceal my irritation.
‘Is that a fact?’ she smirked. ‘There are quite a few things we’re not encouraged to do. We’re not supposed to do this, we’re not supposed to do that. Just about everything seems to be wicked these days, doesn’t it? But what I always say is, if you can’t do the wicked things when you’re still young enough to enjoy them, then what’s the point of doing them at all?’ She jerked herself away from the wall and stalked out.
Quite the little bitch, I thought, following her into the sitting-room next door.
She inhaled noisily, like she was sucking at a spoonful of soup, and blew another smoke-ring in my face. If I could have caught it I would have wrapped it round her pretty little neck.
‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘I hardly think one little drummer is going to knock over the heap, do you?’
I laughed. ‘Do I look like the sort of dog’s ear who would smoke cheap cigarettes?’
‘No, I suppose not,’ she admitted. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Plato.’
‘Plato. It suits you. Well, Plato, you can kiss me if you want.’
‘You don’t creep around it, do you?’
‘Haven’t you heard the nicknames they have for the BdM? The German Mattress League? Commodities for German Men?’ She put her arms about my neck and performed a variety of coquettish expressions she’d probably practised in front of her dressing-table mirror.
Her hot young breath tasted stale, but I let myself equal the competence in her kiss, just to be affable, my hands squeezing at her young breasts, kneading the nipples with my fingers. Then I cupped her chubby behind in both my moistening palms, and drew her closer to what was increasingly on my mind. Her naughty eyes went round as she pressed herself against me. I can’t honestly say I wasn’t tempted.
‘Do you know any good bedtime stories, Plato?’ she giggled.
‘No,’ I said, tightening my grip on her. ‘But I know plenty of bad ones. The kind where the beautiful but spoilt princess gets boiled alive and eaten up by the wicked troll.’
A vague glimmer of doubt began
‘Yes?’ I said. ‘What do you want?’
‘I’m collecting for the Reich,’ she explained, playing games with her eyes. She held a bag of material out, as if to corroborate her story. ‘The Party Economy Programme. Oh, the concierge let me in.’
‘I can see that. Exactly what would you like?’
She raised an eyebrow at that and I wondered if her father thought she wasn’t still young enough for him to spank.
‘Well, what have you got?’ There was a quiet mockery in her tone. She was pretty, in a sulky, sultry sort of way. In civilian clothes she might have passed for a girl of twenty, but with her two pigtails, and dressed in the sturdy boots, long navy skirt, trim white blouse and brown leather jacket of the BdM — the League of German Girls — I guessed her to be no more than sixteen.
‘I’ll have a look and see what I can find,’ I said, half amused at her grown-up manner, which seemed to confirm what you sometimes heard of BdM girls, which was that they were sexually promiscuous and just as likely to get themselves pregnant at Hitler Youth Camp as they were to learn needlework, first aid and German folk history. ‘I suppose you had better come in.’
The girl sauntered through the door as if she were trailing a mink wrap and gave the hall a cursory examination. She didn’t seem to be much impressed. ‘Nice place,’ she murmured quietly.
I closed the door and laid my cigarette in the ashtray on the hall table. ‘Wait here,’ I told her.
I went into the bedroom and foraged under the bed for the suitcase where I kept old shirts and threadbare towels, not to mention all my spare house dust and carpet fluff. When I stood up and brushed myself off she was leaning in the doorway and smoking my cigarette. Insolently she blew a perfect smoke-ring towards me.
‘I thought you Faith-and-Beauty girls weren’t supposed to smoke,’ I said, trying to conceal my irritation.
‘Is that a fact?’ she smirked. ‘There are quite a few things we’re not encouraged to do. We’re not supposed to do this, we’re not supposed to do that. Just about everything seems to be wicked these days, doesn’t it? But what I always say is, if you can’t do the wicked things when you’re still young enough to enjoy them, then what’s the point of doing them at all?’ She jerked herself away from the wall and stalked out.
Quite the little bitch, I thought, following her into the sitting-room next door.
She inhaled noisily, like she was sucking at a spoonful of soup, and blew another smoke-ring in my face. If I could have caught it I would have wrapped it round her pretty little neck.
‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘I hardly think one little drummer is going to knock over the heap, do you?’
I laughed. ‘Do I look like the sort of dog’s ear who would smoke cheap cigarettes?’
‘No, I suppose not,’ she admitted. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Plato.’
‘Plato. It suits you. Well, Plato, you can kiss me if you want.’
‘You don’t creep around it, do you?’
‘Haven’t you heard the nicknames they have for the BdM? The German Mattress League? Commodities for German Men?’ She put her arms about my neck and performed a variety of coquettish expressions she’d probably practised in front of her dressing-table mirror.
Her hot young breath tasted stale, but I let myself equal the competence in her kiss, just to be affable, my hands squeezing at her young breasts, kneading the nipples with my fingers. Then I cupped her chubby behind in both my moistening palms, and drew her closer to what was increasingly on my mind. Her naughty eyes went round as she pressed herself against me. I can’t honestly say I wasn’t tempted.
‘Do you know any good bedtime stories, Plato?’ she giggled.
‘No,’ I said, tightening my grip on her. ‘But I know plenty of bad ones. The kind where the beautiful but spoilt princess gets boiled alive and eaten up by the wicked troll.’
A vague glimmer of doubt began
Similar Books
