was a ‘pianist’ and had been picked up in a sweep, along with my radio. I was young and attractive, and after I’d spilled my guts to my interrogator, then naturally, I didn’t want to be sent to a concentration camp to be killed, or taken out into the back yard to be hanged or shot.
I was a ‘pianist’ and had been picked up in a sweep, along with my radio. I was young and attractive, and after I’d spilled my guts to my interrogator, then naturally, I didn’t want to be sent to a concentration camp to be killed, or taken out into the back yard to be hanged or shot.
My first meeting with Mistress was in the horrible, cold and dirty cell I got thrown into, on arrival. Pardon my vulgarity, but they hadn’t even given me the proverbial ‘pot to piss in’. I thought I’d been in it a few hours, wetting myself, and panicking as to what was going to happen to me. I’d been trained in England and I had a fair idea of what sort of treatment I could expect from the Gestapo. To be fair, I was a little surprised that I hadn’t yet been raped; which was the first thing I expected to happen to me. I was an attractive young woman, after all, and I knew that multiple rape was often the first stage in softening up a female prisoner. It was often all it took to break her, too. I expect that it would have been sufficient to break me; I’d likely have been offering to talk before the first man got my panties down as far as my knees, let alone as far as my ankles!
Anyway, the door opened and I jumped, thinking to myself that it was time to be interrogated rather roughly. I got the surprise of my life when an attractive brunette of about twenty five, wearing an immaculate uniform, walked in, carrying a cushion and a bucket.
She put the bucket into one corner of my cell, knelt down on the cushion beside my bed and held out her hand to me. “I am Sturmbannfuhrer Hartmann,” she said, in excellent French; even down to the Paris accent, as I took the proffered hand. “I am the equivalent to a French major, and I’m in command of this facility. I already know who you are, from your purse, although I have little idea if the name is real or fake. Now that you’re here, in my custody, it doesn’t matter, does it? You’re a brave woman to do what you do, for the Tommies, and I respect you for it; I really do. You just made the mistake of being caught. You are lucky that you were brought here, to me, and not taken to one of our other ‘facilities’.
You know where you are I presume?” she asked.
“Yes, major,” I mumbled.
“Then you know what usually happens to your sort in here. The men have already argued over got to rape you first, but I told them they couldn’t. I’ve made a wager with them; one that says I can get all the information I want, without having to resort to hurting you. I’m willing to ignore the fact that you’re a spy for a foreign power, if you’ll tell me what I want to know. Those bullies that like to think that they’re men; although you and I know otherwise; are not going to hurt you, because I won’t let them. No doubt they’re all fervently hoping that I’ll fail and hand you over to be broken in the usual way for one as pretty as you are, but I don’t think I will. I don’t think that you’re stupid enough to let me fail, because you know what that means, and you don’t want to experience their methods of interrogation. I don’t doubt that you’ll sing like a canary if I let the, erm, ‘males’ have you, but I’m gambling that you don’t want me to do that.
I have a deal to offer you, and I think that you should take it. My side of the deal is warm food, hot water to wash with, clean clothes to replace the soiled ones that you’re wearing at the moment, and no harm to even a hair on your head. Your side of the deal is that you spill your guts to me, and to me alone.
I don’t want to hurt you, but you should know that I will if I have to; if you leave me no choice. I don’t like to hurt people, but if it was the other way round; if I was in your hands, your friends would do to me, exactly what my men are going to do to them. I don’t doubt for one moment that I’d be tortured for what I know. How long do you think would it be until they began to rape me, for being nothing more than a German bitch who had the bad luck to get caught, and who was going to be entertainment, until they got bored with the sport, and murdered me? Your friends would kill me eventually, and we both know they would. I’ll give you time to think over my offer, as I make you a cup of tea to soothe your nerves, and as a down payment on my part of the deal.”
That sort of kindness threw me entirely. I wasn’t expecting anything of the sort. I was expecting the brutality I had been taught that I could, and should, expect. Within ten minutes I had a cup of tea on a saucer with two lumps of sugar on the side, and a small jug of cream, and I was absolutely lost for words. As I put the milk and sugar into the cup, the major produced part of a packet of biscuits from a uniform pocket, and gave me those as well. I did not expect such nicety in a Gestapo facility. The major left me alone for thirty minutes, allowing me to drink the tea and eat all the biscuits. I’d had neither food nor water for hours, and was both hungry and thirsty. Then she came back to ask if I wanted to accept her offer, or if I was going to patriotic, stubborn and/or immensely stupid.
I’d always been stubborn, and I liked to think that I was a patriot, but I was never stupid. I was frightened out of my wits, and such an offer was very appealing, so I agreed to tell her anything she wanted to know, if she promised not to hand me over to the men and allow them to rape me, before, during or after I talked. She promised, with her hand over her heart, and told me that if I was abused when she was away from the building, all I had to do was point out the man, or men who hurt me, and they’d be punished. I told the beautiful young major that I’d accept her offer; I told her that I’d tell her whatever she wanted to know as long as she didn’t hurt me.
I didn’t know whether or not I could believe what she told me, but that simple promise gave me hope for the first time in hours, and hope was something that I desperately needed! I also realized that I had little choice other than to accept her promise at face value, because I knew what would happen to me if I didn’t. We even shook hands to seal the bargain!
We’d talk for a short while, the major said it would be an hour or so, after which I could have a meal and another cup of tea. Then we’d continue to talk. We talked for the hour, and then my meal was brought to me by a guard. The meal wasn’t wonderful; a bowl of tomato soup and four slices of bread; but the bread was fresh, the soup was hot, and so was the tea that came with it. As the guard took away my empty tray, the look he gave me was something horrible, as if I was something he’d stepped in, on the pavement outside. I didn’t say or do anything to provoke him, however, and he neither touched me, nor spoke to me. The major came back after I’d eaten, and she asked more questions. I answered what I could, and she seemed content with that; not implying that I was lying, or holding back, because to do so would be stupid.
Later that night, I heard two of the men talking outside my cell. I had no idea of what they were saying, but from the crude laughter, I didn’t have to be a genius to figure it out.
As they laughed and joked, and I shivered in a mixture of fear and cold, another voice cut in, over theirs. I didn’t understand that one either, but it was clear that its owner wasn’t happy with what he’d heard. The little vision hatch on the door of my cell opened, and I saw the face of a kind looking middle aged man. “Go back to sleep, now, Miss, they won’t trouble you,” he said, in pretty good French.
I spent a cold night in that cell, but I was left alone by the sentries, and the rest of the staff, if there were any further staff. The door was opened, loudly, and quite early, and there stood the major; her uniform looking immaculate, and holding a tray in both hands. On that tray were a bowl of breakfast cereal, a cup of tea, and a bar of chocolate. The major put the tray on the floor beside my bed, with the words, “Breakfast mein liebling,” and walked away, to allow me peace to eat my breakfast. I didn’t bother to ask what the hell a ‘liebling’ was, though; I didn’t need to know what it meant. I’ll admit that I was still a little shocked at such gentle treatment, when my instinct told me that I should not be expecting it.
After I’d eaten breakfast, the major walked back into the cell and she was carrying a chair. She sat down and gave me a little smile. “How are you feeling this morning?” she asked.
“Fine,” I replied, “but it was a little cold last night.”
“Well, we’ll see about some more blankets for you this afternoon, if you continue to co-operate.” Then she stuck her head out of the door, and shouted something in her language that I didn’t understand. Almost immediately, a sentry appeared with a clean bucket, and took mine out of the corner of the cell, while giving me a look like a summons. “He doesn’t like you,” commented the major.
“No, he doesn’t,” I replied.
“Never mind, he doesn’t have to like you. He just has to remember what I’ll do to him if he doesn’t obey my orders; I’ll have the eggs off him with a blunt razorblade and I’ll ship him off to Torgau before he’s finished screaming! Either that or he can volunteer for active service on the Russian front.” For ‘eggs’, I figured she meant ‘testicles’, but as for what ‘Torgau’ was, I didn’t know. Maybe it was a prison of some sort for soldiers.
“I’ll tell you something that might surprise you, Cherie. Most of the men here don’t like me a great deal more than they like you; maybe even less. If I’d let them have you yesterday, you would be more popular than I am; for obvious reasons. Behind my back, they call me ‘Queen Bitch’ for my attitude, but they still do what I tell them.
You’ve already been labeled as my pet; you’re untouchable, so you might as well try and milk it for all it’s worth. The two young thugs who woke you up last night won’t be bothering you again. They’re on their way to the mountains of Norway as we speak. If they’re lucky, I’ll send them some trousers next week! If you need anything, and you’re feeling brave, get a sentry’s attention, politely of course, and ask.” She wrote a sentence down on a piece of paper and told me to, “If a sentry gives you trouble, quote him that line, and remind him of what you want.
The major returned to questioning me about anything she wanted to know, and like the sniveling coward that I was, I told her anything I could. She asked me for the name and address of our courier. I didn’t know, so I couldn’t tell her; all I could give her was a physical deion which could have applied to thousands of locals. Only our commander and his deputy knew that, and to be fair, those two would probably have been quite at home in the same uniform as the major; they’d have behaved every bit as bad as their enemy, in the same situation.
When the major commented on the sort of treatment she expected would have been meted out to her, in our hands, the day before, I could easily image those two doing exactly what she described, and I felt a little ashamed about that. However, they were both dead, so she couldn’t ask them.
Dinner was brought to me from the canteen, and it was warm and tasty. After that, I took delivery of three big, thick blankets for my bed, brand new and still in the packaging, to keep out the cold of the night, while I slept. I was left alone in the afternoon, and as I lay, curled up on my bed, bored out of my skull, I felt more like a traitor than I had up until then. I consoled myself with the fact that the alternative was worse. I couldn’t have stopped myself talking to my interrogators, and I knew that. All I would have achieved, by refusing to tell the major what she wanted to know, was subjecting myself to pain and suffering. When the major popped her head around the doorway briefly, gave me a big thick book to read, “To prevent boredom,” she said; a cup of hot cocoa to drink, and half a family pack of digestive biscuits to snack on, “To keep your energy up,” it made just made me feel even worse.
I could hear the odd scream from further down the corridor, and I knew what that meant. My friends were being tortured, and I was being molly coddled as an ‘experiment’. I was the only woman taken in the raid, so at least I didn’t have to imagine the scenes of sexual violence being perpetrated against anyone; I just had to worry about them being perpetrated against myself, if the major thought that I was holding information back. As long as she kept her word though, I had no intention of doing that, and it seemed clear to me that she would keep her word.
Late that night, I awoke in my bed, feeling unwell. After I’d vomited into the slops bucket, I asked the guard for a cup of water to wash away the bad taste. He laughed and told me to where I could get off, so I quoted the line I’d been given by the major. Lights were left on in the cells all the time, to make it difficult for prisoners to sleep, so I could read it easily.
The cup of water was delivered very quickly after that. I was even asked if I wanted a second one! I accepted, and put it in one corner of the cell, as far away from the slops bucket as I could get it, in case I got thirsty during the night. The following morning I asked the major for a translation of what I’d shouted down the corridor. It went something like this, “Your commander wants me looked after very well, and if I tell her how nasty you’ve been to me, what do you think queen bitch will do to you in the morning?” What would ‘queen bitch’ have done to him? Clearly he didn’t want to find out, so I got what I wanted.
By day three, I’d spilled all I knew, which wasn’t much, so the major went back on questions that had already been answered, just to check answers. With hindsight, she was coming to see me because she was attracted to me, and was gently sounding me out, to see if I’d be responsive to the offer she wanted to make me. If I look back now, I suppose that I should have seen it in her eyes, but I wasn’t looking for that; I was too afraid to imagine that the woman being so nice to me was attracted to me, and wanted to get me into her bed.
At the end of the third interrogation session, the major gave me a cloth, a towel, a bucket of hot water and a bar of soap, so that I could wash. She even gave me a set of clean clothes out of her own wardrobe. I could finally get rid of the smell that came from what I was wearing. I’d been wearing the clothes I wet myself in, for three days, and basically, I stank to high heaven.
When our hideout had been raided, I’d hidden in what I thought was a secret room, and hoped I wouldn’t be found. I had no gun with me, so I couldn’t put up a fight when I did get found. I had been taught about weapons in England, so when I saw the business end of a Schmeisser machine pistol pointed at me, I wet myself.
Some resistance fighter, eh! It didn’t take much lorry space to carry the few of us taken alive, and so we traveled in half decent comfort, although we were very scared of what was going to happen to us. I expected to be tortured for what I knew, and very definitely appreciated the kindness I received from the beautiful, busty young major. While I was in the lorry, I thought that I should have tried to provoke the young soldier into shooting me; that way I could have had a quick, clean, and relatively painless death. Unfortunately, I hadn’t been that smart, or that brave; I just stood still, put my hands up and wet my panties. The major even stood outside the cell door, to stop the guards looking at me while I stripped naked to wash.
Apparently, I was judged to be a successful experiment, even though I knew it was simply my cowardice that made me spill my guts the way I did. The major also knew what the situation was and said, rather crudely, that when she’d seen my tear streaked face, and seen and smelled my piss-soaked skirt, she figured what would happen if she could get me decent treatment, rather than let the interrogators take it in turns to beat and rape me, as usually happened to attractive female prisoners.
My looks had survived the interrogation procedure because I talked straight away. I knew what the alternative was to spilling my guts so readily; therefore they didn’t have to torture me. In all fairness, I’d been picked up with the survivors of my entire resistance cell anyway; therefore I didn’t really have a great deal of valuable information to give away to my interrogators.
I wondered what would happen to me when I’d told all of what I knew; would my captors take me out the back and shoot me? Would they simply loop a rope over the ceiling beam, and hang me from it, in the cell? I didn’t expect to leave the building in anything other than a body bag. I’d known that I was a dead woman from the moment I got out of the truck in the courtyard upstairs; I just hoped that they would show me a little mercy from the way I’d given them all the information they wanted, and make my death quick, and relatively painless. Perhaps one of them would press the muzzle of his service pistol against the nape of my neck and pull the trigger.
The question was answered when the major came to see me; late on I think the sixth, or maybe the seventh night, I’m not entirely sure. The building was deserted, as she intended it would be. My cell door opened and she stepped through, looking as immaculate as ever in her field grey uniform, and she sat on the edge of my bed. “What do with do with you now that I’ve picked your brain clean of any useful information?” she asked.
I didn’t know what to say.
“Generally, we dispose of terrorists like you on a train to a concentration camp, but it would be a waste of a beautiful woman. I think can save your life, but you’d have to make the risk worth my while.”
“I’m not wealthy, major,” I replied. “I don’t have money to bribe you with.”
She stood up and pulled the blankets away from me, and for a moment I began to panic. Then she sat back down, gently ran a hand up my skirt and touched the crotch of my panties. “I don’t really need money from you, and I’m far more interested in this,” she said, as she pushed her fingers inside my panties.
“Major?” I asked, pretty much in shock at the way she had so blatantly come on to me.
She rolled me over onto my back, straddled my body, and deliberately grabbed hold of both of my breasts, through my clothes. “This is what I want from you in exchange for your life; I want your beautiful body. I’ll treat you better than any of the men would, as long you please me; I’ll give you my word on that. I won’t beat you, starve you, or share you with anyone, as long as you’re my pretty mistress. The fact that you’re an enemy agent in hiding won’t matter. You’ll be well-looked after, well-fed and well-clothed, although you’ll have to stay indoors at my billet, permanently.”
I froze, and couldn’t seem to speak. “Your friends go to the nearest camp in the morning as slave labor. So far, your name isn’t on the shipping list, and I’ll probably get a slap on the wrist from my area commander for that oversight, if it stays that way. You’ve got a week to make your mind up, because when the oversight is realized, you’ll get shipped on the next train, and I won’t be able to do anything about it.
You might draw a senior camp officer’s attention with your looks, and spend a while as his mistress, but he won’t treat you as well as I will, and it will only last until he gets bored with you, and replaces you with a new mistress from another shipment of prisoners. After that, they’ll work you to death, or they’ll just put you into the gas chamber.
As I said, it would be waste of a beautiful young woman, and I find myself attracted to you in the same way as the men here. There’s a very big difference though; I won’t rape you; there’s no point to it. I’ll only have you in my bed if you’re willing to be there with me, and I’ll do my best to provide pleasure for you. I can make the nights enjoyable for you, in front of the fire, or under the covers of my bed.”
The major put a hand back into my panties, pressing a fingertip inside my sex, and then pushing it a little deeper when I didn’t complain. Would I have dared to complain?
I blushed and she smiled. “You’ve never been touched like this before, have you?” she asked.
“No,” I replied, seeing as I hadn’t. No man had gotten into my panties because I was a good girl, and a good girl didn’t give away her virginity until her wedding night.
“Are you still a virgin?” she asked with a clear smile on her face. She was hoping I was going to say ‘yes’.
“Yes, Major; I’ve been a good girl,” I replied. I had been a good girl, too, and refused the attempts to seduce me that several of the other members of the resistance cell had made, although I had never imagined that saving my chastity would save my life.
She smiled again and said, “In that case, strip and show me what you’ve got to offer me in exchange for your life,” as she got up to stand at my bedside. I hesitated and she added, “You’ve got nothing that I haven’t got.”
I still hesitated, and she reached down to touch my cheek. “Tell you what, if you’re worried, I’ll match you in nakedness, item for item. You show me your tits, I’ll show you mine. If you show me your pussy, I’ll show you mine. I’ll even go first if you insist.
There’s only me, you and one guard in this building, and that’s how it’ll be for at least an hour. That guard is the only one I trust, and that’s because he doesn’t like girls. He’s not going to be interested in your body, even if he could see it. You’d have to pay him to have sex with you!”
I couldn’t help but smile at the fairness of the offer, so I stood up, and feeling thoroughly humiliated, I followed her lead and stripped off to let her see my body. I was strange to notice that the major wasn’t even slightly embarrassed to show me her body, and despite what I had gone through, I did still have some pride left. When the major shamelessly bared her enviable breasts in front of me, I felt that I had to bare my lesser pair for her. I felt the same when she took off her panties, and threw them on my bed; making no attempt to cover her sex. I was worried about being disturbed in the cell, but I did what I was told, because the major clearly wasn’t worried, and if we’d been caught, it would have been far more embarrassing for her than for me.
When we were both naked, the major walked around to stand behind me and reached around to grab my breasts, as she pressed hers into the skin of my back. “These feel every bit as good as they look,” she whispered into one ear. “You have the nicest pair of tits I’ve ever had hold of, and I think I’m going to enjoy playing with them on a nighttime.”
Then she released her grip and stepped back in front of me again, and reached across to my bed to produce a pen from her jacket pocket. “I need to check and see if you’ve told me the truth, though, you dirty French tart,” she said to me. I didn’t have to be told where the pen was going to be put, and the major demanded that I lie back on the bed and open my legs for her.
Feeling even more humiliated than I ever had, I obeyed, because I knew I had no choice. The major pressed the pen up inside my sex and it struck my hymen, as I hoped it would. I was a virgin, but not all virgins’ hymens survive intact if they’ve led active lives, and I had led an active life. Then she straddled my body again and looked down at me, with a smile. “You have been a good girl, unlike me; I’ve been a bad girl, and I’m nowhere near as innocent as you are. So, my pretty French tart, my bed, or the concentration camp?”
“Your bed, major; I don’t want to die. I’ll be your dirty French tart, if it means I don’t get killed.”
The major smiled and then reached down to kiss me. When I felt her tongue pressing at my lips, I opened them and allowed it to slip past them and into my mouth, as she gently squeezed my bare breasts. I felt dirty and degraded for what I was doing, but I was desperate not to be shipped off to a concentration camp in the morning as slave labor; I didn’t want to be worked to death. Nor did I want to be forced into being an officer’s mistress, which would have been no better than rape anyway.
I didn’t know how a prostitute felt when she first sold her body, but I doubt that it could have been much different to the way I felt at that moment, because I was basically going to give mine away; I wasn’t even going to be able to charge money for it! I suppose though, that I was going to trade it for something far more valuable than mere money; I would get to live!
Feeling brave, I asked the major why she’d intervened on my behalf, and she told me the truth. Despite her job, she didn’t believe in treating people the way the Gestapo often did. (Not having an interest in men, the major was at a disadvantage in being so beautiful, and the uniform tended to deter most of them. That was why she wore it, even when she could wear civilian clothes. She liked the fact that some of the men who might otherwise have made advances towards her because of her beauty, referred to her, behind her back, as ‘that filthy little Gestapo bitch!’ and didn’t want anything to do with her. Her logic was that if no one made advances, then she wouldn’t have to knock them back, and risk raising suspicion about her sexual preferences.)
There was the fact that she had French blood in her, and had spent years living in France. No doubt her ability to speak French like a native was why she’d been posted to Paris, which was where she’d lived for years before the war. In a way, seeing as she had spent many years in the country, she was a native, and it was why she wanted a posting anywhere but France, yet knew that she had no chance of any posting other than France.
She’d seen me when I was dragged into the building, and she could tell just how terrified I was. At that moment, she had an idea. That idea was to see how far she could get in breaking me, using nothing but kindness. Her male colleagues had laughed at her before, when she came up with the idea, so it was then a matter of pride, and she couldn’t allow me to hold out. She was an intelligent woman though, and knew how to play on my fears. That was why I had been left alone for hours in the cell, on that first day, and been allowed to panic, and wet myself a second time.
There was also the fact that she thought that I was beautiful, and she’d hoped that I was still a virgin, because she wanted to have sex with me while I was still unspoiled; before the men had taken their turns to roughly go through me for a few days as entertainment, and made a mess of my shapely body and my pretty face with cigarette ends, rubber truncheons, and their fists; or worse! She showed me some photographs of the effects of interrogations of attractive women who had the willpower to hold out for a while.
They were horrible, and I ran to the bucket in the corner of my filthy little cell and vomited my insides up, despite the stench from the bucket. Then I burst into tears, all from just from looking at the pictures, and thanked the major profusely for sparing me such a horrible fate. She held me tenderly, and softly stroked my hair, face and back, until my tears stopped, dried my eyes, and then she told me what I could do to thank her properly. She told me that once she got me out of the prison, which wasn’t going to be easy, she would take me to her home, and I would become her concubine. While I could guess what ‘concubine’ meant, it was a term I hadn’t heard before.
The major was very direct in telling me what she wanted out of me, but didn’t lie to me about anything. I knew exactly what was required of me if I wanted to survive the war, and whether I liked the idea or not, the alternative was death in one unpleasant form or another. While I didn’t like the idea of living as the major’s concubine, I liked the idea of being worked to death or gassed as a spy, even less, so I agreed to her terms. I picked the lesser of the two evils; I would be her concubine; her whore; for as long as she wanted to keep me alive. Before she left, Mistress kissed me again, and it didn’t feel quite so bad the second time.
I didn’t see the major again for a week or so. In fact the only people I saw were my jailers, and they just brought my meals, and occasionally changed the slops pail, and then for a short while the cell didn’t smell quite so bad. None of them spoke to me, but none of them did anything unpleasant to me either. I wasn’t entirely sure about the exact number of days; I think it was seven or eight. The major returned at a highly unusual hour, with more hot water and soap, and helped me to wash myself, while blatantly feeling me up in the process. That was the day I left the cell with the woman I was preparing to submit the use of my body to. The major stripped down to her underwear to help me clean myself up. It was then that I noticed a scar on the left side of her body, just below her armpit. “So you’ve noticed?” she asked, seeing where my eyes were pointing, perhaps wondering how I missed it the first time.
“Yes. Can I ask what caused it, or is that too personal?”
She shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly. “Street mugging when I was fifteen. He pulled the bag with one hand and sliced at the strap with a sharp knife. I overbalanced when he pulled the bag and landed heavily on a broken drain cover, tearing my side open, and breaking my left arm in three places. There was nothing in the bag of any value though, and I suppose I should be thankful for that. If he’d just told me to hand the bag over, I would have; there was nothing in it worth hurting me to steal.”
It had been a week or so since I’d last had water to wash with, and I was beginning to smell a little, which the major commented on, rudely, and then she spanked me for it. Before I was allowed to get dressed, the major fondled me again, and asked me if I had changed my mind about becoming her concubine. Of course I hadn’t changed my mind; I wanted to live as much as the next woman!
How did my beautiful Mistress get me out of a Gestapo prison and into her quarters? Easy; I was to be put on a train, and shipped off to Ravensbruck, but I never reached the station. I was led away from the headquarters by the major and a guard. She dismissed the guard to prepare the decoy, and put me in the trunk of her staff car. The trunk was cold and dark, and I was in there for several hours. However, I stayed very quiet as I lay there, shivering in the dark and the cold, because the reward was worthwhile.
A convenient body was produced, and I was ‘killed attempting to escape.’ Apparently I fell down a flight of stairs, and according to the official record, I jumped out to run around a train. However, I slipped and fell, or I got pushed by someone chasing me. Either way, ‘my’ body was an unidentifiable, mangled mess, and I got quickly buried in an unmarked grave.
I didn’t ask where the body had come from; I didn’t want to know who the unfortunate woman was, and whether she had been killed, deliberately, to take my place, or if she’d just been conveniently dead. With what I had seen of Mistress’ personality, I didn’t think she’d have killed an innocent, but I couldn’t be sure. I don’t suppose that it mattered greatly in the long run, because survival is a very strong instinct in the human mind, and call me selfish and callous, but I wanted to survive.
Why did the guard allow the major to do it? I asked. The major knew that the guard was a practicing homosexual, and could prove it. If he didn’t do what Mistress demanded, she told him that she’d turn him in! Therefore he did what he was told to do by the major. He didn’t want to end up in a penal camp any more than she did, so the two of them reached an ‘understanding’. The major kept the guard’s secret and he kept hers. In all fairness, that put the major in the guard’s pocket, in a way. She had to protect him, in order to protect her secret. Of course, that put the guard in the major’s pocket, in exactly the same way.
When we reached her home, I was bursting for the toilet, after being in the trunk of the car for so long. After I answered nature’s call, Mistress turned me loose in her little kitchen, with the instruction to prepare food for the two of us, after apologizing for the fact that her culinary skills were dreadful, and the range of supplies to cook weren’t much better. She told me that if I wanted good food on a regular basis, I’d have to cook it myself, because if I let her do the cooking, my taste buds would certainly regret it. Mistress’ ability to cook didn’t go much further than sandwiches and toast, and the sandwiches would usually only be any good if the filling came out of a packet or out of a tin. It was uncommon that Mistress had meals at home; she preferred to eat out, rather than give herself food poisoning with her cooking. She said that she could burn a pan of water given half a chance.
As I prepared food, Mistress threw coal onto the fire and stoked it up, to heat up the house as best she could.
Mistress was keeping me alive, so I didn’t really care how she spoke to me, just as long as she fed me, and didn’t beat me. In virtually every occupied country down the centuries, a proportion of the women sold out to the occupying forces. I wasn’t the first Frenchwoman to shack up with a German, and I didn’t suppose I’d be the last; even if most of them shacked up with men. Some even took husbands from the occupying army and had their babies. At the very least, there was one major advantage of being Mistress’ concubine; I couldn’t end up with an illegitimate child, or several of them, the way I might otherwise have if I’d been a conventional officer’s bit on the side.
I knew, when my Mistress led me into her billet, that my virginity wouldn’t last the night, yet what choice did I really have? In order to continue living, I had to basically prostitute myself to a representative of the occupying powers on a daily basis, and considering how badly I wanted to live, I knew I had to do it, and I knew that I would do it.
However, I learned to appreciate the gentility that Mistress showed me, for as long as I obeyed her, and pandered to her whims, and I grew to enjoy the pleasure that she gave me in bed.
We ate a meal in the kitchen and then we shared the clearing up. I washed the dishes, and Mistress dried them. I wasn’t expecting her to help me tidy up, but I didn’t object. Mistress told me that she’d brought me to her home as her concubine, not as her domestic servant, so she would take her fair share of household tasks; I wasn’t expected to be her housekeeper. She made cups of tea and we retired to the living room to enjoy the heat from the fire. In the warmth of the living room, Mistress got me out of my clothes, and instructed me to lie on the carpet in front of the fire, so that she could kiss and fondle me the way she had in my cell.
It was clear to me that despite her youth; I was not Mistress’ first lover. Someone else had taught her how to please a woman, sexually, and despite how little I thought I was going to enjoy the following few years at Mistress’ hands; the first time I felt her fingers gently exploring my nubile, innocent young body, I began to understand how much pleasure I could derive from her attentions.
I had, on occasion, read a couple of erotic books, and I could remember the deions of the sensations experienced by a woman who is being aroused by her partner. As I lay on the carpet in front of the fire, enjoying the warmth radiating from it, I felt the same sensations going through my body, as Mistress teased me to full arousal for the first time in my life.
They were feelings I was sure that I shouldn’t have been having, but I couldn’t deny the warm feeling in my sex, and the way my breasts tingled, and then throbbed as my nipples hardened under the caress of Mistress’ lips and fingers. I couldn’t deny to myself that I was enjoying the sensations that Mistress was causing within my body. I knew that I was leaking lubricant out of my sex, and when Mistress slipped two fingers inside me, I couldn’t help but respond with a quiet whimper of pleasure. I’ll probably never forget the express on Mistress’ face as she heard me whimper. “So, you liked that?” she asked, with a smile, and she pushed the fingers a little deeper the second time, smiling again when I whimpered a little louder.
After that, we kissed again, and on Mistress’ instruction I turned over, positioning myself on my hands and knees, on the rug in front of the coal fire, and she gently ruptured my hymen with a length of brush handle covered in a condom, and coated with Vaseline. As she pushed the handle up inside my body with one hand, Mistress stroked my clitoris with her other hand, and whispered to me that I could cry out if I wanted to; she wouldn’t think less of me if I did. She said that if it made me feel better, she had cried when her first partner ruptured her hymen, also with a bit of brush handle, when she was merely seventeen, and shy and innocent, but she promised that she’d try not to hurt me too much.
As I knelt there, much to my surprise, I didn’t feel humiliated. I felt hungry for pleasure. Mistress had induced my first orgasm with her fingers and I wanted more! So as I knelt on the rug, I willed her to induce my second orgasm, regardless of how she did it. If I had to submit to a little pain, the way I knew I would have had to put up with, if I’d been married, and taken to bed by a husband, then I’d submit to the pain, knowing what it would lead to.
My deflowering wasn’t exactly fun; it did hurt, and I did bleed some, but I got through it without crying out, and Mistress kissed me, and promised me lots of pleasure from the ‘wooden cock’, in return for the pleasure that I was going to give her with my tongue and my fingers. Then, Mistress lay down on the floor in front of me, pulled her panties down, presenting me with my first ever female sex to lick, and taught me how to perform oral sex on a woman. The taste of female sex was new to me, but I figured I’d get used to such a strange taste. I even thought that I could come to enjoy hearing Mistress moaning in her pleasure.
After that, I was allowed to get dressed, and Mistress and I sat on her couch, kissing, cuddling and fondling each other like young lovers, as we talked about ourselves. I couldn’t resist the urge to put my hand down Mistress’ panties, and push two fingers inside her sex. We each ended up with one hand down the other’s panties, fingers in her sex, as our tongues dancing around each others’, and I was shocked to recognize just how much I was enjoying it. When it got late, we went to bed and after Mistress spanked me, we made love again.
I knew I could never convince a man that I was a virgin, because after the way Mistress said that she intended to use me for the following few years, I wouldn’t bleed the first time he made love to me. With the state of the country, maybe I could pass myself off as a war widow. Perhaps I might claim to be the victim of a drunken soldier during the victory celebrations in nineteen forty, even if there were very few victims, due to the decent behavior of the victorious soldiers on the western front. It had been made clear to the occupying forces that the young troopers were required to behave as they would have done so anywhere in Germany. It was also made clear that looters and rapists would be shot, and I could think of a couple of instances where we actually saw that sort of creature publicly executed for their crimes.
The following morning, Mistress arose early and went to work, as if she had an everyday job. She referred to her place of work simply as ‘the office,’ and tried to pretend that it was just an office, so as not remind the poor concubine of what it really was, because I had nightmares for months about being back in that building.
I made Mistress her breakfast, even though I’d been told I didn’t have to, and kissed her goodbye as she opened the inner door. Strangely enough, I enjoyed that kiss as well. Then I stayed in the house on my own. In earlier years, I’d have considered that excruciatingly boring, but after two weeks in a Gestapo cell, it was quite pleasant, I can assure you. I could watch television, or listen to the radio, as long as I kept them on a low volume setting so as not to draw suspicion. I could also raid Mistress’ book collection because a good proportion of them were in French.
I never even considered leaving the house, even though it would have been so easy to just walk away. I had no ID papers, so the first policeman to ask me for them, would arrest me for not having any. While I was less than a thirty minute walk from the railway station, and the bus station; without papers I couldn’t buy a ticket for either a train or a bus, despite having found a few hundred Reichmarks in Mistress’ apartment, and again, I’d be arrested. I didn’t want to get arrested, because I may well have ended up right back where I had been the day before, and I’d have no nice major to look after me because she’d probably have been in the next cell to mine, getting much the same treatment that I would be getting.
I’d be in the hands of the men, and I knew exactly what they wanted to do to me a couple of weeks earlier. I knew that if I left Mistress’ house, I’d be risking my life. While I’d consciously decided to risk my life, as I got into the converted bomber on the airfield on the south coast of England, I’d be risking Mistress’ life, too, if I stepped outside of her billet, and I had no right to do that. She’d risked enough in ‘rescuing’ me in the first place, and I didn’t want to repay her kindness by getting her shot for it.
No, I would stay quiet in Mistress’ house, and wait patiently until she came home and wanted to make love to me again. I’d only spent one night in Mistress’ bed, yet I knew how she made me feel. Mistress made me feel like a very desirable woman, especially when I considered the risk that she took to save my life; she’d risked her career, and perhaps even her own life, and all because she thought that I was pretty!!! If I hadn’t been pretty, I wouldn’t have been worth the risk of saving, and I’d be in a concentration camp, if I was still alive.
When Mistress returned that night, she was carrying a bag of shopping and a cookery book, as cover. Clearly she’d thought things out over the past couple of weeks. If she was going to stop eating out, which would be necessary if she wanted to be with me, and feed me, she needed to learn to cook, even if only for show. Of course, if her friends learned that she was trying to cook, and popped over some day, it would be nice if she could cook, so I became her cookery instructor. Mistress actually did learn to cook, too, and made the odd meal for us on special occasions like my next birthday, but generally, cooking remained my task because I was better at it.
Late in the evening, Mistress took me into the bedroom, and before we made love, she spanked me again. I quickly became accustomed to the almost mandatory spanking on a night, and I just as quickly accepted it as something Mistress enjoyed doing to me. My spankings were merely symbolic though; Mistress never spanked me hard enough that it hurt. She’d promised never to hurt me unless I deserved it, and I promised her that I would never deserve it. I always knew where Mistress kept her service pistol, and at any time of the night, I could have gotten out of her bed, grabbed the pistol, and murdered her out with it, yet why would I? All I’d achieve would be to draw unwelcome attention to myself, and I didn’t want to do that.
Mistress had a decidedly kinky side, and sometimes liked to tie me up, or tie me to her bed, while she wore her full uniform, and pretended to interrogate me, while feeling me up and turning me on. My interrogation always seemed to end with Mistress kneeling astride my body, pushing her sex in my face, and pushing the brush handle deep inside me, while I licked away at her sweet-tasting sex.
It didn’t take me long to recognize the fact that while I might have originally been no more than an attractive piece of French meat; one that Mistress could use to satisfy her hunger and her desires, in a way she otherwise couldn’t satisfy them, she was beginning to care about me as a person.
Mistress told me that to be a lesbian, openly, in her position, was a punishable offence, for which she could end up in a hell-hole penal establishment with hardened, violent criminals; thieves, rapists and murderers, and all she’d have done was loved; which in my mind, and in Mistress’ mind, was not a crime at all.
That was why she’d offered me my life, if I agreed to become her concubine. I could tell that she cared for my wellbeing, just from the way she looked at me, the way she touched me, and the way she spoke to me. At the start, she was clearly domineering, telling me what I was required to do, but that slowly disappeared, to be replaced with a more even, fair treatment of me, the more I began to enjoy Mistress’ carnal attentions, and the better I became at pleasing her sexually.
I began to feel that she was treating me like a lover, and I learned to judge her state of mind, and tell when I could be awkward, and on rare occasion, even refuse to do what I was told, if I really didn’t want to do it. Given the alternative of being thrown into the gas chamber at Ravensbruck with the other undesirables; which is exactly where Mistress told me I would otherwise have gone, I can assure you that I was obedient and that I served my Mistress’ needs very well.
Despite the strange way that our relationship started, I began to enjoy the nights spent in my Mistress’ bed, even looking forward to weekends, when we could simply spend hours in the bedroom, and I missed her when she had to go away under orders, or stay out all night. It got to the point where I felt less like a collaborator and a traitor, and more like a young woman in love, as I developed feelings for my Mistress.
The only problem was that I was house-bound. I could never leave Mistress’ billet, and I had to be quiet when Mistress wasn’t in, so as not to arouse suspicion. On the rare occasions that Mistress had visitors I was confined to the bedroom with a book, when it was light enough outside that I could read, and a bucket to relieve myself into, if I needed it, and I was under strict instructions to be very, very quiet, because we’d both be in serious trouble if I was discovered. If whoever discovered me figured out who I was, we’d probably both be taken out and shot; me for being a known spy, and Mistress for faking my death and harboring me.
Food was good for the pair of us, courtesy of a black market racketeer who Mistress had in her pocket. His brother was in a local prison, and as long as the racketeer did what Mistress wanted, she promised to take good care of his brother. Mistress had him well and truly over a barrel, and tended to blackmail him into getting her most of the things she wanted, often refusing to pay for them. That included, much to my surprise, nylon stockings from America, for both of us, although Mistress rarely wore hers. I lived well; better than most people in the area, and sometimes I felt guilty for that. I was worried about what might happen to me if our side eventually won the war, but that was a worry for another day.
I had more important things to worry about; such as what would happen to me if I ever upset my kind Mistress. I could worry about being shot as a collaborator, later; if Mistress’ side lost, although that looked unlikely. Even if they did lose, it wouldn’t be for a few years, and I would have that many years more life, than if I would have had, had I refused Mistress’ offer, and was pushed into a gas chamber. Perhaps I could even get away with what I had done if I could create a little fiction.
If Mistress’ side lost the war, then perhaps Mistress could be honest about liking other women instead of men, and might be allowed to keep me, openly, as her lover. I was willing to stay on with Mistress, wherever she ended up. I already knew that I’d be willing to go into a prison camp with her, if it meant that we could be together, even if only platonically and just for a few minutes every day. If the alternative was going home to explain how I’d ended up in a Gestapo agent’s bed, a female agent at that, for three or four years, I might be better off leaving France along with Mistress.
Unlike a lot of civilians, I was well fed and looked after, despite the rationing, at least as long as I obeyed my kind Mistress. I knew that I was completely at her mercy, with no say in anything that happened to me, but she was kind and she was gentle. Sometimes, after a particularly ‘bad day at the office’, as she called it, Mistress needed me to soothe her sensibilities, and make her feel better, but I was good at that. The first time I saw the effects of a bad day, Mistress came home, literally threw her greatcoat at me and snarled at me to, “Hang that up, and make me a cup of coffee; filthy French tart!”
Obediently, and with tears pricking at the corners of my eyes, I headed into the kitchen, where Mistress had a jar of real coffee, courtesy of her pet racketeer. I’d become accustomed to nice, kind Mistress, and not to being addressed so rudely, when I hadn’t done anything to deserve it. If I’d done something wrong, I could have understood such nastiness, but I hadn’t done anything wrong. There was no need for Mistress to be nasty to me!
As I waited for the water to boil, determined that I was not going to cry, Mistress walked up behind me and put her arms around my waist. “I’m sorry,” she whispered into one of my ears. “I’ve had a bad day, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you, and called you a filthy French tart. My mood isn’t your fault, and you’re not a filthy tart of any kind.
I know you don’t really want to share your body with me; I just haven’t given you any choice, and sometimes I feel guilty for being so selfish that I brought you here to serve my needs, without really thinking of you. Can you forgive me for my temper, and for being such a selfish bitch?”
“Of course I can forgive you, Mistress. If you hadn’t thought that I was pretty and taken a fancy to me, I’d have been roughly raped by many men, tortured for what little useful information I had, and then killed. Perhaps I should be thanking you for saving my life, even if you did it solely for your pleasure. At least I have a life to live, even if I am your concubine,” I replied. “I’ll stay with you, and I’ll love you, for as long as you want me to. I enjoy the nights spent in front of the fire, or tucked in under the bed covers, and I don’t want to leave you, even if I could.”
I wasn’t accustomed to hearing Mistress apologize to me; in fact I think it was the first time she ever had. I felt her take one arm from around my waist, and push it up my skirt. After the first night, I’d never been allowed to have underwear on, so that Mistress could touch directly whenever she wanted to. I parted my thighs as Mistress’ hand ran up one of them. One finger slipped gently inside me, up to the third knuckle, and Mistress slid it back and forth a little, before taking it out again, turning me around, and lifting my jumper to get at my breasts with her mouth. Then the hand was pushed back up my skirt again.
Mistress admitted liking my breasts very much; she told me straight out that aside from my very pretty face, they were my best feature. She said that I had, “Such a nice pair of tits,” and she quite liked sucking them. Mistress could play with my breasts all night, tweaking my nipples, and letting her fingers wander over my body, until all I wanted; all I could think about; was Mistress’ condom-covered brush handle, and what she was capable of doing to me with it! As we stood there in the kitchen and Mistress sucked each nipple alternately, she put two fingers as deep inside me as they would go, and slid them in and out.
I put my right hand up Mistress’ uniform skirt and said to her, “You don’t need coffee Mistress.” I then rubbed my fingers over the crotch of her panties, and added, “You need your French tart on her knees, with her tongue out, as soon as possible.” I was taking a chance, by being so bold, but I thought that I’d learned enough about my Mistress by then to know what would make her feel better.
Mistress released the breast that she was sucking, pulled her fingers out of me and sighed. “Yes, that is probably exactly what I need. Get down on your knees,” she told me. Obediently, I knelt down, and Mistress bared her sex for me to lick, before asking, “Would you, please?” Mistress had never asked me before; she’d always just told me what I was required to do. As Mistress leant back against the kitchen table, I performed oral sex on her, the way she had taught me, until she orgasmed. Then she turned around, asked me to pull her skirt and panties down to her ankles, and give her curvaceous little bottom a hard spanking, because she’d been a naughty girl that day.
I didn’t ask how naughty she’d been, because I never asked personal questions of Mistress. If she wanted to tell me, she’d tell me, and if she didn’t, I’d leave well alone. I just gave Mistress the spanking she wanted, telling her what she wanted to hear; that she was a nasty, dirty, little bitch, and hitting her harder and harder when she encouraged me to, until her bottom was cherry red and clearly sore. I spanked Mistress considerably harder than Mistress ever spanked me.
After which, she took me into the shower, and played with my sopping wet sex, licking me out, and then kissing me straight away, allowing me to taste my own juices. That was the first time that I had been on the receiving end of Mistress’ tongue, and clearly it was the beginning of a change in our relationship.
Then she told me why she had been in such a mood when she got home. In her position, she did, occasionally, have to participate in ‘rigorous interrogations;’ Mistress never used the word ‘torture;’ however much she hated using violence against people. In her heart, Mistress knew that she was in the wrong line of work, but until the war was over, she was stuck with it, whether she liked it or not. Once I learned to recognize her moods, I always soothed her feelings when she had a ‘day at the office’ like that. It was rare that she didn’t get spanked for it, and as time progressed, the spankings grew harder and heavier, as she began to feel more and more guilty for what duty made her do to other human beings.
When we were in bed that night, for the first time ever, Mistress thanked me for the pleasure I was giving her, and asked me what I wanted in way of a reward. I’d have loved to have been able to go outside, into Mistress’ little garden and sunbathe, even if just for one day, but I knew it couldn’t be, so I asked for something I hadn’t seen in months; a big chocolate bar. Mistress’ pet racketeer delivered a box of thirty American Hershey Bars within a couple of days, and I gorged myself like a pig for the rest of the week. I noticed though, that Mistress didn’t take any of my Hershey Bars, even when I offered. She said that she got them for me, and if she wanted any, she’d have gotten a box for herself. My bars were a present, and she simply refused to take any of my present away from me.
I never asked Mistress how she could afford all the nice things she got from her pet racketeer, but I got the impression that she must have been doing something illegal, apart from bedding me, of course. Mistress must have been involved in some kind of racket, herself, just to be able to afford the life she lived. I had begun to get the impression that she was taking money from people for something, but she never told me what it was. Maybe she was forging travel documents, or identity cards.
I could remember one evening, standing in Mistress’ kitchen when Mistress slid up alongside me and put her arm around my waist. What I remember most about that evening, though, wasn’t anything that Mistress did or said, but the feeling of Mistress’ service pistol pressing into my side. It was a reminder of what Mistress was, and of what she did, and it made me feel uncomfortable. I must have been feeling brave that night, because I told Mistress how uncomfortable that gun made me feel and asked her to take it off, so she opened the buckle on the belt, and allowed the pistol holster to fall to the floor, before pulling me close and hugging me tight.
On the night of Mistress’ twenty-fifth birthday, she introduced me to a new sensation; the ‘double penetration!’ I was kneeling on the bed after my regular spanking. Mistress had the usual brush handle deep in my sex, sliding it in and out and listening to my whimpering. I was surprised when she released her grip on it, and produced a second toy, already covered in a condom, and began to rub Vaseline into it.
Instinctively, I knew what Mistress was going to do with it. I had read about that in one of the dirty books that had come into my possession, and remembering what was written about how much it could hurt an unprepared woman, I was a little afraid. I had earned Mistress’ respect by then, and I didn’t want to lose it, so I didn’t do anything silly like beg her not to do what I knew she wanted to do. I can remember catching her arm, just before she began to ease the toy up my bum, and asking, quietly, “Be gentle, Mistress, please?”
“I will, I promise. Once you get used to the feel of one of these in here,” she stroked my bumhole, “you’ll enjoy it as much as I do. Tell me if I hurt you too much, and I’ll stop.”
At first I was too tensed up, and Mistress was unable to achieve penetration, but as I managed to calm down, with a little pressure on the other toy, Mistress managed to get the tip inside me. It did hurt a little at first, but as the sensation began to build, and I felt the two toys touching each other, through part of my body, I began to whimper quite freely, and quite loudly. Mistress stopped pleasuring me; although just long enough to gag me with a rolled-up nylon, because she was worried that I’d make too much noise, and draw attention that we didn’t want. Then she returned to pleasuring both of my sensitive orifices, with her two little toys, and I was in sexual heaven, as I toyed with my erect nipples the way Mistress had shown me. I’d never known an orgasm as intense as the one that crashed through my body as I knelt on the bed, and when Mistress told me that I could remove my gag, I thanked her for the pleasure.
Then we changed places, I gagged Mistress, and then plunged both toys inside her body, intermittently releasing one toy or the other and gently spanking her plump little bum cheeks.