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Kommandantur |
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To most young women it wasn't a pleasant place to find oneself, but I enjoyed my job very much. I worked nights in the offices, filing and typing. But during the day I guarded female prisoners on work detail. My co-workers - fellow SS Aufseherinnen - either loved it or hated it. There were plenty of patriotic young men, most of them quite handsome and likeable, employed here, and all members of the knightly Teutonic order, the Schutzstaffel. I loved to watch "our boys" annihilate the prisoners, while we auxiliaries were content to beat and whip our women... without mercy, of course. Among them were the sickest representations of human trash--criminals, lunatics, jewesses, reds, jew-sympathizers, and gypsies to name a few. We had to be tough, thorough and unrelenting in all aspects. We weren't instructed by the SS; we needed no instruction greater than our own thirst for blood and revenge--a rightful and sweet revenge never seen before in history. Wagner's Die Walkure played in one of the offices, accompanied by male and female chatter and drunken laughter. It was probably Gunther and his latest girlfriend, as he had a key to the Kommandant's office and used it often to liberate his brandy. None of us were lonely, there was a sense of kameraderie between us all, regardless of gender. In our little corner of the earth, inside the barbed wire, was our kingdom, our mini-Reich. Most of the other Aufseherinnen had boyfriends, either inside the camp or fighting at the front. I was alone, because none of the guards could come close to the object of my affections. Baldur the handsome, the merciless, the cruel. He was desired even by the pieces of human trash who dare call themselves women. He endeared himself to them, right before he had them slaughtered. We all admired his good looks. I'd even hemmed my skirt up an inch or two to catch his eye. With one word he could have the whole camp liquidated. There were the officers who liked interrogation and torture, but few loved it as my Baldur did. Some of the girls still turned their heads at an execution, I stared with wonder at the power of it all. The man who held the power of life or death, like a blood-drenched halo over the heads of all, was the king. And in my loveliest dreams I longed to be his queen. A pungent but recognizable aroma filled the air in the main hall. The unmistakable scent of cooking oil was wafting out from the interrogation room. The door was slightly ajar. The light was on, and voices could be heard just inside--one talked, the other screamed wildly. My view was obscured by the fogged plate glass window, but there was little doubt a prisoner was being "questioned." I lightly pressed the door, careful not to create any noise. I knew almost all of the "treatments" those being "questioned" received. Boiling, drowning, freezing, and of course beatings to name just a few. Peeking through the crack in the door confirmed my earlier suspicion--this was the hot oil treatment, perhaps the most painful of all. There lay the prisoner, a haggard, revolting figure, on the table. Three of the SS were there, one guard- Unterscharfuehrer Wulf Glidig, SS Mann Schaell, administering the treatment and mein Liebling Baldur--the perfect interrogator. He was clad in his finest dress uniform, he knew that it couldn't hurt to look like he meant business. The oil bubbled and crackled in a pan heated in the corner of the room by a portable camp stove, it was brought over, first by the spoonful, then by the cupful, and lastly, the whole pan was brought. The first place it was poured was on the soles of the prisoner's feet--the skin was thickest there, and the pain was minimal. The idea was to increase the pain and increase the amount of oil used in order to get the desired result: confession or death. Pouring the oil down the prisoner's throat would certainly bring about the latter. By the time I had chanced to walk by, they were up to half a cup, which Schaell poured on the prisoner's knees. The pain must have been great, he screamed louder than before, but still he did not confess. His screams led Wulf to pistol whip him several times to my delight. I loved to watch my co-workers enjoy their duties, and lived for the day that we might share acts of necessary brutality, together. The bruised, bloody, and burned man did not confess. Who could care what he had done? Perhaps the guys were just bored that night! "One cup," Baldur ordered, and Glidig fetched it for him. This time Baldur would pour it. I watched as my love poured the hot, boiling oil over the prisoner's legs causing the loudest, most painful shriek of torment I had ever heard. I became aware at that moment I desired Baldur now more than ever. If he was this good at pain, how was he at pleasure? And just as I was letting my imagination run wild with thoughts of my love, of enjoying a night of bloody, satisfying slaughter, I felt a hand on my shoulder. "What are you doing there, day-dreaming?" the voice said. It was Baldur. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be here," I heard myself say. I started to leave, but he resisted. "Why don't you come in here if you're so curious," he invited. My pulse raced, as did my imagination. Besides, who was I to turn down such an invitation? My eyes were fixed upon the prisoner, whose feet and legs were in some places scorched red, and parts were masses of yellow pus-filled bubbles of cooked, stinking flesh. He was no longer screaming, but moaning in agony, mumbling something I couldn't understand. The men gave me a look of approval, that I might partake in this activity with them. I unholstered my nightstick, and let it slam against his sagging, rancid stomach. "Shut up, yid! How dare you look at a German woman the way you do!" At which they had a good laugh. "That's the spirit!" young Wulf said. I let my inner beast unleash itself on this pitiful, worthless object. Wulf handed me his Luger, which I aimed at the old man. As I held it on him, steadily aimed at his head, I saw the sweat bead on his filthy skin. He knew the others would torture him to death, but the idea of being shot scared the old man shitless. "Sorry, you schwein. You're not worth the bullet," and with that, I let the butt of the steel gun ram against his ugly jew head as hard as I could. Schaell held me back from doing further damage. I could have killed him, and I knew I wanted to. The prisoner was now partially conscious, blood dripped from his forehead to the table beneath him. All the Aufseherinnen knew about Baldur and his particular enjoyment of cruelty. He really, really enjoyed it. It certainly give him an erotic thrill to punish the üntermenschen. When I was fortunate enough to be assigned day patrol of the women's section, I rarely deprived myself of the thrill. I'd never encountered an escapee, but I had a reputation as a vicious woman among the female prisoners--when I found someone to be work-shy or speaking needlessly, I'd whip them terribly. I'd order all work on my detail to stop for a minute as I made an example. The girls would have to count the strokes themselves, if they grew weak and lost count, the whipping would start from the beginning. I longed for the day we SS ladies would be issued pistols. Perhaps they're afraid we'd run up huge ammo and cremation costs with our high body counts. I saw Baldur shoot many prisoners, and it never ceased to arouse me--or him. I loved to see him, his face splattered with fresh blood--that wild look in his eyes. He was an irresistible beast, his lust for blood matched only by my lust for him. Of course we were made for each other. Baldur ordered for the prisoner to be taken to the disused Examination Blok 7, and that they could continue the interrogation however they saw fit. Given the young men's lack of creativity they'd just beat the old bastard to death. As soon as we were alone, I felt Baldur's hot breath on the back of my neck. I wondered how long I could stand it before I had to make love to him. Must he torture me, as well?! He ran his smooth, perfectly manicured fingers through my hair, and still I did not move. My heart raced, I needed him so desperately. I felt a warm hand stroking my inner thigh, underneath my shortly-hemmed skirt, almost finding itself to the perfect spot. Then, as suddenly as he had ordered his subordinates to leave, he stopped his teasing touches. "The night isn't over yet," he whispered to me. And with that we left the interrogation room, trusting him completely, but unaware of where I was headed, I followed Baldur in the direction of the camp entrance. We walked past the sentries, who saluted us. Two guards then followed on either side, as we strode through the weighty iron gate: "Honor comes from Labor," it read. Of course it was a lie--the prisoners would never be honorable, regardless of how much labor they performed on our behalf. We marched through the Appelplatz like living gods. Baldur ordered the guards to enter the barracks, rounding up anyone who was still awake. The searchlight was redirected to follow them, as they beat the prisoners out of bed with their truncheons. In the center of the Appelplatz where Baldur and I stood, was a smooth surfaced table used as a desk to take down names for roll call and processing. The prisoners, mostly men, were amassed several feet away from the table. There was about thirty of them. Some fell over from sleepiness, inviting a pistol whip here, a truncheon blow there from the guards. Through this whole undertaking, Baldur just grinned slightly, smoking one of his government-issue cigarettes. Then when the guards had fulfilled their duty, Baldur guided me over to him, where he kissed me. We did not care if thirty, one hundred, one thousand idiot jews watched us. We knew that they would soon be watching nothing. Of course we kissed with wild animal passion--for we had been wanting each other badly for months. It didn't take much to get us both worked up, it had been so very long for me anyway. Strangely enough, I was oblivious to the many eyes watching us--the guards, the prisoners. We stood there in the center of our kingdom, in the path of the searchlight. I removed my feldgrau jacket, and let it fall to the table. I let my hands caress the earthy wool of Baldur's uniform, slowly unbuttoning the tunic and white dress shirt underneath, kissing and sucking on his neck. I ran my tongue up and down his soft, but pleasant chest, as he threw off his shirts, and tossed them over to the guard. He unholstered his Luger pistol, and let it set on the table. I proceeded to remove my shirt and skirt, which caused some ominous chatter among the guards who had joined this curious activity. Baldur undid his gray wool breeches, slipping them past his shiny black leather boots. I let my shoes drop in the mud, as I pulled myself on the table. Baldur proceeded to climb onto the table, and finally our bodies touched. And as I felt his kruppstahl manhood enter me, Baldur took the Luger into his hand and pulled back the hammer. He started from the right, he shot one of the many anonymous prisoners. It must have been a head shot, a little blood found its way to the table. Baldur then let me get a hand on the gun. My finger firmly on the trigger, as he let his tongue play with my hardened nipples, I let a shot ring out. I looked away from my lover for a moment, and saw that I had struck a woman in her neck. She choked on her own blood for a minute, then slumped to the ground. I moaned, louder and louder, as I shot in the general direction of the prisoners behind me. I knew that I had hit one from the guards' reaction. Then Baldur took the gun from me, firing wildly into the crowd of prisoners, the whole time thrusting himself inside of me, harder and faster with each kill. He ordered the prisoners be brought a little closer now, and the frightened crowd complied. I wrapped my legs around him, tightening every muscle, pushed him off of me, and onto his back. I loosened the Luger from his grip, and sitting on top of him, I aimed and expertly shot five in the head. He leaned his head over the edge of the table to watch the prisoners, upside-down, slump over dead after their skulls burst from the bullet's pressure. His face had become blood-splattered, just how I liked it. I felt my muscles tighten and grab onto his manhood. Neither of us could take much more pleasure. As I felt a deep surge of pleasure amass in my loins, I shot once more. The blood had found its way to my face and chest, the wild look had come to my eyes, and this sight was too much for him to handle. "Ohhhh ja," we moaned over and over as we came. Exhausted and totally satisfied, we stayed on the table, amid stunned silence. There would be no witnesses to this event, aside from fellow SS, Baldur decided. He ordered the guards to hand over their submachine guns to us. And, nude except for his shiny black boots, Baldur stood up, as did I. We readied the guns and in a mess of gunfire, blood, and screams, relieved the prisoners of the burdens of this life. The guards turned off the light, and dragged the bodies to a nearby personnel truck. Baldur and I dressed, and left the Appelplatz. Upon looking in Examination Blok 7, he was pleased to see the old man was still alive. Schaell and Glidig dragged him back to the interrogation room of the Kommandantur. I watched for a minute as Schaell dripped oil on the man, and saw that same smile form on Baldur's sweet lips as he closed the door. +++++++++++++++++++++
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