Why else do you think I let you use this printing press? Not because I give a damn one way or the other what happens to this country. If Hitler wins the war, then we'll all be happy. If he loses, so what? I can always take care of myself, I am like a cat. But you're here now, Kurt, and I want you so. You know how you excite me, please.” Her voice had grown wheedling now, tinged with the huskiness of her unashamed passion. He closed his eyes and prayed that Helga would forgive him if she one day found out, because he knew that she would understand when it was all over.
“Oh, Liebling!” Kathy Flichtsen gasped as she drew his stiffened cock out of his fly, “you're marvelous, but you know what I really want. I've been a bad girl. I want the Herr Professor to give me ein gutes Schlagen on my naughty bare Arsch, bitte.”
She sank down to her knees, suddenly, clasping her hands and looking up at him. He trembled, for like any imaginative and intellectual man, he was not immune from the poisonous and insidious temptation of conquest by force, passion through coercion, and he knew that Kathy Flichtsen was an avid masochist. If the Gestapo ever questioned her, he cynically thought to himself, she would probably he enchanted by the attentions they paid her. She would probably ask them to whip her even harder and then to ravish her. He knew her type only too well.
But because he needed her, because he wanted to have that press ready when the next issue of Till Eulenspiegel came out, he now acquiesced.
“Yes, you've been a wicked girl. A real slut,” he heard himself saying in a harsh, inflexible voice. “I want you lying over that trunk, with your skirts up to your armpits, and you're to lower your own panties, naturlich. You're to have your palms on the floor, the bare stone floor, Kathy. And then I'm going to whip you very hard.”
“Ja, ja, that's what I want! Oh, danke, danke, Liebling!” Kathy Flichtsen excitedly exclaimed.
She rose quickly now, tugging up her dress and slip to her armpits, tucking them under there by pressing her arms tightly against them as her hands groped for the white cotton panties which snugged her jouncy, oval-cheeked behind with its gradually broadening cleft. Her long thighs, shapely and muscularly agile, were enhanced rather than marred by the gray lisle stockings which wartime necessity had made her wear. For a young girl to wear silk on her legs or on her person these days was considered almost treasonable unless of course she happened to be the mistress of some high-ranking Nazi or industrialist who was winning the war for Der Fuhrer.
She gripped the waistband of the panties, rucked them down to her upper thighs, and then hurried over to the broad low trunk. It was an old heavy wooden trunk, with thick ridges running all around it in about four or five places, and these ridges would press against her bare flesh and, he knew, add immeasurably to her masochistic fervor.
She draped herself hastily over the trunk, and she bent her head and shoulders well down and reached for the floor with her palms. In this pose, her naked bottom, pink and quivering and taut, loomed up, and he could see the shadowy furrow between the quivering cheeks, and he could also see the dark brown tufts of her cunt framing the pink twitching and even now slightly moist lips of the vulva.
“Whip me hard, Professor, I deserve it,” she crooned, licking her lips, her eyes shining and very wide as she waited. The wings of her nostrils opened and closed with a voluptuous acceleration now, betraying the almost hysterical intensity of her own lubricity.
He glanced around for some implement. She had long since graduated from wanting just a good spanking with the hand. She wanted to be beaten, she always insisted, beaten; she used the word with a loving intonation as some women would refer to the word “love.” That was her need. And he must satisfy it, cost what it may.
He saw a leather strap lying on the floor
“Oh, Liebling!” Kathy Flichtsen gasped as she drew his stiffened cock out of his fly, “you're marvelous, but you know what I really want. I've been a bad girl. I want the Herr Professor to give me ein gutes Schlagen on my naughty bare Arsch, bitte.”
She sank down to her knees, suddenly, clasping her hands and looking up at him. He trembled, for like any imaginative and intellectual man, he was not immune from the poisonous and insidious temptation of conquest by force, passion through coercion, and he knew that Kathy Flichtsen was an avid masochist. If the Gestapo ever questioned her, he cynically thought to himself, she would probably he enchanted by the attentions they paid her. She would probably ask them to whip her even harder and then to ravish her. He knew her type only too well.
But because he needed her, because he wanted to have that press ready when the next issue of Till Eulenspiegel came out, he now acquiesced.
“Yes, you've been a wicked girl. A real slut,” he heard himself saying in a harsh, inflexible voice. “I want you lying over that trunk, with your skirts up to your armpits, and you're to lower your own panties, naturlich. You're to have your palms on the floor, the bare stone floor, Kathy. And then I'm going to whip you very hard.”
“Ja, ja, that's what I want! Oh, danke, danke, Liebling!” Kathy Flichtsen excitedly exclaimed.
She rose quickly now, tugging up her dress and slip to her armpits, tucking them under there by pressing her arms tightly against them as her hands groped for the white cotton panties which snugged her jouncy, oval-cheeked behind with its gradually broadening cleft. Her long thighs, shapely and muscularly agile, were enhanced rather than marred by the gray lisle stockings which wartime necessity had made her wear. For a young girl to wear silk on her legs or on her person these days was considered almost treasonable unless of course she happened to be the mistress of some high-ranking Nazi or industrialist who was winning the war for Der Fuhrer.
She gripped the waistband of the panties, rucked them down to her upper thighs, and then hurried over to the broad low trunk. It was an old heavy wooden trunk, with thick ridges running all around it in about four or five places, and these ridges would press against her bare flesh and, he knew, add immeasurably to her masochistic fervor.
She draped herself hastily over the trunk, and she bent her head and shoulders well down and reached for the floor with her palms. In this pose, her naked bottom, pink and quivering and taut, loomed up, and he could see the shadowy furrow between the quivering cheeks, and he could also see the dark brown tufts of her cunt framing the pink twitching and even now slightly moist lips of the vulva.
“Whip me hard, Professor, I deserve it,” she crooned, licking her lips, her eyes shining and very wide as she waited. The wings of her nostrils opened and closed with a voluptuous acceleration now, betraying the almost hysterical intensity of her own lubricity.
He glanced around for some implement. She had long since graduated from wanting just a good spanking with the hand. She wanted to be beaten, she always insisted, beaten; she used the word with a loving intonation as some women would refer to the word “love.” That was her need. And he must satisfy it, cost what it may.
He saw a leather strap lying on the floor