Free Slaves of the Swastika by Kenneth Harding Page A

which he adjusted around the naked woman's ankles as Willi Murtens lifted her up in his arms with her legs uppermost and her head dangling towards the floor. When the noose was tight, Manfred Strobel nodded and Willi Murtens released the weeping and pleading victim. She swung in the air in a kind of pendulum, back and forth, until her momentum slackened. The rope had been so adjusted that her head was only about two feet from the floor. Manfred Strobel had clambered onto a heavy wooden stool which he had drawn out into the center of the room just in front of the hook to accomplish this maneuver.

    Willi Murtens now took a length of rope, the same as he had used to bind her wrists to the table, and bound her wrists this time behind her back. Now Helga Nordheim was absolutely helpless, and a sense of cringing terror congealed her entire body as she dangled from the hood upside down.
    The Oberst pushed the stool in front of her head, seated himself on it after first unbuttoning his trousers and liberating his broadly thick and commendably long angrily stiff prick. In his right hand there was the riding crop again, with whose flap he began to flick at her nipples, already swollen and darkened and excruciatingly sensitive from the work of the tweezers. “If you feel like stopping this for a few moments, my dear Helga,” he blandly told the weeping woman, “all you have to do is swing yourself a little towards me until your mouth manages to reach my cock. It's like catching the gold ring on the merry-go-round, you might say, my dear Helga. And then if you can give me a good blow job, I might be inclined to give you a little rest before we proceed with the rest of the interrogation. Do you understand me, my dear? Very good. Let's see how energetic you are. You're getting a little fleshy in the hips and tummy, I've noticed, so the exercise will do you a world of good.”
    With this, laughing uproariously—in which his two subordinates greedily joined him—the Gestapo officer began to flick at Helga's titties and belly and the insides of her thighs with the flap of the leather riding crop, while the shrieks and imploring, incoherent pleas of the unfortunate captive rang out in the interrogation chamber. Jerking her bound wrists, twisting and arching her shoulders, she managed to achieve a slight movement back and fro, which the quickened and more cruelly stinging flicks of the riding crop encouraged, until at last she was swinging about a foot this way and that. The stool brought his loins to almost an exact level with her mouth, which of course he had calculated in advance. He spread his legs, and with his left forefinger beckoned to her as he would to a dog: “You're almost there, Helga... ach gut! Just a little more will do it—there you are, now try to hold it—oh, too bad, you missed me! Better luck next time, you pretty bitch!” And, to punish her for failure—for her lips had just managed to graze the straining tip of his swollen prick, the Gestapo officer lifted up the riding crop and slashed down between her naked legs right on her hairless pussy, wresting an indescribable and prolonged shriek of maddened agony from the desperate naked woman.
    Her jerks and contortions in the air made the two privates roar with salacious laughter, and it also stiffened their pricks for a new encounter in her already ravaged quim. But the unfortunate wife of Professor Kurt Nordheim could think of only one thing, to stop this merciless, inhuman torment, and she swung and twisted herself until at last her lips managed to clamp over the prickhead of the Nazi officer and then, directed by a wicked cut of the crop over the base of her bottom, she began noisily to suck and to mouth that obscene weapon.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    The two young couples had taken pains not to draw suspicion on themselves when they left Kathy Flichtsen's house. But luck was against them on this particular occasion. Max Dornburg, though wearing glasses and rejected by the