Paris 1944

It was early August in Paris. The Allies had already landed in Normandy, and were marching on Paris. I knew that it was only a matter of time before Paris fell. But I hoped to be out of the city before then. I had already negotiated an escape route into the friendly regime in Spain – and, from there, I could go almost anywhere in the world.

   My name? Hanna Schreiber. My occupation? Gestapo interrogator. I prided myself on being one of the best torturers in France. Only a woman could truly know another woman’s most sensitive areas. And I took a pride in my work. I could break anybody.

   I looked out of the windows of my apartment down at the streets of the city. Paris seemed quiet, at the moment. But that was only the calm before the storm. The Americans were coming. Not that you would have known it looking down on that street. I could see a couple of German soldiers on a street corner, laughing and sharing cigarettes. Perhaps they were happy that they were not on the front lines. The latest news was that the Americans, under Patton, had broken through at Avranches.

   I glanced back at my bed. There was a naked woman spread-eagled on my bed. She was a dancer from the Folies-Bergère, and was suspected of being in the Resistance. I was to break her and find out everything which she knew. And break her I would, because that was my job and I loved it, even though, in the long run, it wouldn’t matter. Paris would be lost as soon as the Americans got here.

   Her name was Minette something or other. She had the good physique of all dancers. Her pubic hair had been trimmed a little, and she had good legs and fair-sized breasts. She still looked beautiful. But I had not played with her yet. Depending on when Minette talked, that beauty might be permanently marred. And that bush had to go. When I tortured a cunt I liked it to be bald. It looked so much more defenceless.

   She wasn’t gagged. I wanted her to talk, after all. She would scream before that happened, though. But everybody else in the area knew what I did – and nobody cared. I could torture her with impunity. At least until I had to make myself scarce, before the Allies arrived.

   “Do you wish to name the other members of your Resistance cell before I begin torturing you?” I asked, as I turned away from the window. It was time to get to work.

   She spat at me, and said something rude in French. I ignored her. So she intended not to talk? Good. I didn’t like it when they talked too soon. I enjoyed my job, after all. But she would talk. Everybody would break, in the end. It was only a matter of time.

   I stood at the end of the bed, looking down at her. I was wearing my black Gestapo uniform. It helped inspire fear in those I tortured, I found. Everybody feared the Gestapo.

   She shivered. It had to be with fear, as it was warm in the room. Her nipples were erect, I noticed, little brown peaks on her dark areolae. Perhaps they were anticipating the pain which I intended to bring to them.

   I glanced over at the table beside the bed. My torture equipment was spread out on the table. I had made sure that the French bitch could see what was on the table, so that she would have some idea of what I intended to do to her. There was a pair of pliers, a dozen long hatpins, a pack of cigarettes, a cigarette lighter, a leather whip, and a pair of tweezers. There was also a hand-cranked electrical generator with wires leading to a nasty pair of clamps. The clamps were really cruel just by themselves. I couldn’t even bear to have one closed on a finger. But that was not where they would be going on the helpless Minette.

   I picked up the tweezers.

   “I like to work on a bare cunt.” I explained to Minette, as I kneeled between her widespread legs. “All that hair has to go.”

   I began to pluck out her pubic hair. I grasped a single hair in the end of the tweezers and pulled. I pulled slowly, so that the flesh was pulled up a little before the hair pulled free. She gasped. She had felt that. I pulled out more hairs, trying to make it as painful as possible, as I slowly denuded her groin.

   I closed the tweezers on a hair at its root, making sure that I pinched a tiny little bit of skin at its base. I pulled hard, removing not only the hair but the tiniest bit of skin. She gasped louder at the pain, but did not scream yet. So she was tough. I had broken lots of tough people before. They always broke. You simply had to find the pain which they psychologically could not deal with. A week ago there had been this French tough guy, who had taken a brutal whipping with only a few grunts of pain. But when I had hooked up his balls to the electrical shock machine he had spilled his guts. Then, before him, there had been another female member of the Resistance. Whipping, electricity, needles, nothing had seemed to break her. But when I had threatened her face with a knife she had broken, scared of losing her beauty. Both of those people were dead now, of course. They had faced a firing squad as traitors. Which was a shame, as far as I was concerned, as I would have liked to have worked on them some more. If there was one thing which I desired it was somebody I could torture beyond breaking – who I could have in pain not for these brief moments of an interrogation, but for many years to come. Ah, perhaps once the war was over I could find somewhere where I could work on a victim without wars getting in the way.

   I concentrated on the task at hand. By the time that I had pulled out half the hairs on the French bitch’s cunt I noticed something odd – she was becoming aroused. Her labia had parted slightly, and I could smell the scent of arousal coming from it. Her breathing was heavier. And her face and chest were flushed. Also, I could clearly see her rather large clit peeking out from under its protective hood. Her clit was larger than mine. Mine was only the size of a pear. But hers was the size of a cherry. It made me feel jealous. But I would make her over-sized clit a source of pain not pleasure, before the night was over.

   I stopped pulling her pubic hair out, at least for the moment. I wanted to get comfortable – and to give her a break so that my pulling her pubic hair out did not inadvertently lead to an orgasm this was supposed to be torture, not pleasure. Still, though, a woman who enjoyed pain was a find as far as I was concerned. I wished that I could just put this French bitch in a suitcase to take her away with me when I fled to Spain.

   I took off my Gestapo jacket and my shirt, and my brassiere. I was now naked from the waist up. I, too, was turned on, and my nipples were erect. I liked to work naked towards the end. For I am a true sadist. I found that I could orgasm merely by the infliction of pain on unwilling victims. Also, I had removed the top of my uniform to keep it clean should thing become bloody a little later on…

   I hung up my uniform ready for the next time that I would wear it. I could feel the eyes of Minette on me as I walked around the room. I hoped that she feared me. It would make breaking her easier.

   I climbed back on the bed, between her legs, and continued my worker with the tweezers, not resting until every hair had gone. By the time that I had finished she had lots of little red marks on her pubic mound from where I had pulled out skin as well as a curly black hair. But she had not said anything. All that she had done was moan. I suspected that it would take a lot more to break this Frenchwoman. I smiled. We had all night, and she would break before the sun next shone down on the Seine.

   I put the tweezers back on the table. I got off the bad, and moved to the side of the bed. I picked up the whip. It was time to redden this bitch’s skin.

   The whip was an old-fashioned cat o’ nine tails. There were nine strands. At the end of each leather strand a small metal ball had been sewn into it. The whip was designed to hurt rather than mutilate. I could whip away knowing that I would not kill the slut. After all, however much I loved bringing pain to the French cunt, I still had to get the names of the others in her Resistance cell.

   “I am now going to whip your entire body.” I told her. “You may give me the names now. Otherwise you will have to wait until I have completed the whipping.”

   “Go suck a horse, you Nazi bitch!” she shouted at me, in very accented German.

   “You will regret saying that.” I said. I drew the whip back over my shoulder, and brought it down so that the weighted ends of the whip hit her right arm.

   WHIPPPP

   She winced, but did not give me the pleasure of crying out in pain.

   WHIPPPP

   WHIPPPP

   WHIPPPP

   I continued whipping her right arm until I had reddened it from wrist to shoulder. Then I moved around the other side of the bed and did the same to her right arm. She winced with each blow, but managed to stay silent. But there were areas far more sensitive than her arms.

   I whipped her left leg next, slowly travelling up from ankle to the top of her thigh. That was more painful for her, and she swore at me in French. But I did not care. I continued whipping her left leg until I had reddened the entire leg.

   Her right leg was similarly whipped. She bore the pain well, and I knew that I was still a long way from breaking her. But that was good, I was now turned on, by the thought of what I was going to do to her. I knew that I would orgasm before the night was over – and that it would be without having to even tough my little clitoris.

   Her stomach was next. That caused an intake of breath, and more insults. I ignored them. She would regret insulting a member of the Gestapo.

   WHIPPPP

   WHIPPPP

   WHIPPPP

   Soon her stomach was similarly cover by bright red lines. A couple of them were leaking blood. But they would heal, given time, eventually not even leaving a mark. Unfortunately, though, time was not what she had. If I found that she was a resistance bitch then she would face a firing squad. What a waste…

   “I am going to whip your breasts next.” I informed her.

   “You cannot do that.” she said. “You will ruin me.”

   “So give me the names of your cell.”

   “Fuck you, bitch!”

   I raise the whip and brought it slicing down on her luscious, milky-white breasts. The little metal balls bit into her defenceless flesh. I had struck the underside of her breasts. She screamed in pain. She was to do a lot of screaming in the next few minutes.

   I kept working over her breasts, strip after stripe, until the silly bitch fainted from the pain. But she wasn’t going to escape that easily. I took out a small vial from my coat pocket, where it was hanging. It looked like a tiny medicine bottle. I took off the top of the bottle and held it under her nose. She woke up coughing.

   “You will not escape the pain.” I said. “If necessary I have something which I can inject to keep you awake, something dreamt up by our superior Nazi science for such interrogations as this. But that is rare, and I would prefer not to waste it. So do not fall asleep again.”

   I put the top back on the bottle, and put it back in my coat pocket. Her breasts were deep red, and leaked blood in a few places.

   I went to stand at the foot of the bed. I said nothing to the French bitch. Nor did she bother to beg. She had worked out what was coming next.

   I brought the metal-tipped strands of the cat o’ nine tails down on her defenceless, denuded cunt. She screamed, and bucked, as best as she could in her bonds. I did not hurry. I was enjoying seeing the red lines appear on her soft flesh. I whipped her cunt again and again, waiting, after each paroxysm of pain, for her to settle on the bed, so that she would fully appreciate the pain caused by each stroke.

   At the end I placed the whip back on the table.

   “Who else is in your Resistance cell?” I asked her again.

   “I would rather die than betray my friends, you Nazi whore! Go eat shit!”

   She was still defiant. It was amazing. She was amazing. Most women would have been broken by now.

   I put an exploratory finger in her cunt. I was not surprised to find it wet. On one level she was enjoying this. She was a true masochist.

   I glanced at the table to see what I had not yet used. There were the pliers, the hatpins, the cigarettes, and the hand-cranked generator. I decided to use the pliers next, and crush her nipples. Perhaps that would make her talk. Then I could deliver the information. After that, I would have all night to carry on torturing Minette before she was collected for her execution. I would not waste a minute. Few victims were as attractive as her; and none of the others had responded with arousal to my cruel ministrations.

   I denuded myself before climbing onto the bed, the pliers in my hands. I was very aroused. Minette looked at my perfectly shaven cunt but said nothing. There was fire in her eyes, though, as though she was telling me to do my worst.

   I decided to concentrate on her nipples. I was leaving her large clitoris for later. Besides, I feared that if I crushed it with the pliers that I would bring the masochist to an orgasm through pain alone.

   I reached over to her breasts. The bitch tried to shrink away from my attentions. But there was nowhere to go.

   I closed the pliers slowly over her left nipple. I had to resist the urge to crush the nipple flat. It was not yet time for mutilations. Those would come later – if she didn’t talk.

   I stared into her eyes as I squeezed, and she stared back into mine. I could see the defiance very slowly beginning to melt away into submission. But she was not there yet.

   I squeezed more, causing her to scream loudly. I pulled the nipple upwards, turning her breast into a cone. I twisted it as though it was a wireless, and I was searching for a signal. I did everything apart from pull it off. By the time I loosed the pliers it was red and swollen.

  I reached over, with the pliers, towards the other nipple.

   “No, please, have mercy.” she whispered. But I had no mercy. There was only one way that I would stop, and that was when she gave up her secrets.

   The pliers closed on the right nipple, as Minette screamed. I twisted and pulled on that nipple, until that one, too, was as red and swollen as the left. Minette was now covered with a thin film of sweat, and panting heavily. She looked exhausted. But I was not finished with her. I put the pliers back on the table beside the bed.

   It was time for the pain of having her flesh pierced. I thought about putting needles under her fingernails. I understood that that was very painful. But I wanted to hurt parts more sexual than a bunch of fingers. It had to be her breasts and pubic mound.

   “If you want this to stop then you must talk.” I instructed her. But she shook her head.

   I forced the first hatpin into the underside of her left breast, not going deeply but only piercing the surface flesh. I heard Minette groan. It was the sound of pleasure as much as pain.

   A needle went through the underside of Minette’s right breast. Minette looked down to see the hatpins buried in her breasts.

   Two more impaled her upper breasts. I played with the ends of the pins slightly, to concentrate Minette’s mind on the pain, and remind her that there were still six more pins to go.

   I slowly pierced each swollen nipple, two through each nub, making an X-shape. That left four of the hatpins. The four ended up in her labia, sticking out from her groin. None in her clit as yet. I was hoping that she would talk before then; and as her slit was dripping there was the distinct possibility that she might enjoy it. I removed the needles when I knew that they were not enough.

   The stubborn bitch still hadn’t broken. A part of me was glad, for I could torture her some more. But I would need those names. So I picked up the pack of Gitanes cigarettes. I slid one out of the packet, and put it in my mouth. It made me feel even sexier. I had always found the image of other women smoking to be arousing, ever since I had been aware of my own sexuality. I lit the cigarette with the cigarette lighter. Minette watched, but said nothing. Perhaps the silly little whore thought that I was taking a cigarette break.

   Then came one of my favourite tortures, applying lit cigarettes to the sensitive parts of a victim. I touched the first cigarette to her left armpit. Being a dancer she shaved her armpits, unlike many French whores.

   She jumped as the ember on the cigarette touched her armpit. She didn’t say anything, but glanced at me with a look of hatred which was truly beautiful for behind the hatred I could sense the fear. That meant that I was getting to her.

   I burnt inside her other armpit. They can be very sensitive places. She tied to twist away. But her bonds prevented her getting away.

   I traced the cigarette down her body, giving only the barest touch to her beautiful body. I knocked off some ash in her navel. She jumped when the hot ash touched her.

   I moved the burning cigarette back up to her breasts. I allowed its glowing end to touch the areolae of her right breast. It hurt, but the marks would fade. I had used cigarettes enough times to know that. Not that it mattered. Not with the French tart tied to the bed.

   Her body jumped as I burned her areolae. I touched the cigarette end to her other breast, getting her to jump again. But she said nothing. She didn’t even scream. Obviously I wasn’t hurting her badly enough.

   I went down to her cunt. I held it open with one hand, and moved the cigarette closer with the other. I burned her cunt lips, three burns on each. Now she moaned. But it almost sounded like she was enjoying the heat.

   I went back up to her tortured and whipped breasts. I held her left breast in my hand. The cigarette was now in my mouth. I bent down so that the lit end of the cigarette was touching her nipple. Then I drew air threw the cigarette, smoking it, so that the red end flared up orange. She screamed out loud. I did the other nipple the same. She now had black burn marks on each nipple. She groaned again, shaking her head from side to side.

   “Are you ready to talk?” I asked. But she shook her head. No.

   The bitch still had to be broken. It was time for electricity. I took the two crocodile-toothed clamps. I attached one to her left cunt lip, low down. She jumped with pain when the metal teeth crushed her pale flesh. I attached the other clip to her right cunt lip, but father up, making sure that the metal clamps would not touch each other.

   I could imagine other metal devices to which the wires could be attached. It should not be impossible to get one the size of a pencil, but made out of metal, so that it could be forced into a victim’s urethra. You could make a dildo out of metal, and use it on either hole of a woman. Perhaps, after the war, I would see if I could get ones like that made. For now, though, I had to make do with what I had.

   “Do you want to talk? Last chance.”

   She shook her head. I didn’t ask again.

   I stood next to the hand-cranked generator. I began to turn the crank slowly, at first. She gasped, and her body tightened. As I increased the speed she screamed, as the centre of her body lifted up off the bed, the only point touching the surface being her hands and feet. She had become one solid muscle.

   I stopped the crank. She fell back on the bed, gasping as though she had just run several miles. I waited for her to recover. Then I sent the lightning through her body again.

   I carried on torturing her, turning the crank slower, but going on for a long time, sending electricity into her cunt. She gasped when I stopped, her eyes wild. But she didn’t say anything. So I finished on the generator by turning the crank as quickly as I could, causing her to scream and her body to spasm. I only stopped when my arm became too tired to keep up the pace. I removed the clamps from her labia. They had left nasty marks where they had bitten into her soft flesh.

   “Talk.” I commanded. But the stupid slut merely shook her head.

   I could not believe that she was holding out. I would have to give her even more pain. I looked at the hatpins, and the cigarette lighter. It was time for more heat.

   I picked up one of the hatpins, holding it by its handle so that I would not burn my fingers. I flicked on the cigarette lighter and held the button down. I held the end of the hatpin in the flame until the metal glowed.

   I breathed heavily as the needle heated. I was close to coming. I suspected that she was, as well. All that it would take would be a touch of her clit – a touch with anything: a whip stroke; a glowing needle; a lit cigarette. So, despite my desire to force the glowing needle through the centre of her clit and down into her body, I knew that such pleasures would have to wait.

   Instead I went back to her breasts. I inserted the needle down the nipple, down into the very inside of her breast, burning her on the inside. She drummed her heels on the bed. The pain must have been beyond compare.

   I heated up a second hatpin, leaving the first one sticking out of her breast as it slowly cooled. I heated that up, too, until the metal on it also glowed red. Then that one was inserted down through a nipple into the fleshy centre of the breast. It was then that I came, the pleasure rolling over me, despite not having touched my sex. I came through the infliction of pain alone. It was the best I had ever felt.

   When I had recovered I stared down at Minette. She, too, was close. Her mouth was open, her breathing heavy. Her clit, so far untouched by heated metal, was massively around, like a red thumb sticking out from behind its hood. Her groin was running with juices. Her damned masochist tendencies had been amplified a hundred-fold. I could tell that she was very close to coming. I bet that if I even breathed on her clitoris that she would have one of the most powerful orgasms of her life.

   Suddenly I had it. No amount of pain could break her, for the pain aroused her. But the possibility of the denial of pleasure… that was a different thing. I finally knew how to break her.

   I got out a pair of scissors. I held them to her clit, its swollen pinkness between the two sharp blades. I closed them just enough so that she would feel the blades on her most intimate area.

   “Tell me the names or I will cut off your clit.” I said. “You will never have another orgasm.”

   She looked in my eyes and could see that I was not lying. You have to be utterly ruthless if you are an interrogator. There must be no mercy. She knew that I would snip off her clit, before she reached that plateau which she so desired.

   That broke her. She told me all of the names of her resistance cell. I could hardly write them down quickly enough.

   “Please, I must come.” Minette begged me, when I had written down all of the names. “Please touch my clit. All it needs is a touch.”

   “I will touch it.” I said. “I will grant you that. But I am not sure that you will like it.”

   I got another Gitanes out of the cigarette packet. I lit it, and smoked it for a little while. Then I reached down and pulled Minette’s clitoral hood out of the way. I stubbed the cigarette out on her clitoris, grounding it out on her love bud.

   She screamed the scream on the damned, as she orgasmed uncontrollably. And then she fainted once more, overcome by the combination of pleasure and pain. I left her. I still had a job to do.

   I picked up the telephone receiver, and commanded that I be put through to my commander. I told him that I had the names from Minette, but that she had died during the interrogation. I said that I would take care of the disposal of the body. I gave him the names, and then put the receiver down.

   I glanced back at the bed, where a very much alive Minette was still spread-eagled, the hatpins still in her tortured breasts.

   I smiled. It was time to go.

The French Resistance rose up in Paris on August the 19th. A French division, under General Leclerc, reached Paris on August the 25th. But I was gone by then.

Epilogue

It is now August 1946, and I am safe in Argentina. I am in my chateau, in the Andes, far away from prying eyes. I am in what I think of as my medieval dungeon. It has flickering wooden torches on the stone walls, and many devices of torture. I would have liked to have had a rack or a Judas Cradle back in Paris.

   I am wearing my Gestapo uniform. There is a riding crop in my hands. I am staring at a creature of flesh and leather. It has thigh high boots on; a cruelly tight corset; and a mask hiding its features. It is otherwise naked.

   It is crawling on all fours. There are weights hanging from Its ringed nipples and labia. They swing as It crawls towards me. Its body is covered with marks which are renewed as soon as they fade: whip marks and cigarette burns and marks on its wrists from rope burns. It crawls over and stops at my feet. It kisses my boots with adoration.

   “You may remove the weights.” I say. It unclips the weights from its stretched labia and nipples. “Put on the cunt stretchers.”

   It fastens leather bands around its thighs. It ties them as tightly as it can. There are elastic bands from the thighs bands which It fastens to the rings in her labia. The elastic stretches out the thing’s cuntlips so that Its cunt is wide open.

   “Please, mistress, whip my cunt as hard as you can.” It says, as it goes back to kissing my boots.

   “Get in position.” I say.

   It leans back, so that It is supported by its shoulder and arms, Its body upside down and vertical, otherwise. It, with Its dancer’s training, is able to spread her legs so that It is in a splits. I see the muscles of Its thighs straining. Its labia are pulled apart as far as possible, and Its cunt hole gapes. I can see Its wet pinkness inside, and the pair of cigarette burns which I left on Its moistness the other day. Its overlarge clit, bearing a black spot from an encounter with a red hot needle, is poking out of Its hood.

   I raise the riding crop and bring it down on Its wide open cunt with all of the strength in my arm. It screams in agonised pleasure.

   It will do a lot more screaming today. It is now only a thing to be tortured, utterly subject to my will. What was once Minette has been gone these past two years…

The End.