When the door was kicked in, I was sucking David's cock and was almost done. They tore me off him without a word, and flung me at other soldiers who fondled me like a ball as I was passed and passed down the hall. The last vision I had of my beloved husband was of a blonde officer, younger than I, already on his knees in front of him. David was struggling against those who held him, ripping yells like paper.
The night drizzled steadily, that much I recall between the life I knew and the eight rapes that followed that night. I only counted those I recalled before being thrown like trash into the open canvas truck. As I did not wake until several hours later, my cunt was sore, I assumed, from what I remembered in the hall and the stair and the outside stairs in the rain. Every man who had a cock, and that was most, fucked my hole in a variety of stances. Not since Vasser had I known such action and vigor, though I kept my mouth firmly shut, not to scream nor take fluid.
Though I was not to know it yet, my ass was Herr Hitler's, as he had a way of knowing opened packages.
However far I was from Wingebag, I did not know. The journey's sleep keenly refreshed me, until I was dick slapped around by the new turn of soldiers guarding what I came to know was Der Furor's autumn residence. A kindly but fat matron took charge of the hand slapping as I was led into a cold food cupboard and stored shivering and naked-but-panties among the salt and pork until a younger girl, with a grilled face, came to lead me upstairs and past soldiers eating, soldiers pissing, soldiers mouth fucking soldiers, all size and manner of men, mostly rude, in such a maze of movement until I was all but disoriented and hot.
When I was deposited and locked in was a delightful, in the circumstances, and tiny prison without bars. A duck-down bed was mine and atop it, beautifully engineered food on a gold tray which tasted slightly above its look. A goblet of wine which fairly bubbled was the last thing I recalled until awaking hours later when my ears and my cunt were again store, and there were dark rings around all ten of my fingers. I never found out what that was about.
Never in my life had I slept past nine in the morning, but the next day, according to the cuckoo clock nearest the barred window, most of the day had vanished. It was after one!
Almost as if sensing my consciousness, the fat and abominable matron entered with key and without knocking, spewing something in German so vile I thought I had been chosen as dinner's main course. I tried to explain I was an American newlywed and asked after my husband, but she merely threw what purported to be clothes at me; they landed on the floor, and she proceeded to give detailed directions as to them, myself and this place.
When she finally cackled herself hoarse and withdrew, I attempted to wear the things but they wouldn't go on anything I had. There were too many holes and slits and apparently there was a need for instructions. Still, it was better than mere panty-nakedness, so I wore what stuck and though it didn't quite cover the good stuff, it did keep the cold off my arms.
Darkness brought my appetite, but no food, and my release, if only briefly and to another room, deeper in the coldness of this bland palace. I was seated at a small table upon which were dying ducks, nearly dead fish, and squid still squirming. It could have been octopus; I was never well versed in their differences. To me it was wholly exotic and stank. Hunger moved my hands, but shouts from some unseen blackness—the entire dining room, if it could be called such, was draped with black curtains which let in no light and gave this room only a theatrical look—drew my hands back to wait.
Several hours later a presence came into the room. I was nearly asleep, past starving. He was a small man with wild eyes and a stagger like one of Gene Autry's friends. He wore no mustache, so I knew he was not this Hitler fellow the papers and the world were full of. "Sausage" was the only specific word I could ever discern from his speech.
The man farted several times and seated himself before leaping up to tear into the full chicken and turkey, now completely dead, which must have been put there while I slept, one with each hand.
"Eat!" he yelled.
I happily tucked in like I was diseased. I'd never partaken of such fresh, uncooked food in my life, and it went heavily to my stomach immediately. I had no idea how long ago that last meal had been.
"Es goot, yah?"
I was surprised to hear this rude man speak a form of English. Mostly he looked at one of the walls—any wall—but often and sometimes he would look to me and then briefly to see what was going in his mouth. His black hair shinned in the candlelight and his shoulders were permanently hunched.
As food became scarce and the farting more frequent, this man grunted and looked as if he would bounce from his chair at any moment.
"Ah hop you af not let zem fook yo azho!"
"What was that?"
Suddenly he jumped, perhaps propelled by flatulence. So angrily did it happen, the hidden, lurking guards sprung into the room instantly and were, I supposed, threatened, insulted, mystified, verbally castrated by this little man, then sent back to their four corners of spying again just as quickly as they'd flown in.
"Dis es goot," he said, still hot and angry, but at his most affable yet. "Zoo weel show me zis asho!"
I didn't know what he was talking about, but luckily he was well versed in mime and ludely re-instructed me to my role for the evening.
Fearing for my life and not having had any for several days, I peeled the sexy lace items from my arms and, my back on the floor, propelled my legs up as tall as they would go, my eyes to the heavens.
