Most of the military bases in postwar Germany had an Ingrid. Oh, they weren't all called "Ingrid", of course, but essentially, they were all the same except for the name. Reasonably young, reasonably attractive, they had found that servicing lonely soldiers was easier and much more lucrative than any job they might find in the bombed-out, economically devastated wasteland that was Berlin or Stuttgart or Munich.
Our Ingrid was actually
named
Ingrid. While many of the other Ingrids had learned that oral sex was more efficient than vaginal sex and went about it with Teutonic efficiency, lining up customers and sucking off the next in line followed by spitting out their load, a quick antiseptic rinse and then on to the next, our Ingrid insisted on oral sex because she, for her own personal reasons, felt that oral sex was somehow less morally compromising than vaginal sex. As a result, no amount of money, cajoling or threats could get her to spread her legs.
On the other hand, it was that same sense of self-worth which led her to do her job well to the best of her ability. She was always learning on the job, finding what best satisfied her customers. She treated each soldier as an individual. She dressed very well and maintained her appearance, never looking slovenly, worn out or tired. Always her hair and makeup were perfect, her lipstick repaired to glossily inviting red perfection before taking on her next client. She even wore heels and nylons, both of which were considered to be unobtainable by ordinary mortals. The heels and nylons, incidentally, worked wonders on the soldiers who were used to seeing shapeless dresses and woolen stockings. The display of smooth glossy female flesh when Ingrid crossed her very shapely legs was enough to get her clients fully aroused even before she began her work on them, a great time-saver.
My introduction to our Ingrid came soon after I'd been assigned to the occupying forces and sent to our base. I was young and naïve, and the veterans teased me mercilessly, insisting that a date with Ingrid was an essential rite of passage without which I would never be accepted by my peers. Eventually I gave in. I made an appointment with her for that afternoon.
Nervously, I waited outside the door to Ingrid's "office". The C.O. had allowed her the privacy of a room in the BOQ. He felt that Ingrid's presence was a win-win situation in that it kept his men happy and away from the far more dangerous fleshpots to be found hidden in the rubble of the destroyed city.
Eventually, but fortunately just before my nerve gave out, it was my turn. As required, I knocked on the door. I waited for permission to enter as Ingrid requested us to do, presumably to give her time to repair her makeup and whatever else she did to make herself attractive for her next client, but also, I think, to give her a greater sense of control over the proceedings.
The wait was worth it. When I opened the door, she was sitting on a comfortable-looking chair, a large mirror behind her. Oh Lord, she was gorgeous! She wore a clingy black silk dress that conformed to her curves beautifully. It was daringly low-cut, revealing the upswelling of her smooth breasts. Long blonde hair, blue eyes that you could lose yourself in. Those beautiful breasts amply filled the clinging silk, which emphasized her pert nipples and then dropped down across her flat midriff to curl mysteriously around the tops of her crossed legs, revealing a tantalizing look at her firm white thighs above the tops of her sheer nylon stockings.
I stopped, awestruck. I don't know what she was before the war, but in spite of her present circumstances Ingrid retained an indefinable look of elegance. It was apparent to me that in another life I would not have been able even to approach her. Her elegance and beauty would have been reserved for perhaps movie stars or important politicians or wealthy businessmen, not some lowly private. Nonetheless, she looked at me for a moment and then smiled a warm and intimate smile.
"First time, Liebchen?" she asked. Even her voice, a lovely contralto, was beautiful. She spoke English with a delightful German accent. She was clearly amused by my obvious paralysis. After a pause, she said with a smile, "Are you perhaps forgetting something, Schnucki?"
I struggled to stop staring and re-engage my brain. Oh. Her fee. I fumbled out my wallet and put the money in the box on the small table by the door. She didn't bother to look at or count it. She knew none of us would dare cheat her.
