Martine cowered in a cellar. The offensive had only been going on for 12 hours, but her town was destroyed. The Germans were just too fast, and she had not been able to get out. It was too late now. Going outside would mean certain death.
She pulled her knees closer to her chest and ducked her head as another shell hit somewhere close by. Dust and rubble filtered down on her head turning her chestnut hair grey. Martine cried.
Mamman had been too old to leave. Martine couldn't get her out of the city in time. The French army had only given them half an hour, and Mamman was crippled by her arthritis. She had tried to get out, but it was no good. The Germans had moved like lightning. It didn't matter now, Mamman was dead, and now Martine huddled in an empty house's cellar and cried.
"Coward" she thought to herself "you didn't try hard enough. If you had just gotten Mamman to move faster, if you had been strong enough to carry her". Another tear rolled down her dusty cheek.
Her stomach grumbled. It'd been hours since she ate last but she didn't dare leave while the bombs were falling and the bullets were flying. There were soldiers out there too. They'd kill her before they fed her. She decided she'd stay there until dark and then sneak into the kitchen, assuming it was still there, and find something to fill her stomach.
Hours later, when no more light filtered in down the stairs, and she'd heard no shots in hours, she went up to the first floor and opened the door.
The room was in ruins. No glass remained in the windows, and the wall had large cracks showing through the green wall paper that showed dusty moon light across the room. There were bits of glass and masonry all over the dark wood floors, and odd bits of furniture the previous owner of the house had not been able to take with him in a hurry. A desk in the corner, formerly cozy looking chairs, and an end table.
Martine paid them little heed and made her way into the hall to the kitchen. The first floor was a total loss. Many of the walls had gaping holes in them, and the back half of the house was gone. Only one lone cabinet remained against the wall of what used to be the kitchen.
Hopefully, Martine peaked inside and was grateful to find a jar of pickles that had not shattered. She pulled it out and the jar fell apart in her hands spilling brine over her her stained blue dress and brown stockings and making a loud tinkling sound of glass falling to the tiled floor. She frowned but greedily ate the pickles, not knowing where or what her next meal might be. She tore the bottom of her dress off to her knees, to wrap up the remaining pickles for later. The sound of tearing fabric seemed loud in the night.
She winced as she heard a deep voice nearby and she ran to the stairs, dashing up them as quickly as her slender legs could carry her. She frantically found her way to the closet and shut herself in, praying they would not follow her. She crouched down and drew her knees to her chest and held her breath as she heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs.
The foot steps came closer. Her room was the first room off the stairs, and she sat silently willing her heart to still. Hoping they would not look for her here.
The door to her closet flew open and two guns were aimed at her. Two deep voices shouted at her in a harsh language she did not understand. She didn't move.
A rough hand grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet and she found her self face to chest with a green uniformed man. She looked up, terror filling her brown eyes. His hand only grabbed her tighter.
"Well well! Look what we have here Georg"
The man who held her said to the other man, who still had his gun trained on her. "
Looks like we found the little mouse that's been scurrying around tonight
" and he laughed. Martine gasped in pain as he squeezed her arm.
The other man lowered his gun and smiled darkly. "
Indeed Franz, what shall we do with her?"
"Oh, I have an idea or two"
The first man said, and he laughed cruelly again. He shouldered his gun and spun her around, retaining hold of her arm, and grabbed the other arm, pulling it behind her, pinning them behind her back.
"Let's take her back for a little fun"
. And with that pushed her towards the street.
Out in the rubble, the air had gotten much cooler, and Martine's nipples tightened in the cool night air. With her arms behind her back her generous boosom already had the fabric of her dress drawn tight against them, making the stiffening of her nipples painfully obvious. The second soldier looked over and grinned.
"
Look at that, she's getting horny just thinking about what we're going to do to her. What a slut."
He said in rough German. The language was coarse and guttural to Martine's ears. Against her smooth purring French, German seemed harsh and cruel.
"
Of course she's a slut, all french women are sluts
" He spoke to her in heavily accented French, "Isn't that true, little whore? All you French bitches are sluts."
Martine gaped as the reality of what was going to happen hit her. They weren't going to just capture her. They were going to rape her . She shook her head vigorously. "No! No sir. Please let me go. Please don't hurt me!" and she began to cry again.
"
What did she say?
" asked Georg.
Franz laughed "
She's begging for my cock. I told you all French women are sluts."
The two walked Martine to another house further down the block. This one didn't appear to be as damaged as the one she'd been hiding in.
Franz called out to his squad and the two soldiers pushed Martine in ahead of them. Georg fetched some web straps and bound her hands behind her while Franz went upstairs to tell his squad mates what he'd brought back with him. Georg lead her up the stairs and into a large room on the second floor.
