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.
My terrorist finished a chicken thigh, wiped his greasy face on whatever he could find, which was impressively the backs of wooden chairs, then the ball of my food, and came to inspect the tightness of my butt. The meal had been as delicious as it could be, and I had expected time, time to blow out my own wind, daintily, silently. Holding it in was difficult—and impossible.
When I blew something most quietly, into the man's face, he raised back his upper body and his eyes closed as if desert had just come. From then, I neither gave him extra nor tried to hold back.
With a pencil, he explored my ass with the eraser and grunted and sometimes spoke German sexily into the hole, sometimes blowing his words then putting his ear to my opening, playfully waiting for his echo.
He really seemed to enjoy himself, and if later he defiled me with his manhood or something strong, I was not aware of it, because the night was long, and I was full and bored.
I awoke in a highly ornate, palace-like room which reflected sunlight on its pink walls. The deep pillow which held my head was pink. Everything in the room was this terrible color, with the odd exception of a yellow globe on a vividly pink desk.
The bed was not empty. Upon visualizing all of this, my view instantly came to the wild-eyed nut next to me, all in pink pajamas and pink nightcap, staring at me with what seemed to be intense hatred. He breathed as if he'd just finished stairs, and whisked my sheet off with a force that took two go's to completely reveal my nakedness.
He ravished my nipples with big clumsy hands then with a series of wet candles. Finding favor with a tale blue one, he proceeded to fuck me, wick end in, with it exactly twenty-two times before reversing it, leaving it in, taking it out, and shedding his head of hair.
I did not know he was realistically bald, but I should have guessed from its style. He forced my legs apart, my knees up and bent inwards to light a small cigarette. The sight of this little smoking man was ridiculous, his cheeks still between my thighs, so I laughed at him. He bolted to his knees, then to his feet as if I had been a fire alarm. He screeched something in vulgar German and two dynamic guards rushed in to roughly toss me back to my precious cell, gingerly raping me along the way.
Three days may have passed; two, perhaps. All I knew when my eyes found dull light again was that I was famished and my cunt still throbbed with heat and experience.
Then, just as before—it was obvious I was under close observation—only seconds died between my awakening and the loud door banging open to elicit two more tame soldiers this time, they stood on either side of the doorway and waited. I waited too, for several minutes, my arms behind my head until I fell asleep. I was slapped into waking by my once dinner companion, now stretched beside me on the bed. He farted, of course, and poised his mouth as if waiting for my response.
"Leave us!" he probably said in German, for the guards left us to our sexual prowess.
From the depths of comfortable, efficient clothes he produced a penis that was neither one way nor the other. It was half erect and had the girth of a melted Baby Ruth bar. I was commanded to suck it, I thought, and did so until it was marble and at its supreme length of almost six inches! This brown spotted thing he darted inside me with grunts, mainly dissatisfaction with himself at not always finding the hole. He moved down lower and had spotty luck again, yelling loudly when it kept catching in my cunt; whereupon he had to remove it, squeezing its base, to keep it solid enough.
At last this he did and my azho, as he would call it, filled with skin that leaked as soon as it found its home. He rolled over with a roar and I soothed his pride, else I might find myself in a jeep of cocks again.
The unintroduced man did not seem charged that I should accept him at his failure, and soon he was laughing, smiling, wriggling his third finger in my azho, perhaps telling me a story about a naughty worm as he did it. It didn't hurt. Actually, the sensation was pleasant, and this led to my sucking his cock with more passion and patience until he was standing elaborately enough to infiltrate my azho again.
This being his second attempt, the entire event lasted longer. He happily slapped me about the cheeks, tits and upper legs, me, crying to fill my eyes as a flood. He preferred ass sex on top and never from behind. As we grew to understand each other and as weeks fled into the past, I began to charm him in the glad craft of experimentation.
For instance, until I had mentioned it through soft mime, he had never thought to cum in my mouth. All I had to do was show the joy of the sensation, and he was immediately intrigued. At first I assumed that a wide visage of disgust would be what it would take to get him interested, but pleasure, it must be said, did more to arouse this funny little man more than anything else.
I remember the New Year's Party for 1940 vividly. I was passed around from drunken SS man to drunken staff car driver, quite drunk myself and enjoying the variety of cock, when suddenly the Wagner stopped. The balloons seemed to float down to nothingness, and the Jew at the piano paused for effect.
Into the center of the room came a blonde, limping homosexual with a distinctive scowl on his face. I'd seen one of these creatures before, though only painted in books. This was a kind of man who let another man use him, usually from behind, and was not to be trifled with.
All of a sudden the man righted himself fully, whipped off his face, hair attached, and did a little jig around the immediate floor. Laughing and cutting up with the upper eschalon, waggling Field Marshals' hairs like they were all kid brothers. A delightful clown, I thought to myself. He then shouted for the piano to start, the gramophone also to wind up again—I was not learning any German yet, being more fucked than spoken to, but the cause and effect was obvious—and the party proceeded. He sang along with the opera (I don't know what the piano was playing or how it could play against the room's volume) and rubbed cream into the noses of some soldiers and pinched the arms of a few of the whores and truly was the life of the Nazi party.
My job was to provide holes to all working men, to bend and swallow and gobble my way from the radio to the cake table at the other end of the room for as long as I could keep consciousness. When one young boy came in my hair (I had always thought my long stringy black hair to be my best feature), I made a joke of it and used its properties to tie more than several strands up like a stick so that it stood straight up, and this caused much merriment. Every partygoer, even the women, wanted to touch it and test its strength.
After perhaps another hour, the fun guy ambled over to me. I found myself wet at the prospect of being face-fucked by his life. I couldn't help it. Though I had not watched him carefully, I was pretty certain that he had not brushed the hair of the dog and that his drunken gait was purely another wacky character he had taken on to charm his friends and lessers.
Without a word he shook my hand and worked it like a pump which I found incredibly clever and funny. I looked into his eyes and a brief glint of light captured a partial mustache!
It was him!
This was the man everyone spoke of. The leader of all Germany!
He was still in drunken character and was truly hilarious. His range of comic expression and inventiveness was second only to Will Rogers, surely. All the time his cock was in my mouth he was doing shadow puppets of turkeys or humming popular tunes as if done by bees or some such frivolity that had me concentrating like a machine to keep from biting down with laughter!
Soon, as every man must, he was positioning my nakedness for anal intrusion. I smiled and wriggled my finger, pointing to the brand on my upper left cheek. One look at this (the simple crest of two hippos necking) and all soldiers chose a different aperture.
Not this man! He was determined and had already slapped my ass cheeks a multitude of times with his hard baby maker. What could I do? For the first time since my bedroom door had cracked down, I was afraid! Terrified, in fact! How does one say no to the leader of a nation when one is branded?
My scalding eyes darted from guest to guests. My lover was nowhere! The abusive matron was nowhere to be seen, and no face cared. Good times! Oh, how I wanted a little soft attention that didn't require fluid!
The man was gaining ground, nearly finding my reserved hole on five different occasions. Pulsating head at the ready; my legs apart, ass in the air. I kept wiggling, as if playful, uncaring, but the strength of the man was quickly enveloping my tautest remonstrations.
When he put a finger in, I yelled! The crowd yelled back, though they didn't know where I was or what they were yelling for. When he put his index finger in up to the second knuckle, I screamed! The crowd, and Hitler, screamed back, oh, so toyfully. I thought I was losing my mind, my life!
Suddenly I was flipped over on my back. The man on me gave me a wink, then a smile, then, face close to face, he removed his little mustache and affixed it to my lip and fucked me.
Fucked me hard in the ass. I could not believe it. His pace was wonderfully slow, rising to fast, and his head continued to throb all the way through, deep, hurting; meaningful. I had never known such ass-fucking.
Soon, all too soon, within fifteen moments it was over. Hitler had opted for cream pie, though I was also required to suck off the residue faithfully, which I did. I did with smiles.
It had all happened so fast, it still hadn't occurred to me, even when I could not believe it, that: this, this was my lover. This was my man, my brand.
I took this knowledge into the next world with me in a deep faint.
If I dreamed, it was the dream of visions and jellyfish traffic lights and men carrying purses on holidays. Star constellations bicycled and children fell out of glass airplanes and grown men watched large movies at home and cried and my sister punched out a goat. In my dream, madmen fought for pie and the Indonesian people did not exist. In this dream, I was trapped in my bed with paper sinks and rats with aluminum feathers.
At which point I awoke into a very militaristic world, flanked always by soldiers and a bodyguard who was a woman and did not look it. She could have been my rat with aluminum feathers—something was. I could not explain the rest of my dream, especially the large men watching large movies, though I wanted to desperately, to bring sense to it all, for the dream followed me into the weeks that followed. Perhaps sleep alluded me after the many hours of the sexual heroism I displayed with all manner of SS, though my main task was to Hitler, when he was home. He wanted his best people kept happy, and I admired him for that. To that end, no one laid a cock in my azho and I kept myself clean, awake and fit through starvation for him.
At first he seemed oddly afraid of analness, preferring to digitize me. He was all fingers and thumbs, sometimes just a tip, mostly up to the knuckles. Though he carefully fucked my ass at the party and watched my face for sure signs of pain and pleasure mixed, when there were no onlookers in our private bedroom time together, Hitler was strangely limp.
I did what I could to bring him from his shell, suggesting walks along an imaginary beach and lubes from America which not only smelled but tasted of clam, broccoli and cunny, but these only had the effect of making him shy. There were evenings dining on nude whores, but in the presence of others, Hitler found fault with foreign pussy and cursed to no end when one had been discovered with hymen. Boys were brought in to remedy this, but once, when in the act of something unspeakably oral, he found a hair in his mouth, he banned all homosexual activity forever, banned it for all of earth's people.
I traveled with my lover to all important functions and we kept trains busy with our secretive excursions. We had manner of meetings with important figures of state. He would fuck my back hole several times a day—more, if he felt the rigidity of decision making and genocide—so I had to keep to fruit, if I ate anything at all, and luckily, since he had an aversion to twat, my bloody time of the month was of no concern.
It's possible that he had a short memory. He only cared for my smallest hole, though I repeatedly offered to swallow his hot sauce in my mouth, it always seemed to be the first time he'd heard the suggestion. But all that followed was a "Bah!" in German and my usual knees up.
It was easier in trains when, in smaller compartments, I could touch the ceiling with my feet and acquire his nearly six full inches of friction. He mostly came in the hole, but there was to be much more variety in Berlin.
This was the city in which sexual activity accelerated. Meetings, meetings, meetings, and between it all, loads of ass fucking in wealth of regal settings. Once in a house of a man named Jer Ring or some such, this new man ravaged my cunt while Hitler worked on the small hole, and I thought both men would collapse upon each other. They had decided, spur of the moment, to take me on the desk, and I thought they might have heart attacks, the way they panted and argued and several times hit each other when their footing collided. When they accidentally shot each other with their white sauces, aiming at me, then the hitting truly began and they didn't speak again for days.
I'd never cared for politics, so I cared nothing for Germany, or even, by now, my native America. My main concern was keeping my little Hitler happy and released. Running so much, doing so much, to so many people, created a fiery tantrum doll in him that most evenings was so near to exploding, that there was nothing to do but calm him by rubbing his temples as he ate sushi and drank British ale and launch my legs skyward for him. Seeing his half smile was worth the pain and the pleasure.