Partisan Years Pt. 01

I still struggled. I got one hand free and clawed back at his face.

"But now."

He pitched forward and slammed me to the ground and again the breath left my lungs. Now there was a hundred kilos of officer on top of me and no way to get air.

With one quick motion he rolled me to my back and I kicked at him with my mother's boots. But that just brought my legs open and he lunged between them, crushing my hands into the floorboards and pressing his whole weight on me as he shoved his tongue back into my mouth. His knee dug in between my legs, rubbing. My body began to respond, not in pleasure, but in fear at the pressure. A low current throbbed through me, tense terror, panic at being touched in a new way.

"I'll have to break you like a colt."

He pulled my belt loose and tore at the buttons of my new military trousers, I fought for his hands, trying to stop them or break one of his fingers. But he was so large and strong and fast that he pinned one of my hands under his knee and held the other back with his left hand as his right fought its way under the waistband of my loose cotton underwear.

"You can still choose to like it, Natasha," he said.

I stopped writhing, but tears came unbidden, tears of humiliation, of sorrow for my Lazar, of anger that I'd been driven by the war to this camp. Harsh, choking sobs.

His fingers found me half-wet and he smeared my body's defense across my lips like evidence of a betrayal. I couldn't understand why I was turning wet there, why, even as I shuddered and fought, my cunt was hot under him, steaming like the fields under an August dawn. He drew this damp up and rubbed at the top of my lips, the spot I'd found only in the quiet nights at university when I dreamed of the day Lazar and I were wed, the spot I thought of when I read Kollontai.

He pushed a finger inside me, just the tip, and I jerked back from him, twisting as I lay, closing my legs.

"No," I hissed. "Not that. No. I'll suck you off. Don't deflower me like that."

He let go of my hands and for a second I thought I'd got to him and I shifted to get a better distance.

"If you fight, I'll tear your clothes and every man in the company will know you're a slut," he hissed, wrapping one hand into my hair. "They'll have you like a drink of water after me. If you don't fight, I'll protect you."

"Then kill me," I said. "Kill me and let them all have me if that's all I am. But spare me the dishonor."

He jerked me by the hair and I shot up into a sitting position. He yanked me forward again, this time onto his fist, which crashed into my stomach like a hammer. I sagged down, weak, sobbing, and lay on my side, still trying to close my legs.

"I love when you play coy," he said, prying my thighs apart with his hands. His fingers found me soaked with fear. He pushed one into me, but my body fought hard and the pressure of his finger was followed by dragging pain. And then the tip was inside me to the second knuckle, rough and hard and far thicker than my own fingers. The pain of it was intense, but not yet unbearable. I grit my teeth. He forced the finger halfway in then slid it out and flicked it over my clit, fast. I gasped in response, the physical sensation was pleasurable, though I did not want it. He would summon it from me.

"You're so tight maybe you are a virgin," he said.

His finger moved faster, opening me a millimeter at a time, two, three, four strokes, then back out to my clit, rubbing that while his other hand resumed its work on my nipple, first rubbing then twisting it so I cried out and shuddered away from him.

Then he gripped my throat again, hard enough to cut the breath and he plunged two fingers inside me to the last knuckle. I could feel every brush of his beard on my neck, every minute movement of his fingers inside me. He worked faster and faster, then slipped the fingers out and brushed them over my clit. I shuddered and shook, the release immediate, terrifying. There was no mistaking it, an orgasm, a harsh wave of pleasure that made me cry out and sob in the same breath. I shook with it, and shook with anger.

He rolled me over onto my front, pulling my trousers down my thighs.

"Comrade Masovka," I said. "Vladimir don't," I was gasping, sobbing, his weight on me was impossible. I heard the buckle of his trousers, then felt the weight of his cock as it tapped my ass cheek.

"Shhh," he breathed into my ear. "Be a good girl. Be my black-haired beauty."

I felt the tip of it at my entrance and the fight went out of me with a sob, my whole body seemed to deflate and I felt a wetness spreading under my belly and thighs. It took me a few seconds to realize I'd pissed from fear, from release.

"That's it," he laughed. "Let go."

He pushed my head down hard and then he pushed himself inside of me, the ring of muscle at my entrance fighting again, unconsciously. I focused on my breath, each one precious, trying to draw the inhale and the exhale long and even. His hips gave a thrust and pain, hot, and fiery like crushed nerves, radiated out of my cunt. Then his head was inside of me.

He thrust, a centimeter pushed into me.

"Call me Lazar."

I said nothing.

Another thrust.

"Call me Lazar," he said. "Call me by his name. I'm your husband in this war."

I shook my head, bit my lips, squeezed my eyes shut.

"That will come," he said. Then he thrust harder and I felt his whole weight crushing me, and his whole length impossible inside of me, all of me burning at his touch.

He withdrew his length, then slammed into me again so hard I gasped. His cock felt molten within me, and each stroke hurt like he was tearing something vital out of me. I tried to crawl away from him, to get away from the pain, scratched at the floor before me with my fingers, anything to gain a centimeter of room, of air, of distance from him. But he crushed my throat with his hand and laughed in my ear as he fucked me.

"Don't try to shut it out," he said. "I felt you cum once, you can do it again, Natasha."

But the intensity of sensation was too much, when I'd cum on his hand I'd had something left to lose, I'd had some dignity. Now, under him, I was a thing, not a girl, but a hole with a black braid and a pale neck and small breasts, a hole between two long legs with just a hint of fat to them, shaved against the typhus louse, no family, no village, no country, no god, just a place for sixteen centimeters of his penis.

At that realization, the pain cleared and I felt like I was floating, watching some other girl raped on the floor of a looted dacha in a puddle of her own piss, watching her struggle away from it. My body was just an academic fact then, and I was far away like I'd been when I saw those corpses piled behind the village. I could hear keening sobs, low and long, feel the roughness of the wood planks under my nipples, even smell the overpowering scent of his body, feel how that abrasion and his smell and the tearing force inside me turned slowly to mechanical pleasure.

The sobs did not stop. They mixed with moans. But I was not there, not even as his strokes gathered steam and he barked into my ear that I was a good fuck, that I was good to ride, that he'd broken me like a colt.

Then his grip on my throat loosened and I fell back into myself as he pulled my head up by the hair and shoved the other hand under me, forcing me to tilt my hips and give him greater entry. I could breathe free again, and I gasped with each stroke as he drove harder, the sound of his flesh against mine audible, and my moans deeper.

He grabbed my throat again, as I propped myself up with one hand, almost on my knees. His other hand was between my legs, working the burning spot of my clit as he reached the limit of his endurance and came inside of me with a heavy shudder.

I had no more tears.

Vladimir pulled himself out of me, a wash of his cum dripping from my cunt to my damp thighs. I collapsed on the floor and lay half-turned. He pushed his cock against my mouth.

"Clean it," he said, stroking my hair. "Taste yourself."

I did. It slid all the way back into my throat, and in my new, uncaring state, even the need to retch was distant, ignorable, as alien as the taste of cum and cunt and blood.

I pulled my underwear back up. There were red marks verging to black on my wrists, another like a sun on my stomach where he'd hit me, still others on my thighs where he'd pried them apart.

I drew my knees to my chest, rubbing my hands on the dry leather of my mother's boots as the piss soaking my trousers and shirt grew cold. Then he was back with a tub of water and a cloth.

"Soak the clothes," he said. "You don't want to smell like a latrine."

When that was done, he looked me up and down.

"Might be the most beautiful girl I've done that to," he said.

"You raped me," I said, my voice so small as to be nearly inaudible.

"There's no rape in war," he said. "You proved your beauty was worth the food."

"What?" I said. "What happens next?"

"You can stay in Kiril's section. You can eat with the men. You can even get a gun. I'll fuck you when I want, and if the other section leaders want you they can have you. You'll belong to all four of us. But Kiril's too much of a straightlaced functionary and Yuri hasn't had it hard enough to fuck anything for ten years by my guess."

"Four?"

"Yes," he said. "There's Heinrich, the Baltic-German bastard, but you haven't met him yet. And he hates Jews almost as much as his countrymen. So he may not touch you."

I said nothing.

"Do you understand, Natasha?"

I nodded.

"Good," he said. "Just don't get pregnant. There's no room for milky-tits and whining brats in a partisan detachment."

"I--you--"

"Don't you Jews have some folk medicine for that? Some herbs you stuff up your cunt to leach out gentile cum?"

"I don't know," I said.

I felt hollow, empty, like there was nothing for me in the world. I couldn't even muster anger at the scale of my misfortune, it just rolled over me in a great tide, leaving a dull, vague hurt that matched the warm ache of the forced muscles in my cunt.

I went down to the stream behind the camp and vomited up the stew and potatoes, the contractions wracked my body, drew fresh sobs from me. I lay coughing on my knees beside the water, then cupped my hands and sucked down a handful and spat it back.

What of school and peace and love?

I would be a soldier, I said to myself as I pulled my pants down. I stuck my fingers inside myself, the pain like pressure on a bruise, only with a delicate sensation, a hint of savage pleasure and animal lust, a ghost of touch. I tried as best I could to scoop his cum out of me, and saw in the moonlight the dark mix of blood within, I knew that was mine, not from my period but forced from me by his assault. If I was lucky, I'd eaten so little the last few weeks I wouldn't ovulate.

If I wasn't. I didn't think about that.

I stood and recalled the feel of his cock in my mouth, the weight of it almost pleasant as it softened gradually, when compared to the pain of it stabbing inside me. My fingers found my lips, slipped inside them and I licked the cum and blood from them. It was almost pleasant.

"You look soaked," Kiril was keeping the watch.

"Didn't feel clean," I said.

"Are you cold?"

I shrugged. He took off his coat, wrapped it about me.

"Comrade," I said. "Comrade Commissar. Why is mankind so beastly?"

"Vladimir talk to you?"

I nodded. He brushed a hand along my arm.

"Go sleep, Natalia Yakovlevna," he said. "In the morning we'll get on with war. One day all this will end."

But in the morning, the tramp of boots announced a new torment: Heinrich Stauffen, the fourth section head, had returned with his score of men.