Partisan Years Pt. 04

I called out in pain, and once more he shoved and I could see every detail in the wall opposite as I looked anywhere but behind me. I couldn't catch my breath, the hurt was too sharp for me to relax and breathe, harsh, bright pain in my ass and a dull, burning wrong-ness in my belly.

Then his hand was back in my hair, wrapping it in his fist, twisting to the side, my face flat to the table. He jerked up, kissed me on the lips. I squeezed my eyes shut and kept my mouth closed and he thrust the cudgel and the last of it sank into me and drew a gasp. He forced his tongue into my mouth as I cried out. Satisfied, he stepped back.

I could feel the cudgel sunk in my ass to its handle, the muscles squeezing against it as I fought to steady my breath, the pain descending slowly from its plateau, not yet to the level at which I could experience it and pleasure in the same moment.

He came around the table and pulled his trousers down, his cock thick with lust.

It was hard to find the proper alignment of my throat and mouth while laying on my front, so he ordered me to roll onto my back. I did, and raised my feet and set my heels on the edge of the table to keep the cudgel aligned inside me. It still hurt, but the longer it was inside of me the more the pain fell away to a level I could acknowledge but tolerate.

I'd sucked Vladimir off enough to know how to open my throat for a man, and though I was unused to this angle it was little trouble to admit the whole of Heinrich's penis. I breathed through my nose, finally feeling steady. I closed my eyes so I wouldn't have to see him over me.

At last the stove gave some heat, but the cold of the room still made my nipples stand straight and my skin prickle.

He leaned forward, licked one of his fingers. He could reach my clit, and he rubbed there and down between my lips, and I felt that familiar shameful tension building, modified this time by the presence of the steel phallus in my ass.

Heinrich started to fuck my throat, his strokes were unsteady and unbalanced as he reached for my clit, and periodically he shifted, playing with my breasts instead. When I moaned from this he grew more excited, focusing in on my nipples. There was, that night, a direct line from my breasts, grown sensitive in the early weeks of pregnancy, and my pussy, so that as he flicked and caressed and rubbed my breasts, I grew wetter and a low heat built in my pelvis.

The hard strokes of his cock in my throat knocked my head against the edge of the table, and I had to fight to stay still as he played with my nipples. Just as his rhythm grew regular, he withdrew from my throat, and I coughed. Spit and precum ran down my face. He circled me, pulled my hips over the edge so that my head lay on the table again.

Heinrich pushed my legs back. He sidled over the cudgel's handle, gripped it with one hand, then lined the tip of his cock with my opening. He lifted me so my feet hooked over his shoulders and he thrust into me. The tip of him struck the spot inside me that Vladimir hit the first night I'd cum from his cock, then slid deep inside me. Despite the wetness, despite the heat, my cunt was unready and protested at his intrusion.

I cried out, my eyes flying open, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

He gripped the base of the cudgel with one hand and my throat with the other. Then he began to thrust, drawing the cudgel out of me and pushing it inside me in time with his cock.

"You like this?" He asked. "You like this you fucking whore."

I shook my head.

"Don't lie to me."

The motion of his cock and the cudgel within me was overwhelming, raw pain complimented by the unsophisticated, animal pleasure of being entered.

He parted my lips with his thumb, pushed it inside my mouth. I found myself sucking it in time to his thrusts. I looked up at him, and there was that hateful lust on his face.

Vladimir's desire would always be more legible to me, but I realized that I'd come to know something of Heinrich's motivation on the day Lev learned of the murder of his family. Ideologically, morally, Heinrich was not like us, he wasn't even like the invaders. He was a man out of time, descended from the Livonian Order, neither Red nor White nor Brownshirt, but a Feudal man who reveled in his power over others and exacted from them something in reciprocation for his defense.

From men he asked loyalty, he gave them a cold, but unyielding leadership, the distant love of a master. From me, he asked the use of my body, in return he did not murder me as a Jew and a Red. I was his vassal, he my Lord.

I resolved then to kill him, not that night, not even soon, necessarily, but I would turn every thought to his destruction.

My ass had grown accustomed to the steel shaft in it, lubricated with spit, the motion smooth, hard. I still hurt, but it was a febrile pain now, the way the bottoms of your feet burn when sick with pneumonia and walking barefoot on a cold floor on a winter morning. In it there was the promise of greater pain and the body's own hallucinatory defense.

He folded my legs back further, the depth of his thrusts increasing, my body pressed against the wood of the table. The wood in the stove popped, knots of sap bursting. The heat was building, outside me, within me. I began to sweat.

He let go of the cudgel handle. Pressed my throat with one hand, the other working on my breasts. Jolts of pleasure shot from my chest into my stomach. His penis inside me felt vast and encompassing, pushing deeper even than Vladimir had. He increased the pressure on my throat, my breath coming hard now, the world growing far away.

A girl on a table with the handle of a steel club jutting from her anus, a grunting man above her. Did I like this? Did I find it attractive? Would anyone love a thing that had been so used? Could I accept love after this?

And then the first outriders of orgasm pierced the dissociative fog, and I was aware of fluttering muscles in my cunt and darkness at the edge of my vision. He thrust harder, once, twice. I felt my body buck under him, my lungs on fire with a need to breathe, my mouth open in a silent, airless gasp. He released my throat and I shook, trembling under him, my body pulsing, my ass contracting around the haft of the cudgel, trying to draw it deeper. I reached my face up to him, grasping his hair with my hands.

He kissed me. The orgasm throbbed in my hips and cunt and stomach. His stubble scratched at my face and he thrust one last time, and I felt his cock stiffen inside me, then the spurt of his cum, so quick with desire that I could feel it inside me, and I shook against him, crying out, my thighs spasming, my calves shuddering.

Then I lay back, finished.

He withdrew himself from me, but continued to fuck my ass with the cudgel. He rolled me over and jerked my head up and fucked me with it again, playing with my clit until it was too much and I came again, the same unemotional, technical orgasm I'd experienced when he took my anal virginity.

I lay still as he drew the steel from me. There was blood on it, not much, and shit, again not much and he wiped it as clean as he could with my underwear. His cum dripped from my cunt. I felt ruined, but gratified in that ruin, like his assault had confirmed for me that I was not to blame for my condition, that the pleasure I got from sex was a reflex detached from conscious want.

Fear stilled my tongue and a dizzy anxiety that twisted my stomach in knots. I could barely breathe in the close heat of the room, which stank now like my arousal and my ass and his cum, a thick, animal smell belonging to some other, violent time.

"We're crossing the lines," he said. I still had the presence of mind to respond, even as silent tears slid from my eyes and my stomach turned flips.

"All of us?"

"No," he said. "You and Lev, myself, two men from my section, two from Vladimir's."

"When?"

"Soon," he said. "NKVD is going to give us a proper radio, some better guns. We'll see some of Moscow."

"Why me?"

"Kiril thinks you're a good soldier."

"Heinrich," I said.

He didn't respond.

"Heinrich." I wanted to come to an accord with him, to offer my cunt or even my ass for his use if he would agree to ask and agree not to shove things inside of me. But he said nothing. He opened the door to the code room and left, looking for water and a rag to wash his club.

I didn't sleep that night.

This second encounter with Heinrich left me more physically terrified than my previous assaults, and I could feel the weight of his pistol barrel in my mouth. When I thought of him my stomach burned and my jaw clenched and I wanted to flee out into the cold dark where the Germans lay and the shells burst and winter would take me in its gentle arms, down into the pillow-soft snow, into that end of static gray and easy exhaustion.

The cold in the latrines was nearly unbearable as I cleaned up my ass.

I couldn't bear to stink like my humiliation, so I washed my underwear and trousers as best I could, boiling water on the stove in the main room of the officer's quarters. My hands shook and my tits felt painful and swollen. I could feel something foreign in my body, but whether that was Heinrich's cum or Vladimir's child or just the memory of violence I cannot say. But it made me dizzy and nauseous, and I vomited in the snow after I finished washing my underwear. It was so cold ice blossomed on my trousers in the minute it took me to vomit.

I found a half empty bottle of vodka and sat beside the stove, drying my underwear on the back of the chair, drinking the long night away and crying as I read my notes to dead Lazar.

It was there that Kiril found me, so drunk I couldn't stand, sobbing as I tried to rub the bloodstains from my underwear with the cuff of my field jacket as the sun rose orange-red over the blistering the wreckage of our victory.

He told me, when I was sober, that I'd begged him to fuck me, to rip my trousers down and bury himself in me. I believe I did, I can half-remember that, wanting someone to touch and hold me, to crush me at the same time, wanting some control over the men who used my body for their pleasure.

But I would not get it yet.