Harsh Martinet
Consul
29.
I had lied. By telling Barbie and Schwarz that Klaus was traveling to Spain by train over Perpignan, I knew I was sending them on a wild goose chase. And I knew that when they returned empty-handed, I would ... as Barbie had prophesied ... ‘pay the price’. But I took solace in the thought that Sir Geoffrey and Freddie would have been proud of me. My lie, along with my future suffering, had bought Klaus and the mission a piece of valuable time.
Meanwhile, in Barbie’s absence, Fritz and Heinz had faithfully seen to their assigned duties. I was ‘cleaned up’ by hosing me down with icy cold water, removed from the metal phallus equipped chair on which I had been impaled and shocked, and taken to a cell, where I was shackled spreadeagled against a wall and brutally raped by both men, not once but twice ... or was it thrice or even more than that? I lost count, but the assaults came so often that the inside of my thighs were literally decorated with gobs of their creamy spunk.
And there I remained for the rest of the day, and through the night ... exhausted, stiff and sore all over, hungry and at times barely conscious. Sleep proved impossible, not only because of the discomfort of being shackled naked against a cold stone wall, but also in that a bright light had been positioned to shine directly in my face, in addition to which any nodding off was promptly attended to by Fritz and Heinz with a slap or two across the face or a fist in the gut.
But then things went from bad to worse. As anticipated, Barbie and Schwarz returned the next morning, empty-handed and in an exceedingly foul mood.
“Get her to the chamber! Now!” bellowed Barbie as he and Schwarz swept brusquely down the corridor outside my cell.
“Jawohl, Herr Hauptsturmführer!” shouted Heinz and Fritz, jumping hastily to their feet and raising their arms ... far too late ... in a stiff-armed salute.
I was hastily unshackled and gripping me by the arms, my two companions unceremoniously dragged me ... face-down, knees and feet dragging on the floor ... to the interrogation room.
“Rack her!” ordered Barbie, sounding peeved.
“Jawohl, Herr Hauptsturmführer!”
I was promptly ushered to the room’s monstrously large torture rack. After a few moments of hopeless struggle against the combined strength of the two brutes, I found myself pinned, flat on my back, to the heavy wooden frame, with arms stretched and shackled overhead to metal cuffs, each sporting sharp little protruding spikes. My ankles were fitted and clamped into holes in a solid metal bar at the base of the rack. A cranking apparatus began to turn and the head of the rack was elevated to an angle where I could face my interrogators, who drew close, positioning themselves ... one to each side of me.
“You lied to us, Frau Moser!” snarled Schwarz, poking at my bare right breast hard enough with a pudgy finger to make it jiggle about.
“Every train running between Lyon and Perpignan was stopped and searched ...” interjected Barbie, addressing me in English as he pinched the nipple of my left breast between his thumb and forefinger and twisted it violently, causing me to yelp in pain. “and no trace of Klaus Schumann!”
“Maybe he missed his train?” I gasped, as Barbie twisted my nipple hard in the other direction.
“Tell me, Miss Moore, did your SOE trainers introduce you to the rack and what it can do?” replied Barbie, tracing his finger thoughtfully from my breast to my armpit and up the inside of my outstretched arm to where a cuff encircled my wrist, it’s sharp little points already pricking my skin.
“Yes,” I allowed, remembering ruefully my mock interrogation time stretched naked and taut on the rack back in the cellar of SOE headquarters in London. An experience that not only was painful, but ended in my being raped, hood over head, by Freddie’s pals while he calmly watched.
“Good, then you have plenty of incentive to tell us the truth this time, don’t you?”
“I’ve already told you the truth ... Schumann’s traveling by train. I can’t imagine how you missed him. Perhaps he was delayed, and hasn’t left yet?”
“If so, we’ll get him. Our people are watching the trains. But just the same, I am convinced you're lying. You don't fool me for a second, Moore. You know perfectly well how he’s getting to Spain, but are deliberately offering misinformation. Spiriting Klaus Schumann safely to London is, after all, your mission and you are a professional. Like any professional in your shoes, you would have given him precise instructions and contacts, and accepted no arguments to the contrary. Professionals leave nothing to chance. Am I right?”
I said nothing, as his finger returned to my mounded breast and began tracing small circles around the areola of my erect nipple ... much as Freddie had done to me in his rooms at his club in London ... except that rather than finishing the teasing circling by lovingly kissing my eager nipple, Barbie pinched it..
That hurt and I cried out.
“Oh, and speaking of professionals, I do want Sir Geoffrey ... and what’s his right-hand man’s name ... Freddie-something-or other-hyphenated ... to witness you blurting out secrets under torture. They will be both impressed and dismayed at how easily I will have you singing like a canary. Fritz! Did you get a cameraman down from Paris as I ordered?”
“Jawohl, Herr Hauptsturmführer! He’s waiting outside in the corridor. Should I have Heinz fetch him?”
“Please do.
“I am going to enjoy this so much,” chortled Schwarz as he lit a cigarette, took a drag and exhaled smoke in my face.
A man wearing a Wehrmacht uniform and bearing a movie camera and tripod over his shoulder entered the room, drew himself up sharply in the presence of Barbie, clicked his heels and saluted.
“You can set up over there facing the rack,” instructed Heinz, pointing to a place on the floor.
The cameraman took a long drawn-out look at me, stretched out naked before him, then at the overhead lighting, frowned, and proceeded to set up his equipment without comment.
“Now,” began Barbie. “Suppose you tell us where Klaus Schumann is and how he’s really making his way to Spain.”
The cameraman signaled that he was ready and that the film was rolling.
“Sorry. I’ve nothing to tell,” I sniffed, showing some false bravado that I hoped Sir Geoffrey and Freddie might appreciate if they actually ever saw the film.
“Pity that,” sighed Barbie, nodding to Fritz, who pressed a button, which started the electric motor coupled to the large cylinder that rolled up the pair of chains to which the cuffs on my wrists were attached. In seconds the slack disappeared and the cuffs began to tug at my wrists, stretching my arms full-length overhead, and forcing the ring of sharp points within the cuffs to dig into my flesh.
“Owww!” I cried, craning my neck to observe the trickles of blood appearing under the cuffs and winding their way down my forearms.
“Talk!” growled Barbie.
I said nothing.
“More! Stretch her to near the breaking point,” he said waving a hand at Fritz, who started the motor again.
The motor whined, the cylinder turned, the chains rattled and groaned, and I began to feel the stress of being stretched beyond comfortable limits. My nerves were sending distress signals to my brain. Sweat broke out on my forehead. Closing my eyes, I tried to focus on my breathing in a desperate effort to shut out the urgent complaints of over-stressed muscles and joints.
As the stretching continued, a low animal-like moan escaped my trembling lips. There was intense pain now in my lower back, knees, hips and shoulders. I knew it wouldn’t be long before the dislocations and the unbearable pain began.
But Barbie held up a hand. The motor stopped.
“Last chance, Miss Moore,” he said quietly, turning my head by the chin to force me to look into his pale eyes. “Yes, I checked. That is your real name, isn’t it? Now tell me. What is the escape plan for Klaus Schumann. Where is he now?”
“Better talk!” chimed in Schwarz, who chose that moment to add to my discomfort and terror by touching the burning end of his cigarette to the tip my right nipple.
I flinched, and tried to twist away but failed to escape the searing heat.
“Ahhh, yes. Excellent idea my dear Schwarz,” said Barbie, with a nod of approval when the burning heat of the Kriminalkommisar’s cigarette was successful in eliciting a shrill scream. “I must do the same. Heinz, fetch me a hot iron!”
“Jawohl , Herr Hauptsturmführer!”
“Now you are in double jeopardy, little miss American spy-hero. Talk or Fritz will be obliged to renew the stretching while I apply searing heat ... to where? ... perhaps a light tracing right across those raised ribs to begin, then a short pause in the well of your delightful little navel ... followed by perhaps a long slow meander around your mound to ignite that enticing triangle of brown hair, and then ... not last or least ... there are those sensitive private places between your thighs. Now, answer the question! Where is Klaus Schumann?”
“He’s cycled to Spain. And I hope he’s there by now!” I replied through gritted teeth.
“Well, well. Another lie, or the truth this time, Miss Moore?”
I said nothing.
“Answer him!” snarled Schwarz, pressing the lit end of his cigarette into the base of my other nipple.”
I somehow choked out a garbled affirmation that it was the truth in the midst of a long drawn out scream.
“Good that you’ve decided to cooperate at last, Miss Moore. Sir Geoffrey will sadly be very disappointed in you. He should have known better than to send a woman ... an American, no less. Quite foolish of him. Now the details, please ... Schumann’s route, the intended border crossing, his contacts in Spain and Gibraltar. Fritz, kindly take notes. Heinz, you may tell the cameraman to shoot a closeup of her face while she talks.”
But instead, Heinz handed Barbie a note, just given to him by a messenger.
Barbie read the dispatch, crushed it his hand, picked up the hot iron that Heinz had placed at the foot of the rack, and in a fit of blind rage, pressed the glowing tip into my pussy with enough force to penetrate and held it there for several seconds while I screamed hysterically and bucked my hips to the degree that my stretched condition made possible.
“It appears we are too late,” said Barbie at last, a look of calm spreading over his face. “I have a report here that says two of our men were shot dead at a checkpoint on the French-Spanish border pass known as Col du Puits”. And earlier a man, who fits Schumann’s description, was reported cycling west by an informer in Céret, a town not far from the approaches to the pass. Under the circumstances we must conclude that Schumann is in Spain, and that we unfortunately have no further need for Miss Moore. Take her back to her cell and arrange for her summary execution in the morning. And, Fritz, make sure the cameraman is there to film the event so that the good chaps at SOE in London may have the enviable pleasure of witnessing her sorry final moments.”
“Jawohl , Herr Hauptsturmführer!”
Okay...I really despise the Nazis now....burning Barb's incomparable nipples and branding her magnificent womanhood...bomb the Fatherland into the stone age!!!
Leave to the Germans to motorize the rack...the electric motor no doubt made with Teutonic precision by Siemens.
Constant complaints and wisecracks are charming aren't they???
) ... this has been a fun story to write ... happy that everyone seems to be enjoying it. 
