### BZ-170 ###
Pain Master
by Unknown


FOREWORD

The girl’s tit was in the vise and she was squirming with pain.

But she loved it. She loved the pain so much that she never wanted it to stop.

The bald, cruel man stood over her and snarled at her in anger.

“Lesbian bitch slave,” he said.

And the girl knew that he was right. She was a lesbian, and she was a bitch.

And how she was a slave too, his slave. He was giving her just the kind of treatment that 
she deserved. She trembled with lust and felt the juices wet her pussy as the pain shot 
through her head and made her feel more alive than she had ever felt before. The man 
tightened the metal hold on her tit and the girl sighed with pleasure and with pain.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, hurt me, Master. I am a lesbian bitch slave.”

And the other man in the wheelchair watched all of this and cackled with sadistic glee.

He had not seen anything this sexy for years, since he had been a leading member of the 
Third Reich.

That had been so long ago. The man in the wheelchair closed his eyes and listened to the 
girl’s gasps and wondered just how long it had been.


CHAPTER ONE

“Whip her with all your strength, Horst! Beat the shit out of her!”

The little, old man in the wheelchair cackled as he yelled at his big and bald assistant, 
Horst, who had been with him for years. Horst had been his companion since the fall of the 
Third Reich.

And that had been-how long ago?

The little man tried to remember and then he shook his head.

Such things did not matter any longer, he thought.

What mattered was that this girl was naked and that her hands were bound behind her.

That was the thing that meant everything to the little, old man now.

“Use that whip on her, Horst,” the man in the wheelchair snarled in a German accent.

“Yes, General, I will,” Horst said softly and then he raised the little, tough, leather whip high
into the air.

The man in the wheelchair had never been a real general for the Reich, but that is what he 
liked to be called now.

He did not want to be called by his correct title and name. He was still hiding from those 
people who wanted to hang him for what he had done so many years ago.

How long ago? the little man thought again, and then he again decided that it did not 
matter.

Horst stood in front of the girl as she knelt naked before him. She was a pretty, 
dark-haired girl, perhaps a Jewish girl. The man in the wheelchair did not know for certain and
he supposed that that really did not make any difference any longer. The Final Solution had 
not worked.

And there were Jews all over New York City, where the man lived now in seclusion with 
Horst.

But, even if she was Jewish, the man thought, the girl was pretty, very pretty.

And she looked even prettier now that she was naked and kneeling, a real slave to Horst’s 
Nazi passion.

Horst stood there in his black boots and his trousers. He had taken his shirt off and the 
little man in the wheelchair could see the muscles ripple in his back.

But Horst seemed to be delaying the real action, the little man thought. He had that whip 
raised, all right, but he had not brought it down on that American girl. He just stood there and
flexed his muscles and looked down at her.

The little man in the wheelchair knew Horst well, and he knew too what had delayed the 
whipping.

He yelled at his bald assistant with a furious, cracking voice.

“Stop it, Horst! Stop thinking about the past! Stop thinking about the Glorious Reich! Just 
whip her!”

And the bald man trembled. The little man’s words seemed to knock him out of his frozen 
state.

And the leather whip came down on the girl’s bare shoulders.

She screamed in pain and tensed her body as she knelt there.

And the little man in the wheelchair felt that he was back in the glory days of Germany.

He had so many scream during those days. The girl’s piercing cry was like music to his old 
ears.

How long ago had it been?

That was the question that kept coming to the man, because it was linked to another, 
more important question in his life. How old was he?

He could not really remember any longer, but he knew that he was old, very old, and he 
felt that he was near the end of his life. No man could live forever. Not even the Fuehrer could
live forever. He had died so many years before, died of his own hand with his mistress by his 
side.

But how long ago? The man did not really know at all.

All of the days since he and Horst had sneaked into this country had been like a blur to the
little man. They had moved first to the Southwest and then the little man had grown 
uncomfortable there. He thought that he and Horst stood out too much there, where all of 
the people were so American and talked with such a quaint, American accent that he knew 
that he and Horst would never be able to pick up. So he started to think of moving to New 
York City. In that city, foreigners are nothing special, nothing to be noticed. And, in that city, 
he knew that he and Horst could live un-noticed, even though they were surrounded by Jews, 
scum Jews, the man thought.

How long had they been here in New York City? The man in the wheelchair did not know 
for certain.

But it had been years.

And, during those years, Horst had gone out from time to time and had found a girl, 
usually a hooker or a runaway, and he had brought that girl back to the little house in 
Greenwich Village, where the little man lived with his assistant. The man in the wheelchair 
never went out, but he did not have to. Horst took care of all his needs.

And some of those needs were the needs to see naked and pretty girls humiliated and 
hurt like this.

The man looked at the black arm-band on Horst’s bicep and smiled when he saw that Nazi
insignia.

It was just like old times, he thought, the times that had long since died away.

As he would die very soon, the man thought. He was almost certain of that. That was the 
reason that he had started to demand that Horst go out and find other girls, girls who 
sometimes even enjoyed being hurt like this.

The man in the wheelchair wanted to see as much torture as possible for his final 
extinction. That was his only thrill in life now.

“Whip her, Horst!” the man yelled. “Make her bleed! You can do better than that!”

“Yes, Herr General,” the bald man said, finding his Nazi German accent again, the one that 
he usually did not use when he spoke.

“Whip her and make her bleed! She is nothing but a fucking, Jew slut!”

Horst brought the whip down again and again on the girl’s back and shoulders. Soon he 
started to see the blood, the little trickles of blood that oozed out of the girl’s torn flesh. She 
was not screaming any longer. She was past the screaming point. She now just sighed and 
winced when the whip came down on her. Horst understood that the girl was now in pain all 
of the time, not just when the whip fell on her. That was the way that he liked a girl to be, in 
constant and fiery pain.

Horst had found this girl at the bus station in mid-town and he had started to talk to her 
and tell her how much money there was to be made in New York City.

When the girl’s eyes lit up at the sound of the word, money, Horst knew that he had 
another one for the General to see.

The girl claimed that she wanted to be an actress, so Horst said that he had some 
connections on Broadway.

He had been dressed very well and he had looked dignified, as always. The girl was a 
new-corner in town. She believed everything that he told her.

So he had brought her back to this house. She had probably assumed that he wanted to 
fuck her.

But that had been the last thing on his mind then. He had wanted to beat her for the 
General, his master.

He owed so much to the General. He had spent his entire adult life repaying that debt.

And he knew too that the General was dying. He could see it in the man’s eyes. He 
wondered what he would do when the General finally died, when he was alone in the United 
States.

But Horst did not want to think of that. It frightened him too much to think about being 
alone, without the General to take care of. He had come to think of the General as something 
like his father. And he did not want his father to leave him.

In his sadness and fright, he beat the girl more steadily, bringing the whip down on her 
again and again and watching her wince and waiting for the General’s new order, the order 
that always came during sessions such as this one.

Then the little man in the wheelchair cackled and yelled at Horst.

“Open your pants! Show it to her! Show her that Nazi cock, Horst! Show her what made 
the Third Reich great!”

And then Horst opened his trousers and pulled out his prick.

Even in her pain, when the girl saw that cock, hard and firm and strong, she was amazed.

Her dark eyes grew wide and her mouth came open by instinct. “Yes!” the little man in the 
wheelchair yelled when he saw her lips open. “Yes! Yes! She understands! Horst, she wants to 
suck on your cock! She wants to suck you off. Horst!”

And Horst laughed too, although he knew that it did not matter whether the girl actually 
wanted to suck his cock or not.

She would suck it because he was now her master and she was afraid of more blows from 
that whip and more pain.

She would suck it in order to save her own flesh and her own life.

Horst pushed his trousers down and lowered himself to one knee.

He raised the hard whip high over the girl and he growled at her.

“Suck it, bitch, or I will whip you within an inch of your fucking life. I will destroy you, slut.”

And the girl lowered her head and opened her mouth wide as he raised his hard cock in 
his hand.

The man in the wheelchair cackled again.

“She is going to suck it, Horst! She must be Jewish! All Jew sluts like to suck a big, Nazi 
cock!”

In truth, Horst did not know if she was Jewish or not. In truth, he knew that it did not really
matter.

If the General wanted to believe that the girl was Jewish, that was all right with Horst, as 
long as he got his cock sucked, as long he got the relief that he needed. Horst’s cock always 
got hard when he hurt a girl like this. He could think of no better way to show his own, fine, 
German masculinity.

The General had taught him all about the sexiness of pain when he had been a mere 
teen-ager back in the days of the Reich.

The girl took the cock in her mouth and started to suck on it.

Horst groaned as she did that. Her lips were soft around his cock and then her head 
started to move closer to Horst’s body as she took more and more of the prick into her. This 
girl did know how to suck a prick, Horst thought. She really knew how to suck a man and get 
him off.

Again, Horst had chosen well in New York City. He had chosen a girl who knew what she 
was supposed to do.

The girls arms were behind her and pointed up. A leather Strap was around her wrists. 
Horst knew that, if she could, she would use her hands to give him more pleasure. But he liked
it well enough this way, he thought. He liked it when a girl had to rely only on her mouth.

And her mouth was very good, soft and warm and filled with pressure around his prick.

She sucked him deliciously, as if she were as captivated by her own lust and her own need 
to suck as she was captivated by the whip and the leather band and the force and power of 
her Nazi master. Horst liked that, liked it a great deal.

The girl worked her mouth forward on the cock and took all of that Nazi meat into her.

Her breath was warm on Horst’s body and that gave him even more pleasure.

The bald Nazi also looked at her buns. Now that she was bending over, sucking on his 
cock that way, her white butt was up in the air. Horst liked that. The buns were so white. They 
were not bloody like her shoulders.

Later, Horst knew that he would carefully clean the blood off the girl and care for her 
wounds.

But now he would have to give her more and more of that pain. That was what he had to 
do to please the General and to please himself too. He brought the leather switch down on 
those white buns and the girl tensed her body and moaned as she continued to suck on his 
cock.

The German heard the General cackle on the other side of the room and then he heard the
little man wheeze and then shout out more orders, like a cheerleader at a sporting event, like 
a fan rousing his team up for victory.

“Yes, Horst! Beat those fucking, Jew buns! Beat them and hurt her and make her all bloody 
and sexy, Horst! Beat her while she sucks your good and big, Nazi cock! She will love it!”

And Horst started to beat the girl’s ass with the leather and he thought that, perhaps, the 
General was right about this girl.

She did seem to enjoy what was happening to her. She sucked on his cock with a steady 
rhythm as if he were a real lover, not a man with a whip who was hurting her.

And Horst knew that the girl was probably very surprised at her own sense of pleasure.

But Horst was not surprised or shocked at all. He had worked with too many girls over the 
years. He had found so many who really did enjoy this kind of treatment. He had started to 
think of those girls, the ones who did enjoy being beaten in this sexy way, as true Nazi 
women. He had never fucked a Nazi woman. He had not really been old enough to fuck a 
woman during the days of the Reich, but he thought that they would have gotten off on this 
too.

Horst continued to bring the leather switch down on the girl’s ass as she sucked and then 
he stopped hitting the girl and he moaned-not to her but to the General.

“I am coming, Herr General. Lord, I am coming,” Horst said.

“Yes! Yes! Sehr gut Horst!” the General yelled, allowing himself to break into German.

But then the little man in the wheelchair returned to English to yell at Horst and cheer him 
on some more.

“Come in her mouth, Horst! Make her swallow your come! Make her take that good, Nazi 
cream deep inside of her!”

And Horst intended to do just that. He sensed that that was exactly what the girl wanted 
him to do, too.

She had made no move to get away from him when he had said that thing about his 
coming.

She was not even held down there now. Horst continued to hit her bare bottom and shake
as his orgasm neared, but he did not hold her down there. The girl continued to suck his cock 
of her own free will.

And she sucked so well. She moved back and forth on his member, adding to the pressure
of her lips and using her tongue against the end of the thing like little licks of fire.

She sucked and she sucked and she sucked.

And then Horst felt his German balls erupting, felt the come begin to spurt out.

The girl gobbled his cock greedily and took that eruption into her as the bald Nazi 
continued to smack her buns with relish and shake and come into her wonderful, sweet 
mouth.

“Yes! Yes!” the man in the wheelchair cried. “Yes! Sehr gut! Take all of that good, Nazi 
come, you Jew slut! Drink that come down your fucking, Jew throat! Yes! Yes! Yes!”

The girl took as much of the come into her as possible, but some of it dripped out of her 
red lips and dribbled onto the floor making a small puddle of come cream.

Horst turned around and looked at the General. He knew that the General was dying and 
the German felt the loneliness, that well of loneliness in him again.

He wondered what he would be able to do when the General died, when the little man in 
the wheelchair was no longer there to make the decisions.

Horst shivered when he thought of that prospect. It would be terrible, he thought, terrible 
and lonely and something that he did not want to face.

But he knew that he would have to face it And he would have to face it very soon.

The German just wondered what that would mean to him.

He looked again at the girl, the naked girl who lay there on the floor in front of him.

And Horst sighed, wondering if he would be able to find girls just for himself.

He enjoyed beating women, but the bald German knew that some of the joy would be 
taken out of the experience when the General was no longer there, no longer around to enjoy 
the sights and the sounds and the screams.

As the General continued to cough, Horst returned to his native German, the tongue that 
he could hardly remember any longer and he said the word softly.

“Vater,” he said. “Vater.”

It was the German word for father, and the General had been like a father to his assistant 
for so long.

Horst knew that, when the General died, he would feel like an orphan in the big, cold 
United States, an orphan with no place to go.

What would he do? He was beginning to become frightened. He did not want to think 
about it, but his mind kept dwelling on his fate.





CHAPTER TWO


The girl’s name was Paula and she was from Akron, Ohio.

She was not Jewish at all. She had been raised in the Episcopalian Church, but she had 
never really cared that much about religion. As she lay in the little room now, she remembered
that she had never really cared that much about anything before this afternoon.

And she wondered what had brought about this change in her. She wondered what was 
happening to her emotions. Her own lust for that bald German who had beat her, her own 
feeling of desire as she had sucked on his cock and felt that leather hit her and cut her flesh 
confused the girl from Arkon more than anything else that had ever happened to her.

She was twenty years old, and, sure, she thought, she had fucked and sucked before.

In fact, she had done a lot of that back in Akron, but she had always done it because she 
was lazy-too lazy to say no. It did not harm her, she thought, and sometimes it had even 
helped her. She had gotten some excellent grades in high school and in college, not on her 
ability but on her fucking.

Most of the other times, however, she had gotten nothing for it except that momentary 
feeling of being close to someone. Most of the time, she had gotten nothing at all, except the 
compliments of some guy, saying that she fucked and sucked better than any other girl that 
he had ever been with.

But, now, lying in that room, she felt the aches in her body and she thought that she had 
gotten a lot out of that beating and that cock-sucking that afternoon. She had felt things that 
she had never felt before. And she wondered if this kind of harsh treatment had awakened 
something in her, something that she had never before known. It seemed to her that, even 
with the pain (perhaps, because of the pain), she felt more alive now, less lazy, more filled with
nerves than she had ever felt before.

She had certainly not expected that kind of treatment when that bald man had picked her 
up at the bus station restaurant. She had not believed that he really knew anyone in show 
business either. She had figured that he would fuck her, and she thought that, if she was lucky,
she would be able to stay at his place for the night. And she was too lazy and listless to think 
of anything past that, what would happen to her after the fucking. She had just thought that it
would be a nice way to get some rest.

Now Paula knew that she had entered a hell, that she had been brought into that hell by 
the bald man and her own laziness. But now she had discovered that there was something 
about that hell, this hell that she was in right now, that appealed to her. And she did not 
understand that at all.

She wished that Horst would come into the room and talk to her. She thought that he 
might be able to explain something about her own feelings to her. She could tell by the way 
that he had beat her that afternoon as she had sucked on his cock that he knew a lot about 
this kind of hell, that he was an experienced master.

She had wanted to talk to him about it earlier, after he had taken the man in the 
wheelchair away and then returned to care for her wounds, but she had been too weak and 
too filled with pain then to speak. Now, however, she wanted to speak, to talk about her 
emotions with that man and find out if she was normal. She wondered if any other girl from 
Akron had ever felt this way, had ever gone through an experience such as this one and come 
out liking it more than she could figure out.

Paula had never been hurt before, and she thought now that she might have been 
happier, more filled with life, if she had been hurt badly by some man, some sexual master of 
the whip and of pain.

She thought back over her life and she tried to pick out the man from her past the she 
knew would have most wanted to hurt her, and she came up with Rick, crazy, handsome, 
red-haired Rick. That guy had been so filled with energy anyway, she thought. If he had 
directed that energy towards hurting her, then she might have really enjoyed being around 
him.

She sort of enjoyed being around Rick anyway, she remembered.

She had known Rick in college. She had met him one night at a party and she had listened 
carefully to his explanation of why he was against some war or other. It seemed to Paula now 
that it had not mattered to which war. She had never read the newspapers much. She had 
been too lazy to do that. What mattered to her that night was that Rick was so opposed to the
war, to the fighting that he said made no sense at all. Paula had to agree with that as she 
listened to him. She had never thought that fighting made any sense. Fucking. That was what 
made sense, she thought. Fucking not fighting.

And she had known then that she wanted to fuck Rick with his. long red hair and his 
freckled face. He reminded her of a farm boy from the country , but he also reminded her of 
fire, licking and dangerous flames that could engulf her if she moved too close to him. When 
she thought about that, she did move close to Rick. She wanted him to notice her and like her
and take her into the flames of his presence.

He did notice her after the other young man that he had been arguing with walked away.

He smiled at her and she smiled back. It all seemed so normal to her, even though she 
knew by then that she wanted to fuck his flaming, country-boy body.

“My name is Paula,” she said softly. “I like you and I think that you are right about that 
war.”

“My name is Rick,” the red-haired, fiery, young man said, “and I would like to share the 
night with you.”

She liked that phrase. Sharing the night. It was as if the night would belong to only her 
and Rick, as if everyone else would disappear into nothingness in that night and leave her and
Rick alone to share the darkness. She nodded her head and smiled. It was all so easy, she 
thought, so normal. They would share the night together.

Later, they went back to Rick’s little apartment and went to bed together, and then she 
had really tasted the fire. The fire seemed to be all over her at one time. She marveled at the 
way that Rick moved on that bed, with such grace and speed. He touched her in a hundred 
different places at once and thrilled her more than she had ever been thrilled before.

And yet, there was still that lazy feeling in her. He had not completely conquered her 
listlessness, even when he was driving his hard cock into her cunt and making her squirm and 
sigh with his manly force and his power. Even then, she had felt a little listless.

But she had felt completely alive when that bald German had beat her. She had felt no 
laziness, no listlessness at all, and she thought that, if only Rick had known, if only she had 
known back on that grand night in that bed in Akron, she would have found a real heaven on 
earth with him.

If she had only been able to tell him that she desired to be beaten, that it was the most 
wonderful thing in her life, he would have beaten her. She was almost certain of that.

There had been other nights with Rick after that first one, but none of those other nights 
had been as good, Paula thought, because she had grown used to his macho speed and 
grace, his lively touch, his fire. She had grown to expect that, and the thrill of the first time, her
shock at that speed was gone after that.

But she did not think that she could ever get tired of a whip, tired of the hurt that she felt 
in her body now as she moved, and she wondered if that was normal. She wondered if other 
girls had ever felt like this. She did not know and she wanted to talk to someone about it.

And then the door to the little room opened and Horst, the bald, German tower of a man, 
walked in.

She smiled when she saw him. She lay on her little cot there in that room and smiled at the
German and spoke to him.

“I enjoyed it. I really did. Do all girls enjoy it, Horst?”

The man closed the door and looked down at his feet. To Paula, it seemed that he; was a 
little ashamed to be talking about this. His voice was soft, deep, shy, wonderful.

“Some of them do,” he said. “I thought that you were the type that would too. I thought 
that when I saw you sitting there in the bus station. I thought that you would like it once it got
started.”

“And you were right, Horst,” the dark-haired, naked, aching girl told him. “You were so 
right. But how could you tell?”

“There was a certain softness about you, Paula,” the man said. “There was something about
you that seemed to tell me that you would enjoy it. It is hard to define, but I could see that it 
was there.”

“I am glad that you saw it, Horst,” Paula said, shivering as she spoke as if she’ were 
pledging some kind of love to the man. “I am glad that you saw that softness in me.”

The man still looked down at his feet. He had changed clothes. Now he wore a pair of 
shorts. His chest was muscled and hairless and his feet were bare. The girl looked him over 
and found him strangely attractive. He was not handsome at all. Paula knew that. But there 
was something about his cruel and firm body that appealed to her.

And she wondered if that was normal too. She wondered if other girls had looked at him 
and pledged their special love to Horst.

As she looked at Horst, studied him, she saw that he wore a little chain around his wrist 
and she saw the sign on that chain. She could not remember the word for it, but she 
remembered something from all the war movies that she had seen in Akron on late-night 
television. She remembered that it was the sign of the Germans during World War II.

“Are you a Nazi, Horst?” she asked.

And then she wondered why she had even bothered to ask that question. There were so 
many other things that came to her mind, other questions about her own emotions and her 
own response to the beating that he had given her. It really did not matter to her that he was 
a Nazi, even if he was.

“I suppose I am a Nazi,” the man said. “I was fifteen years old when the Reich tumbled. I 
worked as an orderly for the General. He got me out of the country and into the United States.
I really did not care about the Nazi cause at all when I was a teen-ager. I just worked for the 
General, and I still do.”

“But the General is a Nazi, right?” the girl asked.

“The General was one of the leaders of the Third Reich. He was the highest leader of the 
Reich who was not killed after the war. They would kill him even now, if they could find him. 
They say he did terrible things. He might have done those things. I do not know. All I know is 
that he is like a father to me. Ein Vater.”

“What?”

“That is German for ‘a father.””

“Oh.”

“I serve the General in any way that I can. He saved my life by getting me out of the 
country. They probably would have killed me too because I worked so closely with him. I was 
only a boy, but I am told that the English and the Americans and especially the Russians killed 
even the boys, even the children who did not care about the Nazi cause at all.”

“I did not know that,” the girl said.

“You read American history books. They paint us as demons. All I know is that the General 
means a lot to me.”

“The Russians were the worst, huh?”

“The worst. Officers and bureaucrats walked for miles so that they could surrender to the 
Americans instead of the Russians. The Russians were animals, complete and ruthless animals. 
They would have killed me certainly, and they would have done terrible things to the General.”

“How did you get into this country?”

“The General had connections here. I don’t really know the whole story. I just came with 
him. He is the one who arranged it.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Since November of 1945. We arrived on my sixteenth birthday.”

“The General is very old and sick,” the girl said softly.

“The General is dying,” horst muttered.

And then he looked down at the floor again. Paula could tell that the man was broken up 
by the thought of the other man’s death. When she saw that side of Horst, the loving side, the
side that almost brought tears to her eyes, she wanted him even more.

“I don’t ever want to leave you, Horst,” she said.

And then the man looked up at her. His blue eyes were wide with shock.

“

“But you must?”

“I won’t.”

“You must,” he said. “I cannot allow you to stay. I will pay you for your suffering with 
money and then you must go.”

“Why?”

“Because the General wants other girls too. He already wants me to go out and find some 
other girl and work with her in front of him. He knows that he is dying. He wants to get as 
much pleasure into his life as he can.”

“But, Horst, you can bring other girls in for the General if you want. I could just stay here 
and clean up the house and serve you. That is all that I ask of you, Horst. I would not be 
jealous if you brought in other girls.”

Even as she said it, she felt the little jerk of jealousy deep inside her.

But Paula thought that she could learn to live with the idea that Horst worked with other 
girls for the General. But she could not leave him. She knew that even now. She would feel 
homeless if she left this house in Greenwich Village now.

“Horst,” she whimpered. “Please let me stay.”

And she moved off the cot and knelt before him and threw her arms around his legs and 
started to weep as she begged him to give her pleasure.

“Please, Horst, I will be your slave. I will be your dog. You can whip me and master me. You 
can make me each your shit. I would do even that if you would just let me stay with you. I 
don’t want to leave you, Horst. Please, don’t make me leave you.”

And the man thought about it. No girl had ever pledged herself to him in such a way 
before. Some of them had liked it and had told him that they liked it, but they had been paid 
and then they had been let go. No girl had ever asked to stay with him.

Suddenly, Horst thought that the girl who held his legs right now was like a gift from 
heaven. He remembered that the General would soon be dead, and then he would be alone in
the world. He would still have money and he would still have this house, The General had 
been able to smuggle a small fortune out of Germany and into the United States with him and
Horst. They had been living on that fortune since they had arrived and there was still more of 
it, much more.

But he would be alone after the General died. Horst thought about that prospect and 
realized that he did want the girl to stay with him, to give him the kind of attention that he 
would need. He surrendered to the girl with a soft voice. “All right,” he said. “You can stay with
me. But the General must not find out. He is an invalid anyway. Just stay out of his part of the 
house and he will never know that you are here.”

“I will,” the girl said. “I will stay out of his way. He will never know that I am still here, Horst.
Oh, thank you, Horst.”

Then Horst tried to think of the girl’s name. She had told him her name when he had first 
started to talk to her there in the bus station, but now he had forgotten that name.

Then the German realized that he should, not know her name, that it was better this way. 
That she would be a nameless slave for him. That was the way that he wanted it and he was 
certain that she would want it too.

Horst pulled away from the naked girl’s grasp and then looked down on her.

She was so pretty, he thought. She would make a wonderful slave. He could torture her 
and beat her all day and all night and she would just cry out for more.

As he thought about that prospect, he felt his cock get hard and stiff in his trousers.

Then he smiled and opened his shorts and pushed them down his legs.

He stepped out of them and his cock sprang up. He explained the rules to the girl.

“I will probably never fuck you, slave. I will whip you and hurt you, but I will probably never
fuck you at all. I do not like to fuck sluts like you.”

Paula stayed on her hands and knees and trembled, like a frightened but happy dog.

“I understand,” she sighed. “I understand, Master.”

She knew that she did not really need any fucking with Horst.

She knew that the thing that had thrilled her most with him had been the beating, and she
felt that, if that beating continued, that beating and that humiliation and that pain, she would 
have all the pleasure that she could stand-even without the fucking.

Horst smiled down at her. She would play the game by his rules and he knew it.

She would make the perfect slave and she would keep him happy after the General was 
gone.

Horst moved across the room, naked and proud. He sat down on the edge of the cot and 
wrapped his fingers around his sturdy, German cock. Then he gave the girl, his slave, an order.

“Crawl to me, bitch. Crawl to me like a whimpering dog.”

And the girl did just that. She kept her eyes down on the floor as she crawled to him.

She did not dare look at his cock. She felt the thing in her brain that told her that she was 
a slave and that a slave did not look at her master’s cock until he told her that she was allowed
to do so.

When she was right in front of him, Horst reached out and grabbed her dark hair and 
pulled her face up and looked at it.

“Open that mouth, you slave slut,” he said.

And she opened her mouth wide and showed him her perfect teeth.

“Good mouth,” Horst growled at her.

Then he pushed her face toward his stiff cock, and he muttered to her with the fierce voice
of a master. “I will probably never fuck you, slave, but I will allow you to suck my cock almost 
every day. I will let you suck me until I come in your mouth. And you better suck me good, or I
will kill you, slave. I will make you die with my come rolling down your sluttish throat.”

When he said those harsh and brutal things to her, Paula shivered.

She loved it. She loved thinking that he would kill her and that she would die with his 
man-cream rolling down her lusty throat.

She raised her hand and touched his cock and then moved her face closer to his prick and 
took that piece of meat into her mouth.

She started to suck on the cock, and she thought about the threats that that man had 
given her.

She did not really believe those threats. She had seen how Horst had reacted to the 
discussion of the General and she knew that the man would probably never really kill her.

But she still wanted to serve him with all of her slave heart.

She sucked on his cock and wanted to make the sucking good every day.

She just wanted to be his slave and she wanted him to be her master, forever.

He would answer her need for slavery so well, she thought.

And then she let the thoughts leave her head and she concentrated on that hard flesh that
was in her mouth. She worked her mouth up and down the shaft and then she pulled her 
mouth off the cock and she licked the glowing head of the prick.”

That was wonderful, she thought, sweet and yet brutal too in a strange way.

Horst leaned back on the cot and moaned.

“Good slave. You suck cock very well, you sluttish slave. Good, you fucking slave.”

And she felt as if he had just honored her in some way, and she wondered if any other girl 
from Akron had ever been so honored in her life.

She doubted it.

AD of the emotions that she felt right now were so new to her, so new and thrilling.

Paula thought that those emotions and those feelings might even be new in this world, 
that she might be experiencing something right now that had never been experienced by any 
girl slave before.

She sucked on the cock and she knew that he would come in her, and she thought that it 
would be grand to taste that warm cream of his come again and again, for the rest of her life 
as a loving slave.

And Horst moaned and she knew that she was pleasing him.





CHAPTER THREE


Horst found the new girl by answering an advertisement in one of those newspapers that the 
General subscribed too. When the General had seen that ad and that photograph, he had 
pointed to it and ordered Horst to answer the ad, to write the girl and tell her what pleasures 
awaited her there in Greenwich Village.

He looked at that advertisement again as he waited for the girl to show up.

Under her picture, she had said this: “Hi. My name is Cindy, and I want to be your slave. I 
like to have a master overpower me with his torture. I can stand anything and I can love 
anyone. Please write and send a generous donation to show that you really want a true 
professional as a slave.”

A whore, Horst thought, a submissive hooker. He had answered the ad and had enclosed a
fifty-dollar bill, thinking that he would never hear from the girl again. But, to his surprise, he 
did hear from her. She called him a few days later and told him that for another fifty, he could 
have her for the whole afternoon. He knew that the General could afford to spend a hundred 
dollars and he said that he would enjoy having Cindy around.

They had set up the appointment and now he sat there in the living room and waited for 
her.

The General was already in the room that they had reserved for the slaves, the big room in
the middle of the house. He was sitting in his wheelchair and waiting patiently for the show to 
start.

Horst had cleaned him and fed him and now there was nothing to do but wait.

Cindy was there right on time. She knocked on the door and Horst let her in and looked at
her. She was a slim and sexy, honey-blonde girl. She did not look like she was over twenty-one
or twenty-two. Horst liked the way that she looked, but he knew that she would never give 
him the pleasure that Paula, the other girl, was giving him. Cindy was a professional and she 
did not give pleasure unless she was paid.

Horst handed her another fifty-dollar bill and the girl smiled and slipped it into the pocket 
of the jeans that she wore.

“There is something that you should know,” the bald man said.

“What is that?” Cindy asked.

Her voice was formal, almost cold. Horst did not like her professional attitude at all.

And he knew then that it was going to be a pleasure to knock the shit out of this girl.

“Another man will be watching us,” he said. “He is in a wheelchair and he just wants to 
watch.”

“Watching is an extra fifty,” the girl said in that cold voice.

“Even if he does not do anything to you?” Horst asked.

“Watching is another fifty, Buster, Cough up the dough or I am leaving right now.”

Horst had been prepared for this, and he had another fifty-dollar bill on him.

He handed it to her and hated her professional coldness. She was nothing like Paula, he 
thought.

That dark-haired beauty was a real slave, not a professional. Paula could never be as cold 
at this girl was. She could never have such coldness in her body and in her soul.

“Okay,” the professional girl said, “he can watch. Let’s get started.”

But Horst did not want to get started right away. He wanted to talk to the girl. He and the 
General had planned the whole thing out, and the General was waiting, but Horst knew that a 
few minutes did not make any difference to the General. He knew that that old man had lost 
all track of time and he would have waited for days in that room, patiently and proudly, 
without even realizing that it had been that long.

Horst wanted to talk to the girl so that he could melt some of that coldness.

He thought that, if he could get Cindy to talk about herself, she might uncover something 
that would explain that coldness, that would tell him why she was this way with her customers.

“How long have been a professional slave?” he asked.

“Since I was sixteen, and, yes, I like it,” she said. “I know all the questions that you guys 
want to ask, and I assure you that I really do like being hurt. I was hurt for a long time by my 
step-father and then I ran away from home and I came to New York City and I turned 
professional because men and women will pay a lot of money to hurt somebody like me. Just 
no movies and no photographs. That is the only rule that I have. And, yeah, enemas are 
twenty bucks extra. You want to give me an enema?”

“No,” Horst said softly.

She had said all of that as if she were extremely bored with the whole thing, as if she were 
reciting a litany that she knew all too well, that she had recited so often that she could hardly 
stand to hear the words herself.

“Okay,” the girl said. “No enema. I don’t know why, but I just don’t like enemas that much.”

“Take off your clothes, Cindy,” the bald man finally barked at her.

She grinned quickly. She could tell that he was ready now.

And she started to strip off her clothes, to reveal her body to the man who had paid to be 
her master.

Horst was wearing a robe and he opened that robe and showed her that naked body.

She ran her eyes up and down that body as she stripped and she looked at the cock.

She grinned.

“You look nice,” she said. “You are very well-hung.”

He slapped her face with a hard blow.

“Shut up, you slut,” he snarled.

She accepted that blow because she was a professional and because it was her job.

But, even after he hit her, that hardness, that coldness was still in her system.

Horst could see it in her eyes and she looked at him, and he hated that coldness.

He determined then that he would do his best to beat that coldness out of her. He 
thought that it had probably been a very long time since this girl, this professional, had really 
felt very much. He knew how most masters were with their slaves. He had read stories about 
them. They played at being masters. They might lash their slaves a few time with a whip, but it 
was really all like a child’s game.

Horst was no child and he knew that what he and the General had planned for this 
professional was no game.

She would suffer this afternoon, he thought, as she had probably not suffered in months.

“Get your fucking clothes off,” he snarled at the professional girl. “Herr General is waiting.”

Horst put on his hard, German-accented voice when he spoke to her. When she heard that
voice, she smiled quickly. She obviously liked the German touches. And then she stripped 
quickly. She did not want to displease her master this afternoon.

Horst could not help but grin with pleasure. He could see that Cindy already knew that this
was not going to be a normal, little game. She knew that this was going to be something very 
special.

When she was naked, he looked at her and he nodded his head.

“You will bleed this afternoon, of course,” he said.

“Of course,” she murmured.

And then she dropped her eyes to the floor. She was into the slave role then.

The hardness and the coldness was gone, almost by magic, it seemed. She was his slave 
then.

And she was willing to bleed for him. That pleased Horst very much.

He could tell that the girl really did like this kind of treatment, that, when she met a 
customer who really knew how to treat a girl, she was pleased. The coldness had been a 
professional cover. Now, it seemed to Horst, the real Cindy was coming out and the real Cindy
was going to make a wonderful and willing victim.

“On your knees, slave,” Horst snarled at her.

And Cindy dropped to her knees in front of him.

The bald German pulled off his robe and stood naked in front of her as she waited for her 
next order. He made her wait for several seconds, made her wonder what would happen next.

And then he quickly grabbed her hair and pulled her down on the floor and started to 
walk with her, pulling her behind him. He felt like a caveman who had conquered his mate. He
knew that the General would be happy with his entrance, would be happy to see them come 
into the torture room like this.

Horst pushed the door to the room open and dragged Cindy in behind him and the 
General turned and looked at him and seemed to be filled with new life at the sight of this 
sexy mastery. The little, old man moved back and forth in the wheelchair and shouted to his 
friend.

“That is the way, Horst! That is the way to treat a slave! Horst, she is beautiful!”

“And she will bleed,” the bald man muttered as he pulled Cindy toward the contraption 
that had been set up for her.

Horst spent some of his time building these things that he used on his slaves for the 
General’s pleasure.

This thing was a wooden chair with metal straps on it. The girl would be strapped into the 
chair as if she were going to be executed.

That symbolism pleased Horst and he knew that it pleased the General too. He pulled the 
professional girl toward the chair and then let her lay there on the floor for a moment.

He kicked her in the side with his bare foot and he heard the little gasp that she let out 
with.

He liked that gasp. He smiled just for a second and then he snarled at Cindy again.

“Into that fucking chair, you no-good whore,” he growled. And she moved slowly into the 
chair. He could see the tears in her eyes when she looked at him and he could see that she 
was already hurting. This was only the beginning, he thought. By the time he was finished with
her, this professional girl would be completely reminded of the true pleasures of pain and 
torture.

When she sat in the chair, he quickly strapped her in. Then he stood in front of her and 
laughed and slapped her hard across the face. That was when the General erupted again with 
more cheering.

“Good, Horst! Excellent! Beat her! I think she is a Jew, Horst! Beat the Jew shit out of her!”

To the General, all of the victims were Jews. Horst knew that.

“Beat her! Give her pain! Give her good, Nazi pain, Horst!”

And then Cindy opened her eyes wide and looked at the bald man.

“Nazi?” she asked, almost sighing when she said the word.

“Yes,” he growled at her. “Nazi, you fucking Jew slut.”

And he hit her hard across the face again with more passion than he had felt in a long 
time.

Horst did not really think that this girl was Jewish, but it did not matter. She was a slave 
and that part of the game-the Nazi and Jew game that the General thought about as he 
watched the action-was infectious. Horst wanted to think of this professional girl as a Jew too.

Then he moved behind the chair. The girl’s eyes followed him as he picked up the little 
metal clamp that was attached to the chair by a curled cord. When she saw the metal clamp, 
with its little teeth, she knew without being told what it was meant for. She opened her mouth
and she screamed in anticipation of the pain that that clamp would give her body.

“You will bleed,” Horst muttered. “I told you that you would bleed, you Jew slut.”

And the girl knew that she would bleed too. She struggled against the leather straps that 
held her on the chair.

He liked that struggling, and he knew that the General liked it too.

“Take that clamp and bit into her fucking nipple!” the General said. “Do it, Horst!”

“Yes, Herr General,” the bald man said.

“Make that Jew nipple bleed!”

“Yes Herr General.”

But, as he was responding to the General’s orders, he was looking at the girl.

She had stopped squirming and screaming, and now she looked at him with her face white
with fear.

She had probably not been so afraid in a long time, Horst thought, in all of her 
professional life.

He opened the jaws of the little metal clamp and she gasped when she saw how bright 
and biting those teeth were.

Horst knew that that would thrill the General, that the look on the girl’s pale face would 
give the General a lot to dream about in nights to come.

He was doing this as much for the General as he was doing it for himself, he remembered.

And the General did not have that much longer to live.

He would not be able to experience many more pleasures such as the one that he was 
experiencing now.

Horst pulled the clamp around in front of the girl, over her shoulder, and then he raised 
her tit with his hand.

The blonde stiffened her body and closed her eyes and waited for the pain to come to her.

It came with a sharp and biting motion. Horst quickly clamped the thing onto her nipple, 
and then the girl screamed with a loud and long and piercing sound.

And the General sat in his wheelchair and cackled and shouted about the scream to his 
friend and assistant.

“You are like a son to me, Horst! You can really make a Jew slut bleed!”

Horst felt proud because he had made the General happy, and he knew that the little man 
in the wheelchair was right.

He could make a bitch bleed. He stepped back and let the General look at the bleeding 
nipple.

The blood came out in little drops and moved in little streams down the professional girl’s 
body. The blood was like tiny, little rivers of joy and passion, Horst thought.

“Good! Good!” the General yelled. “Sehr gut, Horst!”

“Thank you, Herr General,” the bald man said.

And then he moved back to the back of the chair and pulled out the other clamp.

The professional girl opened her eyes when she felt Horst’s body rubbed against hers.

And, when she saw that other clamp, she stiffened her body again, and she sighed to him.

“Yes, yes,” she said softly, “bite me right in the heart with that thing. Never like this. Never 
such pain. Thank you. Make me bleed even more.”

And Horst chuckled because that was exactly what he was going to do. He was going to 
make her bleed from her other nipple too.

He quickly clamped the metal onto that other tit and the girl squirmed and moaned and 
bled with pleasure. The blood flowed out of both tits now and covered her legs as it fell down 
there. And the girl moved her legs back and forth, wallowing in the pain and the blood and 
the anguish of the moment. She opened her mouth and muttered something.-Horst leaned 
forward to hear what she had to say.

“I have a lover,” she said, “a pretty, young thing named Wilma. Will you hurt her too? 
Please hurt her too. It will not cost you anything to hurt her. She is not a professional, but she 
loves the pain.”

Horst grinned and glanced back at the General. He knew that the little man would 
appreciate having another girl there. He knew that the General wanted to see as much 
suffering as possible before he died.

“Yes,” Horst said. “I will hurt your pretty lover too.”

“Oh, thank you. Thank you, Master,” the girl moaned.

And then she continued to writhe and squirm in the pain that she found so delicious.

But the pain had just begun. The bleeding had just begun. Both Horst and the General 
knew that. Horst walked back to the table behind the chair and picked up the little blade, the 
sharp, little thing.

He walked in front of the bleeding girl and he slapped her hard so that she would open 
her eyes and see what was going to happen to her.

And then he smiled and he slipped the blade across her stomach.

Another little river of blood started to flow. The girl looked down at that river and then 
threw her head back and closed her eyes and sighed to the man.

‘Thank you, Master. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”





CHAPTER FOUR


Wilma, Cindy’s young lover, came to visit Horst two days later.

It was going to cost him nothing. In fact, Cindy had cost him nothing too.

After Horst had worked with the professional girl, she had given him the greatest 
compliment that any whore could give a man: she had given him back all of his money and 
had kissed him good-bye.

Now, Wilma was there, and, when Horst looked at her, he thought that that girl was worth 
a fortune. But she was not going to cost him anything.

She was a sexy and slim blonde, and Horst figured that she could not be over nineteen 
years old.

Horst let her into the living room and smiled when he looked at her.

And then he started to ask her some questions. He could tell that she was a little nervous 
being there, and he wanted to set her at ease. He also wanted to find out something about 
her. He did not like his slaves to be faceless creatures without a past for him. And he could tell
that this face was sweet. He wondered if the past was sweet too.

“Are you a professional like Cindy?” he asked with a smile.

“No,” the girl murmured. “I am just her lover. She supports me with her money that she 
makes from people who want to do that kind of thing to her.”

She kept her eyes on the floor, although she glanced up at him from time to time.

It was obvious to Horst that Cindy had told her blonde friend about him. Wilma was 
intrigued and excited, but she was also frightened. Horst asked her another question because 
he wanted to know just how much experience the girl had had with pain.

“Does Cindy beat you then? Does she torture you?”

“Yes,” the girl said. “Sometimes. Sometimes I torture her. Sometimes her brother tortures 
both of us.”

“Her brother?”

“Yes. He came to New York City to live with Cindy and me. He is just a kid, really. But he 
likes to torture us and hurt us. He likes to call us lesbian sluts and say that he is better than 
both of us. Cindy supports him too-with the money that she makes. But he is like the master 
of the house, you know.”

“Oh, I understand.”

“Usually, he just works with me because he does not want to bang Cindy up too badly. She
has to make her money, you know.”

“Yes, she does.”

The blonde gave him one of those quick glances again.

“Cindy tells me that you are really good at torture, that you really know what you are 
doing with a girl. She tells me that I will enjoy it very much.”

“I hope that you do,” Horst said softly, looking into those big, blue eyes.

Wilma looked like a fine, young German girl, and the bald man imagined her as a member 
of the Hitler Youth. She would be the kind of young person that Hitler would have been proud
of, Horst thought.

But Hitler was dead now, had been dead many years, and the ones who mattered to this 
girl on this afternoon were Horst and the General. The bald man stood up very straight and 
spoke to the girl in his harsh, masterly tone.

“Strip, you lesbian slut,” he snarled.

And the girl jerked as if he had hit her. She looked up at him and said it softly.

“Yes,” she said. “I am a lesbian slut. That is all that I am, Master.”

“No, bitch, you are more than that,” Horst corrected her.

“What else am I?”

“My fucking slave.”

And Horst could tell by the way that the girl was shaking that that news pleased her.

She would enjoy being his slave, and both of them knew it.

Slowly, she started to strip, to take off her clothes and show him her fine, young body.

She was slim and sleek, like a dancer, Horst thought.

“Do you dance?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, smiling. “I would like to dance on Broadway some day.”

“There is a lot of pain in dancing, isn’t there?”

The girl nodded her head.

“Yes. Sometimes, I feel like my body is coming apart. When you rehearse, your muscles get
sore and there is a tingling, a tingling in your muscles that stays with you always.”

“How long have you been into pain?”

“For as long as I can remember,” the girl said softly. “I am from Oklahoma and I lived on a 
farm there and it seemed that I always enjoyed hurting. I used to throw my body against the 
barn wall so that I could hurt. I don’t know why. I guess someone could talk to me for a little 
while and figure out why and tell me. But I don’t really care why. I just know that I get off on 
hurting. I would not dance if it did not hurt. It is something of a challenge, you know.”

“A challenge?” Horst asked.

“To see how much pain you can stand. To see how much you can endure. I think I like the 
challenge most of all.”

“I understand,” Horst said, and, in truth, he did.

The German man liked challenges too, challenges that matched the girl’s perfectly.

He liked to see how much pain he could inflict on a woman, how much he could make her 
suffer.

Again, Horst was dressed in just his robe. He ran his eyes up and down the girl’s body and 
he pushed that robe from his shoulders and stood naked in front of her.

She looked at his body and licked her lips and then she murmured the word that he liked 
so much.

“Master,” she said.

He grinned when she said that word.

“Cindy tells me that another man, a man in a wheelchair, watched her. Will he watch me 
too?”

“Yes,” the master said.

“Thank you, Master,” the girl said. “I thank you now for the pain that you will give me.”

Horst doubled up his fist and hit the pretty girl in the stomach.

She gasped and doubled over and fell to the floor.

‘Thank you, Master,” she muttered as she lay there, trying to catch her breath.

The German kicked her in the ribs with his bare foot.

He knew that that was the kind of treatment that she wanted from him.

“Thank you, Master,” she sighed, turning onto her back on the floor and looking up at him.

Horst could see the tears in her blue eyes and those tears made him very proud of his own
ability to give pain.

He would meet the challenge, he thought.

He would give her as much pain as he could.

Horst lifted his foot and pressed it down on her lower stomach. He felt her pussy hair tickle
the sole of his foot and he smiled with that sexy tickling.

And she was gasping in pain as he applied most of his weight to that pressure that he was 
giving her. The words came out in sexy gasps as she squirmed in pain under him.

“Thank you, Master. Thank you, German Master. Thank you.”

“Lesbian slut slave,” he snarled as he lifted his foot off her slim body.

“Yes,” she said. “That is what I am. I am a lesbian, and I am a slut and I am a slave.”

Horst moved toward the door that led to the torture room.

Then he turned back and snarled at the lesbian slut slave again.

“Crawl behind me, slut. Slither on your belly behind me, you snake of a lesbian.”

The girl was a dancer. He knew that she would be able to do that.

She started to move across the floor on her belly, keeping close to the floor as if she were 
crawling into a battle and trying to protect herself.

But Horst knew that there would be no protection at all once they got inside that room 
where the General waited for them.

The bald man opened the door and walked naked into the room.

The girl slithered in behind him, and the General eyed her with fever in his brain.

“Yes, Horst!” the General cried. “Make that bitch crawl!”

The girl moved into the room and then lay still in the middle of the floor.

Horst looked down at her and thought that she was lying there like a dead girl.

But she was alive, and he knew it. And he knew too that her pain had just started.

The bald man walked to the table at the side of the room and picked up the leather strap 
as he listened to the old General yelling with glee.

“Treat that Jew slut like shit, Horst! Show her what a Jew slut can stand! Yes, Horst! Show 
her what a Jew slut is worth! Nothing! That is what she is worth! Nothing! Jews are worth 
nothing! Jew pain is no pain at all! Jew sluts love pain! Pain! Pain! Pain! Jew whores love pain! 
They all do! Show her the pain that she will love, Horst!”

The bald man stood very still for a moment. He did not want to do anything more to excite
the General right then. He could tell that the old man was almost beside himself with furious 
lust at that moment, and Horst wanted to wait for that lust, that excitement to pass. He 
worried about the General. He thought that the man would drop dead some day of a heart 
attack because he got too excited watching a girl being tortured.

And Horst did not want that to happen. Even though he knew that such a death would be 
a happy one for the old Nazi, he did not want the General to die any time soon.

He still felt terribly lonely when he thought about the general dying.

Finally, the little, old man in the wheelchair was silent and Horst turned and looked at him. 
He could tell that that passionate fever, that mixture of lust and rage, had passed. Then the 
bald assistant went to the girl who lay there and waited for him.

She was lying on her stomach with her face pressed to the floor. Horst pulled her arms 
behind her and wrapped the leather around those wrists and tied them securely.

Then he kicked the girl again, for good measure, and the little blonde whimpered out the 
words.

“Thank you, Master.”

“See? See?” the General asked, his eyes wild and his finger pointing at her. “See? She likes 
it! She likes it, Horst! All Jew sluts like it!”

“I know,” the-German said. “I know, Herr General.”

“They all like it! Hitler and Himmler knew that! Most people did not, but we all knew that 
they really liked it! Some of them smelled liked fish because their pussies were leaking so 
much when they were led to the showers!”

Horst did not like the General’s talking about the showers. It reminded him of the terrible 
things that he had seen, and he did not think that anyone could really like that.

The man wanted to get the General’s mind off the showers, so he grabbed the girl’s long, 
blonde hair and pulled her toward the vise that he had set up for this special occasion. The girl
whimpered and let him drag her across the floor.

“Thank you, Master. Thank you for the pain.”

“Take her too the shower’s, Horst!” the General yelled. “She will love the showers’.”

The bald man ignored that, not wanting to think about the showers of Nazi Germany at all.

He forced the girl to kneel in front of the metal holder and he pulled her nipple out with 
his fingers. She squirmed and tilted her head back and moaned when he gave her that pain.

She was one of the best, Horst thought. She really did enjoy this kind, of treatment.

She was moaning, and most of them screamed as if they were being killed.

This girl would always be very special in his memory, the German man thought.

And he looked at the General and he knew that she would be very special in that man’s 
memory too, if the little man had any memory left in his head. Horst smiled at the General and
then he quickly pushed the metal clamp down on the girl’s nipple, making the flesh stick out 
on the other end.

Then the girl stopped moaning with pleasure and lust.

Then the girl screamed in terrible pain and shivered and tossed with her nipple in that 
holder. Horst reached out and steadied her as she screamed. He did not want her tearing that 
nipple off her body with her wild, jerking movement.

When she was steady, Horst picked up the metal ring with the opening that was sharp, 
that would pierce her nipples.

The girl saw that ring and sighed to Horst with a soft voice.

“Thank you, Master. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

“Lesbian slut from an Oklahoma farm,” he snarled. “Lesbian slut who dances.”

Those two phrases seemed to define the young blonde completely, he thought.

And thinking about that definition, he opened the ring and pierced the pink, young, sweet 
nipples and fixed the ring in the flesh.

She grimaced and she whimpered, but she did not scream and she did not twist around.

She accepted it all like a good slave should accept a piercing from her rough and cruel 
master.

Horst loosened the grip on that nipple and let the girl move her breast slowly away from 
the thing.

Her nipple was puckered and pierced with the ring that stayed on her like some kind of 
Christmas ornament, Horst thought.

And then the man pulled the other tit to the vise and clamped the metal holder down on 
the girl. She sighed and whimpered out the words.

“Thank you, Master. Thank you for giving me your rings.”

And Horst thought that she was speaking to him as if he had just married her with those 
rings.

“Lesbian slut,” he snarled.

“Yes.”

“Lesbian from Oklahoma.”

“Yes.”

“Cunt-lapping, pain-loving, dancing lesbian.”

“Yes. Yes. Yes.”

“Horst!” the General cried. “Horst, you have found the true woman in her! She is all of 
those things! She loves the pain! All Jew sluts love the pain! Take her to the showers, Horst, 
and see how wet and excited her pussy gets when she knows that the end is coming!”

The German ignored the man who was like a father to him.

And he quickly reached for the other nipple-ring. He wanted to give that young blonde 
the pleasure and the pain that she deserved.

“This is for you, Wilma,” he said softly. “This is the second ring.”

“Thank you, Master,” she moaned.

And he worked the piercing ring into her other nipple and listened to her sigh with the 
pain.

He remembered what she had told him about throwing herself against barn walls in order 
to feel the pain. He remembered the pain that she felt as a dancer. But he knew that this 
would be the finest pain, the pain that would make her a real woman.

When her nipple was ringed correctly, he loosened the holder and let the blonde go.

And then he slapped her hard across the face and knocked her back onto the floor.

The General started to yell again with a furious sound in his voice, like the sound of gravel,
Horst thought.

“That is right, Horst! Hit her! The Jew sluts love it when you hit them! Heil, Hitler! They love
it, Horst! They always love it! The Jew sluts know that pain is what they are meant for!”

At least, the German man thought, the General was not talking about the showers any 
longer.

Horst knelt beside the girl and slapped her again and again. After each slap, she moaned 
to him.

“Thank you, Master. Thank you. Thank you.”

And Horst continued to insult her and abuse her. He stood up and kicked her again and 
she rolled over onto her stomach. When the rings and her pierced nipples touched the floor, 
she cried out in her pain: “Oh, my God!” she yelled.

And the General heard that and cackled to himself. Then he spoke to the girl who lay there
in agony.

“Your god will not help you now,” he said in a soft but sinister voice. “There is no god for 
Jews, you know. Your god is not allowed in Germany.”

Horst looked at the General and tried to remember that the man had done a great deal for
him. But, at times like this, it was difficult for Horst to think of those good things, of the way 
that the General had saved his life and cared for him.

At times such as this, Horst could see the demonic look in the man’s eyes, and he knew 
that that man must have been the war criminal that everyone claimed that he was.

And he found himself hating the General, even though the man was like a father to him.

Horst kicked the girl again, kicked her with his hatred for the General in his head.

And the German man thought that, perhaps, it was not so uncommon to hate a man like 
the General. After all, didn’t every boy hate his father at times?

The girl rolled onto her back and sighed and looked up at the man who stood over her.

“Thank you, Master. Thank you, Master,” she gasped.

“Fuck you, you piece of lesbian shit,” the man growled.

And then he kicked one of the pierced nipples and gave the girl even more pain. She 
whimpered with that pain. And then she cried out, as if it had taken a second for the great 
rush of new pain to break through the old pain in her head and let her know that she was 
really hurting.

“Get her! Kick her!” the General cried. “Take that Jew bitch to the showers!”

And Horst continued to work on the girl as she tossed and danced on the floor, danced 
with the pain in her head.

But he did not really hate the girl at all.

He hated the General, the old Nazi, the war criminal.

Only the General, he thought, really deserved his hate.

He was confused between his love and hate for the man.





CHAPTER FIVE


Horst liked to watch old movies on television. Sometimes he would stay up all night and see 
one movie after another and wallow in America in that special way. He especially liked the 
westerns, the movies that gave him the American history that he wanted to believe.

He liked the cowboys, men who would have been honored in any civilization, Horst 
thought. They were men who were strong and independent and brave and yet thoughtful too.
They were the essence of American nobility, the German man thought.

He remembered when he had come to America with the General, he had expected to see 
cowboys on the streets of New York City and had been a little disappointed when someone 
told him that there were few cowboys left. He had seen a couple of men who looked like real 
cowboys in Arizona, when he had lived there with the General. But those men had just 
laughed at him when he tried to talk to them, and he had known then that the movies were 
probably lies.

He did not talk to any cowboys after that. He did not want to have all of his illusions 
shattered. He wanted to dream about a golden time for America, a time when men were brave
and honest and strong and straight.

That is why he liked the movies. He would watch any old movie, but he liked the Westerns 
most of all.

Horst remembered going to movie theaters in Germany when he was just a little boy, but 
those memories were always tinged with pain because he also had to remember that he had 
not had any friends when he was a boy either. The other German boys had always laughed at 
his bald head.

Horst had been completely bald since he was seven years old.

That was the year that he had almost died from the fever. He had been sick for weeks and 
all of his hair fell out. He remembered now how he looked at the locks of golden hair that lay 
around his pillow and knew that those locks had come from his own head.

His mother and his father had assured him that the hair would grow back.

But it never had. He had remained bald, the object of ridicule. All of the other boys had 
hair and many of them had those same kind of golden locks that Horst had had before he got
sick.

At one time, Horst remembered that he had been sorry that he had not kept some of his 
hair with him, did not carry some of those golden locks in his pocket. That way, he could have 
pulled the hair out of his pocket and said, “Look. See. I used to have hair. This is my hair. But I 
got sick and I don’t have hair any more.”

But no one would have believed him. They would have thought that he had scooped the 
golden hair up from the floor of a barber shop. Sometimes, Horst wanted to cry when he 
thought about the loneliness that he had experienced as a boy.

There were so many images from Germany, from his childhood, that haunted him.

He sat there that night watching an old musical and one of those images came back to 
him.

It happened when he saw the chubby, little maid in the musical, the woman in the uniform
who walked around behind the actors as they talked to each other about love and music and 
stuff like that.

His father had had a chubby, little maid like that when Horst was about twelve years old.

And, now, the boy remembered what had happened to that maid, remembered how he 
had gotten involved in it too.

The Nazis were in power and everyone seemed to be wearing the uniform of Hitler.

The people of Germany seemed proud of themselves again, and Horst was happy that 
they were proud, but he did not consider himself a Nazi. He did not even belong to the Hitler 
Youth because he did not like to be around other young people. They all laughed at his bald 
head.

But his father, who ran an inn in Sarzenburg, was a Nazi. He would dress up in his uniform 
and put on his arm-band and go to the meetings to hear the speakers tell the people that the 
Jews were the cause of everything, that Germany could again be powerful and strong, that all 
of Europe would fear Germany once more.

His father said that it was about time that the other countries feared and respected 
Germany. His father had fought in the World War, and he had hated the French for the way 
that they had tried to destroy the German people after the war was over.

His father hired young men from the local Hitler Youth to work in the inn as waiters.

He said that he wanted to give the pure, young people of Germany a chance to earn some
money.

He would never hire a Jew to work for him, although Horst had always thought that the 
accountant, a little man with spectacles on his nose, looked vaguely Jewish. Horst had never 
mentioned that to his father, though, because the accountant gave him candy and did not 
laugh at his bald head and Horst did not want to make the man lose his job.

Those young men who worked for his father were all blond and handsome and strong.

And they were all very cruel to Horst. He knew that they laughed at him too, but they did 
not laugh at him when his father was around. They did not want to lose their jobs.

The war was starting too. Horst remembered that. He remembered how his father would 
gather all of those young men around him and tell them that soon Germany would control all 
of Europe and they would be respected once again.

And the young men who cheer the man when he talked like that.

But then there the maid, Helga, the chubby, little maid.

Horst remembered her very well and he remembered what had happened to her too.

Helga was a happy, young woman of nineteen or twenty. She wore her hair in pig-tails and
she worked around the inn. Horst had heard the stories that the young men told. He had 
heard that Helga was easy, that she would fuck any of the young men.

“She enjoys it more than a Frankfurt whore,” one of the young men once said to the other.

Horst overheard that exchange and it stuck with him all of these years.

“What do you know about Frankfurt whores?” the other young man had said with a grin.

“I went to Frankfurt with my brother and we paid and we got two of them,” the first one 
said proudly. “The one that I had said that I was very good. She said that I had real 
imagination.”

“What was she supposed to say? You paid her, didn’t you? They always say nice to the 
fools that pay for it.”

“You have never paid for it?”

“No. I don’t have to.”

“What about Christine? You gave her money, didn’t you?”

“For the bus home. That is all.”

“A very expensive bus ride, I would think.” And then both of the young men had started to
laugh. They were good friends, and they could say things like that to each other.

Horst had listened to that conversation from around the corner and he had wished that he
could have a friend that he could joke with and talk to as those young men talked but he 
knew that he would probably never have a friend at all.

But he heard the stories about Helga and he wondered if they were true. He started to 
watch for her as she moved through the inn, laughing and changing the sheets on the bed 
and cleaning the rooms. He wondered if she was like a Frankfurt whore.

And then, that afternoon, he had seen the boys with her and he had known that 
something was very wrong.

Later on, he thought that that something was very wrong with him, more than with any 
other person in the world.

He had gone into the little shed behind the inn to look for something that he had lost.

He could not even remember any more what he was looking for in that shed. But he knew 
that he could never forget what he had seen there in that shed.

Six of the boys, the young men from the Hitler Youth who worked for his father, were in 
that shed. They were drinking beer and throwing darts at the wall.

It took Horst a little while to figure out what they were throwing the darts at.

But then he heard the whimpers, the soft cries, and he looked very closely and he saw that 
Helga was up against that wall, with her arms clasped in metal holders. She was fixed to the 
wall.

And the darts were sticking out of her.

She was naked, and the next thing that Horst noticed was her pussy.

The pussy was like a red slash in her body and it had hair growing around it.

It was the first cunt that young Horst had ever seen.

He slid into the sled and stood against the wall and watched with fascination as the boys, 
all blonde with full heads of hair, threw darts at the fat, little woman.

“Frankfort whore,” one of them muttered.

His dart missed her completely.

“I fucked you once, Helga,” another one said in a sleepy way. “I drove right into you like 
this.”

And his dart landed on one of her big tits.

When the dart went into her, she tensed her body and sighed and whimpered.

But she did not cry out. She did not really seem to be in that much pain.

That confused and intrigued Horst. He thought that she should be crying out in anguish.

He hadn’t meant to make his presence in the shed known to the others, but he’d asked 
the question before he even realized that the words were coming out of his mouth.

“Why isn’t she screaming?” he asked, and he was surprised that his voice sounded so calm.

The drunken, young men turned and looked at him. One of them laughed and called out.

“Little bald Horst! Perhaps we should put him on the wall with Helga!”

And then the boy had been afraid, very afraid. He had moved toward the door, and he had
been prepared to make a run for it when another boy gave the order to the group.

“Leave him alone. We don’t want to lose our jobs. If we lose the jobs, we will be off to the 
Russian front in a matter of hours.”

“Oh, they are not drafting people as young as us,” another one said.

“They will be,” the leader of the group said softly. “And soon.”

That seemed to put some kind of fear into the other boys, and they were all silent for a 
moment. Then the one who was the leader, the one who had told them to leave Horst alone, 
stepped toward the bald youngster.

And he finally answered Horst’s question with a voice that was almost sad, the boy 
thought.

“She does not cry out because she likes it, Horst,” he said. “She likes to be hurt in little 
ways like that.”

“She does?” Horst asked, his eyes wide.

He could not believe that anyone would like to be hurt in any way. He remembered the 
time that he had fallen out of a tree and broken his arm. He had not liked that at all.

Then the leader of the band turned and looked at Helga.

“You do like it, don’t you, you fat slut?” he snarled at the naked woman.

“Yes, Master,” she whined. “I do. I do. I like it, Horst. I really do.”

Horst looked at those big tits and that cunt and the darts that were sticking out of the 
woman’s flesh and he knew that Helga was telling the truth. He could tell that by the soft 
sound in her voice. But he could not understand it at all. He could not understand why anyone
would like something like that.

And then the leader of the band handed Horst a dart.

“Go ahead. Throw it at her, Horst. Be a real man,” he said.

Horst looked at that dart in his hand, and he heard the other young men speaking to him 
too.

“Throw it, Horst.”

“Be a man, Horst. Hurt her.”

“She likes it.”

“Yes, Horst, she told you that she liked it. She likes it.”

“Be a man, Horst. Be a man.”

And the boy started to think that perhaps that was what being a man was all about.

He remembered the times that his father had told him to be a man.

And the other boys were so friendly now. Some of them even touched his shoulder.

He wanted to have friends. He wanted to be a man. He wanted people to respect him. 
They would not laugh at his bald head, he thought, if he became a real man.

And thinking that Horst threw the dart and it landed right on Helga’s tit, stuck into her 
flesh. She yelped with the pain and then she sighed and the boys around him, the older boys, 
the pride of Germany, cheered for him and he felt more like a man than he had ever felt 
before.

“That is right, Horst,” the leader of the band said. “You are a man now. You are one of us. 
So, naturally, you will not tell your father about what we did out here with Helga. Your father, I
do not think that your father would understand.”

“I will not tell him anything,” Horst said. “I will not tell anyone anything. I am a man now.”

And he felt so much like a man that he wanted to throw another dart at the fat, naked 
young woman who was up there against the wall. He wanted to throw darts all afternoon at 
her sexy, German flesh.

He could feel his cock rising in his trousers and he knew that he was a man.

He did get to throw a few more darts at her and some of the boys had given him beer to 
drink, but he had drank too much of it and he felt sick when he left the shed.

But they did not laugh at him when he left. They knew that Horst was a man now.

He had proven his manhood with those darts, and he was proud of that manhood, proud 
of everything that he had done.

Of course, Horst had discovered, soon after, that being a man was more than just throwing
darts.

He discovered that when he had his own Frankfort whore. But that was after the General 
had found him, and that was after he had gone off with the General to work as his orderly and
assistant.

The General was a friend of his father’s, a man that his father talked about all the time. 
Horst’s father said that the General was really more powerful that Hitler himself, that Hitler did
not make a move without the General’s advice.

The father had often laughed and said this to his son: “Hitler would not know what to do 
in the bathroom if the General did not stand outside the door and yell, ‘Shit, Adolph, shit!”

The father laughed at that joke, but Horst knew that it was probably just that, that it was 
probably not true at all. Yet, when he saw the General for the first time, he had been 
impressed by the man’s power, by his bearing and the way that he carried himself.

When the General asked him if he would like to travel with him, when the General said that
He would make Horst an orderly, the boy had felt proud too. Naturally, his father had let him 
go. His father could think of no better occupation for his son than as a military soldier of the 
Reich, as an orderly for the General. The General predicted that Horst would do great things 
for the Reich when he got older.

And the General did not laugh at all at his bald head.

That lack of laughter, that respect that the General showed for Horst, showed the boy 
what a real man was like. And he loved the General more than his father, almost immediately.

He left with the General and traveled around, helping the General plan the fighting in the 
war.

But, by the time that Horst joined the General, the war was already turning against 
Germany and defeat was already in the air. Horst smelled that defeat everywhere he went and 
he wondered what would happen to him and to the General when that war was finally over.





CHAPTER SIX


There was another scene from his past that Horst remembered very clearly, even after all of 
these years of serving the General in the United States. It was a scene that seemed to be 
linked in some way with his first bit of manhood, with that afternoon with Helga and the darts.

It had happened in late 1944. By then, even the General was saying that the war was as 
good as over. He knew that Germany would be defeated and he would get drunk at night and
tell Horst that that fucking Hitler would not allow the army to make some kind of peace with 
the British and the Americans. He would wait and be overrun by the Russians.

That is when the General had started to talk about how bad it would be for both of them if
the end came and they were captured by the Russians.

“I have connections in the United States,” the General would say to Horst. “I am going to 
try to get there if I can, and I will take you with me. If the Russians catch us, I will put a bullet 
in my head and I suggest that you do the same, Horst.”

Then he would tap Horst’s hairless temple and the boy would swear that he would put a 
bullet in his head too if the Russians caught up with them. The General had told him stories 
about the Russians, about the torture that they would put German soldiers and citizens 
through, about the brutal things that they did to their own people. Horst did not want the end
to be slow and painful like that. As the General often said, he preferred a quick bullet to a slow
torture any day.

“That darkness,” the General would say. “That darkness would not be so bad. Horst, death 
would not be so bad if it were quick.”

And then he would usually pass out on his bed, talking about death not being so bad at 
all.

Horst did not drink a great deal, had never developed a taste for alcohol. Whenever the 
General would pass out, the boy would usually leave him alone and go out to walk in the 
night.

He liked the German night, the cold and black night that would sometimes be lit up by the
flares and the brightness of bombs and rockets. He liked all of that-the dark and the sudden 
light. For some reason that he could not explain, it made him feel manly.

That night they were staying in a German camp that the General had visited that day.

There were people all around in the cages, Jews who were meant for extermination. Horst 
did not really think about those Jews. Traveling with the General, he had grown used to having
people waiting around to be exterminated. But that night he saw something that thrilled him 
and frightened him at the same time.

He was still only a boy really, although he had had that Frankfort whore. The General had 
paid for that whore because he said that a boy should learn from a professional. Horst had 
been very grateful for that and he had thought at the time that his father-his real 
father-would have never done something like that for him. His father would have left him to 
find his own way into a woman’s cunt, knowing that it would be difficult for a bald boy to 
attract any female. His father would have probably laughed at Horst if the boy had even talked
about sex. His father seemed to find everything that Horst talked about funny.

That was one thing that Horst liked about the General. He did not find things funny at all.

Horst had gone out for a walk in that camp that night after the General had passed out, 
talking about darkness and death, and he had seen it, seen the woman next to the wires.

At first, he could not see clearly in the darkness and, slowly, he approached that woman.

And then he saw that she was naked and kneeling at the edge of the camp.

She had been tied into that position and Horst could tell that she was in pain.

Horst had immediately remembered Helga and the way that that fat girl had said that she 
enjoyed the pain.

But he could tell that this woman did not enjoy the pain at all. Horst moved closer to her 
and inspected her.

She was tied to a post in the fence by a rope, a rope that was tight around her neck.

Another rope fixed her hands to the post and twisted her arms behind her.

There were other ropes-two of them-and they had obviously been tied by experts.

Each rope had been looped around one of the woman’s big tits and then each rope had 
been tied to her legs so that she could not really kneel, move her knees all the way to the 
ground. She had to hold herself up on her feet and she was obviously in pain.

She opened her eyes and looked at the young man who was staring at her. Horst was not 
wearing his cap, but he was wearing his uniform. She sighed to him in her pain.

“Kill me, Nazi. Get it over with. Kill me and put me out of my misery.”

Horst looked at her and the only thing that he could say was, “I cannot kill you. I have no 
weapon with me.”

The woman closed her eyes again and trembled as she gasped out the next words: “I wish 
that I could just jerk here and break my neck and get it over with. I wish that I could fall and 
choke. But I cannot do anything. I have to stay alive.”

“I am sorry,” Horst muttered, bending down and looking closely at her. “I am very sorry 
that you have to stay alive. But I have no weapon.”

She opened her eyes again and she looked at Horst and she spat out the words.

“Bald boy! Bald Nazi pig!”

And Horst jumped back as if she had struck him. He hated her suddenly, and he was glad 
that she had been put in that position, in a position where she could not die. He hoped that 
she would remain like that for all eternity.

He wanted to slap the naked woman, but he did not move. He just stood there and looked
at her and sensed the justice in what had been done to her.

And then he heard the soldier call out to him.

“You there! Get away from her!”

The soldier came running up to Horst with a rifle. The young orderly backed away, but he 
did not run. He did not want to be shot in the back by one of his comrades.

When the soldier got to Horst, the orderly could see that the guard was not any older than
he was.

And Horst suddenly felt very lucky. That soldier was guarding the camp at night, tired and 
cold and probably hungry too, while he was a Nazi leader’s personal orderly.

“Identify yourself,” the soldier barked, trying to sound more ferocious than he really was.

Horst looked into the young soldier’s eyes and saw that the teen-ager was frightened, 
more frightened that Horst was at this encounter.

“I am the General’s orderly,” Horst said softly, smiling at the soldier.

And then the soldier looked at the boy’s bald head and nodded.

“I should have recognized you. I am sorry,” the soldier said.

Horst pointed at the naked woman. He glanced at her and grinned.

“Why is this slut being punished like this?” he asked.

“She tried to organize some kind of escape. She is being left here as a sign to the others to
watch their steps.”

“Good,” Horst said. “I will mention this to the General. I will see that whoever did this to 
her, punished her in this way, gets a certificate of merit.”

“It was Captain Hauser, sir,” the soldier said. “He worked out the tying of the ropes. I tied 
them with the help of my friend, Fritz.”

“What is your name, soldier?”

“Hans Fleisherich, sir.”

Horst liked the way that the soldier, who was probably a little older-than Horst himself, 
called him sir. That gave him a real sense of power. He took out his pad and wrote down the 
soldier’s name and the name of the captain.

“And your friend? The other soldier who tied her like that? What is his name?”

“Fritz Schumann, sir.”

Horst wrote down that name too.

“I will make sure that the General hears about this and recognizes your work officially.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Nazi pigs,” the woman snarled at the two boys.

“Shut up,” the soldier whispered to her.

“Nazi scum.”

And then the soldier hit her with the butt of his rifle, hit the woman right in the face. Horst 
could hear the bones breaking in her face and, when he looked at the woman again, the side 
of her face was a bloody, messy pulp.

“I am sorry that you had to see that, sir,” the soldier said, apologizing to the orderly.

“It had to be done,” Horst said.

And then he turned and walked away from the woman and the soldier, walked back to the 
room that he had been given for the night. He felt powerful and manly, and he felt that there 
was some justice in the world. He was bald, he thought, but he was not beaten.

That night, he lay in his bed in the dark and thought about that naked woman and 
touched his cock.

And soon he was whacking off, stroking himself to orgasm.

He came with all the pride that a man could feel, with all the pride and lust that a man 
could stand in his body. He shoot his semen all over his hand and he thought about that 
woman, naked and bound and beaten.

That, he thought, was the way that a woman should be treated.

Helga had enjoyed being treated like that, but this woman did not enjoy it. She had been 
angry and insulting to Horst and to the soldier and to the Nazi cause. She had deserved the 
beating with the rifle.

And Horst knew that, if women deserved to be treated like this, then the men who treated 
them in that way would be all-powerful, would the kind of men that would always be proud 
and noble.

And Horst wanted to keep that male pride with him for the rest of his life.





CHAPTER SEVEN


Paula had been with her master, Horst, for almost a week when she started having the dreams.

She was sure that they had come from the books that she read during the times when she 
was in her room waiting for her master to come and beat her. The library of that house was 
filled with old books about the Nazi regime. Most of them were in German, but some of them 
were in English and Paula had read a couple of those books.

She had never really been interested in history before, but now she was interested, 
because, she sensed that she had become a part of history when she had come into that 
house. She wanted to know more about the heritage of pain that she had tasted, the heritage 
of her master and the old and crippled General.

Those books, filled with gruesome and exciting details, and her new life as a slave came 
together in her head and gave her those dreams. She was almost certain that that was the 
reason for the dreams.

She had never had dreams like those before, but now they came to her regularly and they 
frightened her and thrilled her. She would wake up shaking with fear as her pussy pulsed with 
desire.

-In one of the dreams, she was a spy for some cause. She was not sure, Perhaps she was an
American spy. But what was really important to her was that she had been captured.

And she was brought before the Nazi commander, a bald man who looked like Horst.

He was sitting behind a desk and he was wearing a uniform.

There was a giant, Nazi flag behind the man, and Paula was naked. She was lying on the 
floor of the room.

The floor was cold under her naked body and she knew that there were other people in 
the room too.

But she did not see those other people. They all seemed to be in a mist. The only thing 
that was clear to her was Horst, her master, sitting there in his uniform. He was smiling at her 
as if he wanted to kill her now that she had been captured.

One of those people from the mist reached down and grabbed her hair and lifted her up 
so that she was looking into the Nazi master’s eyes.

“Whore,” Horst said to her in her dream. “Worthless, American whore, you have been 
spying on us.”

Paula said nothing. She was a little bit like those heroines in the movies, the ones who go 
to their deaths without revealing anything. But there was one thing that she felt that she did 
not think was like anything that a movie heroine had ever felt. She felt a certain lust for the 
Nazi leader who looked down on her with such a terrible gaze.

She felt her pussy tremble and quiver and begin to flood with juices.

She found the man to be terribly sexy, and she knew that he had the power of life and 
death over her and that seemed to add to his sex appeal.

“You are a very beautiful woman,” Horst said to her,-as the hand from the mist continued 
to hold her up. “It is no wonder that so many soldiers were willing to tell you things. You 
fucked those soldiers in your lazy way and they enjoyed it and they told you the secrets of the 
state. But they are all dead now. Executed. They were not even given the courtesy of being 
allowed to commit suicide. They were not worthy of that gentleman’s courtesy.”

“Dead,” she muttered, “they are all dead.”

“Yes, dead.”

“Dead?”

“Dead! Whore! They are all dead! Executed! All the generals and majors that you fucked! 
All dead!”

“I am dead,” she muttered, for she felt really dead at that moment.

“No,” Horst said, rising up from behind his desk.

And then the American spy, the naked woman, saw that he did have any trousers on. His 
naked, Nazi cock jumped out at her.

She kept her eyes on that stiff cock as the man walked from behind the desk and strolled 
toward her. As he moved toward her, she fought against the hand that was holding her up, 
fought against the mist that surrounded her. But she kept her eyes on Horst as he spoke to 
her with a soft but sinister voice.

“You are not dead, spy,” he said. “You will not be dead for a long time. But I am sure that 
you will wish yourself dead at least a thousand times before we are finished with you.”

Then her master reached down and touched her face with his hand.

His fingers were cold and sent a chill down to her soul.

“Such a pretty, young woman,” he said. “Such a pretty spy. Such a sexy spy. It is no wonder
that you found out so much.”

“Dead,” she murmured.

And then he slapped her hard across the face and he snarled at her.

“No, not dead, not yet, not for a long time, you fucking, American spy You are going to live
with all the pain that we can give you.”

Paula kept her eyes on the cock, the hard and big thing, the powerful piece of male flesh. 
In her dream, she remembered all the other Germans that she had fucked for secrets, secrets 
that she had passed on to her superiors before she was captured. She had seen a lot of 
German cocks, she thought, but she had never seen one that big and that powerful.

“Not dead,” she murmured.

“Not yet,” Horst said. “Not yet, you sexy and beautiful spy.”

And then the mist cleared in her dream and she was in that room alone with the bald man 
and he was naked too. The top part of his Nazi uniform had disappeared. She was on her 
knees in front of him and she was still looking at that cock, but everything seemed to have 
changed.

He was no longer her Nazi master. He was Something like her lover now. She felt that 
change in her heart, and she felt a certain piece in her heart too. She knew that that change in 
her dream was real when Horst reached down and ran his fingers through her hair.

His fingers were no longer cold, and he was no longer cruel.

He was exciting and his touch made her cunt quiver with joy. His fingers were warm and 
his voice was soft.

“Suck my cock, Paula, my love,” he said. “Suck it and make me come.”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I will. I will suck your cock, my master.”

“No,” he corrected her in that soft voice. “Not master now”

“Lover?”

“Yes, lover.”

“I will suck your cock and make you come, my lover, because I do love you,” the woman 
said in her dream.

And then she raised her hand and wrapped her fingers around that hard cock and she 
opened her mouth wide and she sucked on that cock.

She worked the shaft into her mouth and then she pressed her lips around it. She moved 
back and forth on that cock and heard the lover moan. He touched her head again and she 
knew that he was pleased with her, that he really did care for her.

She moved her head back and looked at the cock. It was almost royal to her, she thought.

And then she licked the end of the cock, licked the piss-slit and ran her tongue around the
head of the thing slowly. She wanted to give Horst pleasure, for he was her lover, and she was 
his lover, and their love seemed so natural and so normal there in that room.

She pressed the big piece of meat up against the man’s body and she licked the underside
of the shaft with her quick and wet tongue. She listened to his moans and thought that those 
moans were like music to her, the music of love, the music that told her that she had finally 
found the man who could answer all of her needs. And then the girl knew that that was what 
she had been yearning for, for so long. She had almost found the man of her dreams with 
Rick, she remembered, but she had not been able to tell him of all the things that she needed 
to start her moving like something on fire with sexy feelings. She had not known just what she
needed when she had been with Rick. But she knew now, and she knew that this man, her 
lover, her master, her Nazi commandant, her torturer, gave her everything that she wanted. 
And now her man was even moaning to her to tell her how much she answered all of his 
needs too.

“Suck it, Paula,” he said lovingly in her dream. “Suck it and lick it and make it feel all good. 
Yeah, that is the way to do it. Lick those balls. Yes, lick my fucking balls, Paula. Lick them with 
your warm, wet tongue.”

And she did as he wanted, not because he was her master in her dream but because he 
was her lover and she wanted to please him more than anything else in the whole world.

She put the cock back into her mouth and started to suck on it with relish in her heart.

This was the man of her dreams, she remembered, and his meat was big and sexy and full 
of power.

And she felt some of the power from that prick enter her and make her a wonderful and 
sexy being, bring her alive with that power. She sucked with more energy than she had ever 
felt in her body before that moment. She sucked and took all of that cock in her and felt the 
long and powerful and hard thing go down her throat.

And then things started to change again. She felt the mist envelope them, her and her 
lover in her dream, and, when Horst spoke to her again, he spoke not as a lover, but as a 
master. He spoke to her harshly and firmly and in a growl that she could not understand.

But the growl became words and the words were the words that he had used earlier in her
dream.

And Paula knew that she was back in the same hell, back home again.

“Suck that cock, you fucking spy slut. You whore. You slave. Suck that cock and taste some 
good Nazi meat, you worthless tramp. You made all of those others give you secrets but now 
they are dead and you will be tortured. Suck that cock, you fucking slut. Suck it. Suck it. Suck 
my good, sweet, Nazi cock, you filthy, American bitch. American slut. American whore. 
American spy.”

And then Paula discovered that it did not really make any difference what tone of voice he 
used when he spoke to her-whether he was her master or her lover. The cock was still the 
same and the thrill was still there.

She felt that thrill run through her as she thought about the torture and the way that she 
would be called upon to suffer. She raised her hand to her tits and massaged them as she 
listened to the lustful words of her master, the words that she loved just as much as the words
of love that he had used before the mist had returned to her.

“You were going to wish that you were dead a thousand times before I am finished with 
you, you filthy, American whore. You are going to die a thousand, painful, little deaths. We are 
going to show you what we do to spies, you worthless slut. We are going to show you what 
we do to women who steal our secrets. You are nothing but a slave now. My slave. You 
cunting whore! I will rip your fucking cunt out of your body and jab it into your fucking mouth
and make you eat your own mangy, worthless pussy!”

And then the man started to come and his come was hot, steaming hot.

It shot down Paula’s throat and the American spy thought that she was burning up on the 
inside, burning up with passion and with pain. She knew that the mist had come to stay.

And then the scene changed again, in her dream.

It changed to something more terrible than anything that she had ever dreamed before.





CHAPTER EIGHT


When the dream changed, her mist was still there and that was a sign to Paula, a sign that the 
torture was still going on. She had a master now, not a lover, and she knew it in her dream. 
But she was having trouble seeing even the mist. Everything was black.

And there was something tight around her head, something terrible and tight and hot.

In her dream, Paula moved out of her own body, moved away and looked at herself. She 
wanted to see what her master, the Nazi commander, had done to her.

And, when she saw what he had done, she was shocked, shocked and strangely thrilled in 
her dream.

Her mind seemed to be part of that mist in her dream, but her body was there, hard and 
firm and naked, and she looked at her body and saw it more clearly as the mist seemed to 
move away from her tortured form.

She was wearing a black hood, a tight, leather hood. That hood left room for her nose and 
a strap from that hood was in her mouth, in her teeth, gagging her. As she looked at that 
hood, she could feel that leather in her mouth. It was hard and dry.

It was a strange experience in her dream, watching herself as she was standing there, 
waiting for a torture to begin. She seemed to feel everything and know everything too.

She knew for example that her torture had not really started yet, that her commander 
would want more from her than just that hood. She studied the rest of her form closely, She 
knew that she was compelled to go out looking to see what other things she could find. And 
she seemed to feel the pain of every part of her painful condition as she saw it.

She saw the giant swastika on the wall behind her and she saw the block of wood that she 
had been tied to. It was a high block and she was standing there, with her arms tied behind 
her back and a leather strip around her waist, biting into her flesh.

She saw the leather band that was around her neck and she saw that Nazi emblem on that
band too.

She hated that more than anything else, although she knew that it was not giving her any 
physical pain. She hated it because she was an American and she did not want to be identified
with the Nazis at all. She wanted to rip that emblem off her body, but the part of her that saw 
it, the part of her that was in the mist, could do nothing. That part had no body. The body was
tied to that block of wood. The body was fixed there and waiting for the pain.

“Slut!” she heard Horst yell. “Slut! American slut!”

And the part of her that was in the mist returned to her body. She could not see anything 
then.

But she really did not care about seeing anything. She wanted to feel, to really feel the 
pain that her master had planned for her.

She felt the hands on her tits and she knew that they were her master’s hands.

She heard the voice and she knew that it was her master’s voice.

“American slut,” he growled at her. “American whore spy, you are going to suffer now.”

Paula heard the voice, those words, muffled through the leather headgear that she wore, 
and she shivered with passion for her master.

She knew that Horst would not let her down. She knew that the man would make her 
suffer.

And that is what she wanted to do. Suffering. Loving. It made no difference. It was all the 
same to the American in her dream.

And she knew that it was the same in reality too.

“You are going to feel something, whore,” the Nazi said to the spy. “You are going to feel 
something in your cunt that is going to give you great pain.”

And then she did feel it, the sharpness, the tearing sharpness of that thing in her cunt. She 
remembered what the man had told her that he was going to do, that he was going to cut her
pussy out and force her eat it. She shivered and tensed her body with the pain and thought 
that that was what he was doing. Was he tearing out her cunt? Her pussy? Her snatch? Her 
furry piece of womanhood?

She felt like she was being ripped open down there by the sharpness and she felt the 
man’s rough breath on her body as he worked on her cunt, ripping her. She bit into the 
leather that was dry in her mouth and threw out her hips as far as she could.

She was offering him her cunt! Her pussy! Her snatch! Her furry piece of She was offering 
him all!

He could tear that out of her if he wanted to. She knew that. She would offer him the 
whole thing and she would let him do anything at all to her.

There was a wetness in her cunt, a warm wetness. Paula felt it flood her.

But she did not know if it was blood or if it was cunt juices.

The juices of excitement?

Or the blood of anguish?

It did not matter, and she knew that. The man had all of her and she knew that he could 
use all of her in any way that he wanted to.

And then she felt the man move away from her. The sharpness was still in her, still lodged 
in there in her pussy, but it was not moving around now She knew that it would be a part of 
her forever, .

“and she knew that that pain that she felt, that itching, wet and throbbing pain would be a
part of her forever too. It was the thing that her master had given her to remember him by.

It was only a dream, but it was so close to the reality that it felt like a great truth.

And Paula awoke with that great truth in her head, pounding in her head like a hammer.

The young woman sat up on her cot and looked around her little room. She did not see 
anyone there. She listened for the sounds in the other part of the house. Somewhere in the 
distant, she heard the muffled, mechanical sounds of gunfire.

And she knew that Horst was out there watching television, watching some old movie in 
the middle of the night. At least, she assumed that it was the middle of the night.

Paula had lost all track of time since she had been with Horst. Time meant nothing to a 
victim, after all.

A slave had no need to time, she thought, no need of any measurement that did not 
involve pain and torture.

She wanted to get up and go into that living room and watch television with Horst, but 
she knew that she could not do that. Her master would not allow that. He liked to watch TV 
alone so he could concentrate on those visions of America that he thought just might be true.

The girl lay back down on the cot and closed her eyes and thought about her dream.

It had been so painful and yet so filled with sexual excitement too.

She tried to think back to the days of her youth in Akron, to the women that she had seen 
on the streets there. She wondered if any of those Akron women had ever felt like this.

She wondered if the dream that she had just had was allowed to plant itself in the minds 
of Akron women. She doubted it. She thought that a dream like that could only come to a 
woman once she got to New York City, to the big city that was cold and painful and filled with 
excitement.

And Paula remembered that she had had big plans to be a star when she had come to 
New York City a few days before.

Now those plans meant nothing to her, nothing at all. Her only plan was to stay with Horst
and be his victim, his slave, until she died. That was the only thing that seemed to be 
worthwhile to her now that she was out of Akron and right in the middle of the big city.

She listened for the sound of the television set, and she heard nothing.

She knew that that meant that that old movie was over. Horst would be coming to her 
now, she thought, coming to her with his cock hard and his mind filled with ways to give her 
pain.

Paula lay there on the cot and knew that she would accept all the pain that he could bring 
to her body. She looked at the door and, in a few seconds, Horst opened it and stepped inside
the room The light from the bare bulb in the ceiling reflected off his bald head. She smiled at 
him.

“Hello, Master,” she said.

“The movie was good,” he said softly. “It had bad guys and good guys. It was about hired 
guns trying to take over a town. But the good guys won out. It had that actor in it. That 
famous actor from the Westerns. You know he is dead now”

“Dead,” the girl murmured, remembering her strange dream.

“Yes. Dead. But before he died he made commercials for a bank here in New York City I go 
into that bank now and I can feel his presence there I can feel-like his spirit. I think that his 
spirit is in the lobby of that bank. He made the commercials standing in that lobby. He was a 
good actor. He was a real American, I bet, the kind of American that every American could 
look up to. Always good and right and on the side of law and order. You know him? Did you 
look up to him? Did you think that he was a great American?”

“American,” she muttered. She was still lost in the memory of her dream, and she did not 
want to talk about an actor. She knew that Horst was right, that a generation of American 
children had grown up wanting to be like that actor. But she did not want to talk about him 
now. She could not look up to any actor now. She only looked up to her master, and that was 
Horst and he was not American at all.

“I think, maybe, when the General dies, I will try to become a citizen,” Horst said. “Then 
maybe I could go to Hollywood and be in movies.”

“Movies?” the girl asked.

She wondered where Horst had gotten an idea like that.

“Oh,” he said, almost bashfully. “I know that I will not be a star, but maybe I could get bit 
parts. Play one of the outlaws in a Western, you know, or somebody on the street. I am bald. 
Perhaps they would need a bald man like me in a lot of movies.”

“Perhaps,” the girl said.

“Then I could feel like a real American, like I was right in the middle of the American spirit.”

“Spirit,” she muttered.

She really did not believe in the American spirit or anything else. She only believed in pain.

Paula kept remembering the dream that she had had, and finally she told her master the 
truth about their relationship, the truth that had come to her in that dream so vividly that she 
could not keep it to herself.

“Master,” she said, “if you wanted to rip out my cunt and shove it down my throat and 
make me swallow it, I would let you. I would eat my own pussy for you, Master.”

“Of course, you would,” Horst said. “I know you would.”

“I just want you to know that, Master. I just want you to know that nothing is too painful 
or disgusting or degrading. I would do anything for you.”

“Of course,” Horst said again.

“Do you want me to suck your cock? Do you want to beat me or tie me up and torture 
me?”

“No,” the bald man said. “I have to go back and watch television. There is another good 
western starting in a few minutes. I just wanted to come back here and tell you that I felt that 
actor’s spirit in the bank. I think that it is the American spirit, you know.”

“I know,” the prisoner murmured, feeling a sense of loss.

“In this other movie, that actor plays a man who is taking a herd of cattle to Kansas from 
Texas. He faces a lot of desperadoes and he has a lot of trouble, but he gets the cattle there. 
He wins because he is an American.”

“American,” the girl murmured.

And then Horst was gone, moving out of the room quickly, going back into the living 
room to watch TV.

And the naked slave lay there and felt the sense of loss in her system. She wished that her 
master had stayed with her. She wished that she could have suffered a little bit under his 
hand.

If he had only slapped her once, she thought, it would have been easier for her to get 
through the night.

But he had not slapped her. He had not even cursed her. He had just talked to her about 
some dead movie star and the American spirit. That left her feeling empty inside.

And Paula thought that that emptiness was going to make her suffer more than any other 
punishment that her master could give her. She lay there and she wondered if he had done 
that on purpose, if he had come back to her and had talked to her about the American spirit 
and then left her to really punish her for something.

She tried to remember what Horst had said to her, tried to look for some kind of clue in 
his talk about the famous movie actor and the American spirit and the American bank that he 
thought that that actor haunted now.

An actor haunting a bank? She had never heard of such a thing. The ghosts of actors 
haunt theaters and movie studio’s back lots, but never a bank, Paula thought.

And then she changed her mind and decided that an actor could haunt a bank if he 
wanted to.

Show business was business after all, and bankers backed show business and people made
money from show business-lots of money. With that in mind, it seemed only right that actors, 
big and famous and wealthy actors, should haunt banks.

She closed her eyes for a moment and imagined all the superstars of Hollywood, all the 
great actors and actresses who had died, lurking around their favorite banks in California and 
New York City. Yes, Paula thought, Horst was right. Actors should haunt banks. That would be 
the ideal manifestation of the American spirit.

But then she remembered that she had been looking for a clue, a reason why Horst would 
want to punish her this way, leaving her with the emptiness that she felt in the pit of her 
stomach, leaving her with nothing at all.

But she could not think of any reason and she was not sure that that had been part of a 
plan.

Perhaps her master had really only wanted to talk about the American spirit.

She listened to the sound of gunfire that came from the television set in the living room.

And she knew that Horst-her master-was watching another western intently, studying it 
for signs of the American spirit, as she studied him for signs of more punishment.

The girl closed her eyes and tried to bring the dreams back to her, those dreams of 
punishment and capture. She thought again about her cunt being ripped out and stuffed 
down her throat by her Nazi master. But even that thought did not cure the emptiness that 
night.

And the dreams would not return to her. She could not even fall asleep.

She felt so lonely and so empty She did not know what she could do to get her master 
back there with her in the room. She wanted her punishment, her torture, but she knew that 
she would not get any torture that night.

She silently cursed the western movie on TV, knowing that that movie had come between 
her and Horst.

And then she just lay there and felt the emptiness and wondered when the good kind of 
punishment, the sharp and brutal pain would come again. She wished that it would come to 
her right then.

She knew that it would be better than this hollow sorrow that she felt inside of her at that 
moment.

But she knew that she would not get the punishment that she needed that night.

And she knew that she would have to try to sleep with that sorrow and that emptiness in 
her.

She turned over and lay with her face smashed to the cot and reached back and smacked 
herself on the ass. She pinched herself and tried to give herself a little pain.

But it was not the same, not the same at all.

The girl knew that, for real joy, she had to have the pain that her master could give her.

Her own little pinches and smacks would not do, she realized.

And then she learned something else about her new fixation on pain.

She learned that it was not the pain that she loved so much but the idea that some other 
person would care for her enough to give her that pain, would take that much effort and time 
with her. Horst worked diligently on the pain that he gave the girl, and she knew it. He 
thought up new ways to hurt her and make her his. And that meant as much-if not more-to 
her than the pain itself.

She just wanted someone to care for her. She just wanted someone to hurt her badly and 
show that he really did want her around.

She just wanted to know that she affected someone that deeply, that she gave someone 
that much passionate feeling.

When she came up with that concept, Paula thought that she had finally gone down to the
core of her need for pain and she had found some sort of answer, some sort of reason for her 
need.

And she felt better about finding that reason, better about herself as a human being.

But, in truth, even finding that core, that reason, did not cure the emptiness and the 
hollow sorrow that Horst had left her with. She felt the tears come to her eyes as she knew 
that she would always be trapped here, trapped by her own desire for that German man and 
his sexy pain. She listened to the gunfire on the television set and she knew that she would 
never be able to leave him.

And then she thought of the ultimate torture, the one thing that she would not be able to 
stand, the one thing that would kill her.

The ultimate torture would be to be left in this room for the rest of her life with no torture 
at all, to be left there where she could hear that television going and where she could know 
that Horst was right in the next room, watching some old movie and thinking about the 
American myths that so interested him.

The ultimate torture, she thought, would be to be left in that room without any pain, any 
real sharp and good pain, forever. That would fill her up with emptiness, and the girl knew 
that, if the emptiness got to be too much, she would surely die in sorrow.

She turned over and looked at the ceiling and thought of one last image. The emptiness 
would fill her like a gas until, finally, she would explode, just pop like a balloon. And then there
would be no more to her, nothing that anyone would ever be able to find.

That way, the emptiness would conquer her, she thought.

And she cried as she waited to pop with nothingness and become nothingness, and she 
prayed that Horst would not do that to her, would not force her to fill with emptiness until she
was destroyed.

“My lover,” she said. “Please come to me and hurt me.”

But she said it softly, because she knew that he would not come, not for several hours now
And she knew that she would just have to wait until the mood struck him “Master,” she 
moaned, weeping with bitter sorrow. “Master.”

But her master did not come to her at that time.

Her master just watched the television and tried to study America in that western, while his
slave and his victim that girl who dreamed of him, lay there on the cot and tried to sleep. But 
she knew that she would not sleep. She knew that she would lie there and weep for a long, 
long time before sleep finally overtook her brain.

Paula just hoped that, when she did sleep, the dreams would come back to her.

If they did not, if she did not dream at all, she knew that the emptiness would overcome 
her, and she thought that she might not wake up at all.

She might just pop and explode into nothingness as she lay there on her cot.

And she might never wake up to feel the fine punishment of Horst’s strength on her 
bruised and battered body again.





CHAPTER NINE


The General had started to whine for another woman, and Horst knew that he could not 
refuse the little man in the wheelchair. But the bald German wondered where he was going to 
find another one. He had gone out every afternoon and he had found the pickings a little 
scant on the streets of New York City.

Winter was approaching. Girls, Horst knew, did not run away from home in the winter.

And so he thought about calling another professional. But the General refused to let him 
do that. He did not want a professional. He did not want to spend money for a girl.

“You are not looking, orderly,” the little man muttered. “I should have you shot. I should 
get myself another orderly. One with hair. Ha!”

The General had started to make fun of Horst’s baldness more and more in recent months,
as he grew more senile and came closer and closer to death. Horst found himself wishing that 
the man would hurry up and die, and then he would feel guilty about those thoughts.

Now that he had Paula with him, he knew that he would not be alone if the General died.

But he still did not want to be without his father-figure, not really.

He complained about the General late at night to Paula before he beat her and made her 
like him even more. He complained about the lack of girls on the street too. That is when 
Paula volunteered.

“You can work with me again in front of the General, Horst,” she said.

“The General does not like to see the same girl twice,” the German explained.

“Would he really recognize me?”

She asked that question in a knowing tone, and Horst had to agree with his slave. The 
General probably would not recognize her at all. It had been several weeks since the General 
had seen Paula, and his memory was not that good anyway. He was too old and he 
remembered things that happened years ago better than he could remember what had 
happened to him that morning.

And Horst was certain that, if they did not take any chances, they could please the General 
and stop his complaining for a little while. He turned to Paula and smiled.

“I will work with you again. You are such a good slave,” he said.

“Thank you, Master,” the young woman muttered. “I enjoy being your slave more than 
anything else that I have ever been.”

But Horst knew that he had to be careful. He did not want to take the chance of the 
General recognizing Paula’s face in some split second of memory. He did not want to take the 
chance of making the General angry with him.

He knew that the General’s wrath could be great. He remembered all the other people 
who had made the General angry. Many of them had ended up dead.

That had been years ago, of course. The General was an invalid now and had no power to 
kill anyone.

Still, Horst did not want to face the man’s wrath. It was too strong and it brought up too 
many memories for the German, memories that Horst did not want to face right then.

So Horst thought it all and came up with a new contraption for Paula’s public punishment.

Two days later, when he wheeled the General into the torture room, the little man was 
beside himself with glee. He cackled all the way across the Greenwich Village house.

“I knew that you could find one, Horst, if you would just look. I knew that all the Jew sluts 
like to be hurt. I bet all you had to do was walk out on the street. I bet a Jew slut came up to 
you and asked you to hurt her. I bet she recognized your Nazi power immediately. Isn’t that 
right, Horst?”

“Yes, Herr General,” the bald man muttered, lying. “Yes, that is right. She came up and 
asked to be hurt. She recognized my Nazi power. You are always right, Herr General.”

“I know them very well,” the General cackled. “I know them. I have worked with them for 
years and I got to know them by working with Hitler himself. Hitler was a great man, Horst. He
knew just what the Jew sluts wanted.”

“Yes, Herr General,” the German man said.

But Horst remembered the times back during the last days of the war, before he and the 
General had escaped to the United States, the times that the General had cursed Hitler and 
called him a fool.

The old man’s mind was almost gone now. He could not remember those last days, when 
he had hated the leader of the Third Reich, and all he lived for was the sight of young girls 
being tortured.

More and more, Horst was hating the General now, he thought.

There was no love in the torture that the General gave the girls. Horst had grown to know 
love in recent weeks, love with Paula, his slave. He could never tell the girl that he loved her, 
but he knew that it was obvious to his slave.

He knew that that love showed in every lash of the whip, every bit of pain that he gave to 
her.

And there was something to be said for love, the German thought, love even with pain.

He had never felt love before, but he was happy now-because he had his own personal 
lover and slave.

And he thought that, when the General finally died, the love between him and Paula would
be even stronger. It might even grow stronger for what was going to happen between them 
that night.

When Horst pushed the General into the torture room, Paula was already there.

But there was no way that the little man in the wheelchair would be able to recognize her.

He could not even see her face that afternoon, not the way that Horst had set her up.

The girl was standing in the middle of the room, held on her feet by two blocks of wood 
that were clasped together. Her body was bent almost in two and a metal contraption that 
Horst had devised for her gave the girl the pain that she needed to feel good, to start the 
session.

Her arms were tied around her legs and two rings were in her nipples. Her breasts had 
been forced between her legs and the rings were attached to the metal bar.

Another part of that metal spread her pink pussy lips wide.

And the branding iron was heating up in the corner of the room.

The General heard the sizzle of fire under that branding iron and he looked at the iron.

“The branding!” the little man said loudly, with happiness. “Horst, we have not used the 
branding for the longest time! This is going to be great! You are a good Nazi, a good soldier, 
Horst!”

Horst just smiled. He had known that the General would appreciate the branding.

And the little man was right too, the German thought.

They had not branded any girl for the longest time.

Horst really did not like to brand girls that much. The burning flesh reminded him too 
much of the ovens that he had visited with the General, the ovens that had made him sick to 
his stomach. That was one of the memories that he hated to have come back to him.

But Paula, his slave, had agreed to the branding because she wanted to have her master’s 
mark on her flesh.

She really wanted to belong to Horst, and she thought that the branding would bring 
them closer together. And Horst had thought that the branding would keep the General quiet 
for a long time. He had always enjoyed the branding more than anything else.

And the little man was beside him in the chair as he smelled that branding iron.

In his mind, he could already smell the burning of flesh on an autumn day.

That had been one of his favorite aromas during the war.

To him, that burning flesh had smelled like victory-real and total victory in the war. At that 
moment, the old man’s feeble mind started to play tricks on him.

And he wondered if, perhaps, they had won the war after all.

In his mind, he became the Nazi leader of the United States, the man that Hitler had sent 
over to torture all of those Jew sluts who thought that they could escape his wrath by fleeing 
to that country.

They would never escape the General thought with a smile.

No Jew slut could ever escape him or the Nazi cause.

“I will make sure that Himmler himself gives you a commendation for this action, Horst,” 
the little man in the wheelchair promised his aide. “I will make sure that the Fuehrer knows 
about your good work for me over here.”

“Thank you, Herr General,” the man said, playing along with the crippled man’s dream of 
glory.

And Horst remembered that he had once said something like that to the guard who had 
hit the woman at the fence with his rifle. He remembered now that he had forgotten to tell the
General anything about that incident. The young guard and his commander and his friend had
never gotten their commendation at all.

When Horst thought of that, he realized that he had been much like the General in those 
days.

But, since he had found Paula, he had grown more distant from the little man. He was 
nothing like the General now. He had found love and the love had changed him in a great way
into a better person.

The General looked at the naked girl’s buns and he yelped at Horst.

“Brand her! Brand her! Brand her for Hitler!”

The bald German left the man’s wheelchair and moved toward the fire and the branding 
iron.

The smell of the fire reminded him of the ovens. As Horst took off his trousers, he shook 
his head, trying to knock that memory out of him.

He always tortured girls naked, because he knew that that was the way that the General 
wanted it.

And he knew that Paula wanted it that way too. She wanted to be naked with Horst, as two
lovers should be naked together. And he was willing to do that for her, as well as for the 
General.

But the fire and the branding iron, he knew, would lead to the smell of burning flesh.

And he trembled as he reached down to pick up that branding iron.

He did not want to think of the furnaces, of the burning flesh of those camps.

Horst had always known that the Nazis were villains, even his father-figure, but he did not 
want to face the idea that he might be a villain too. He knew that he had played a part in that 
Nazi regime, but it was such a small part, he tried to tell himself.

And the memories of the burning flesh, he thought, had never really bothered him as 
much before as they did now. Now they bothered him and he wanted to get them out of his 
head.

Now that he had found love, he did not want to be a villain any longer.

“Brand her!” the General yelled. “Brand her! I want to smell that flesh!”

Horst picked up the branding iron and trembled as he listened to the General.

He knew that that was another difference between himself and the father-figure that he 
had cared for for so long. Horst hated the smell of burning flesh, but the General loved it, 
loved it more than anything else.

Horst jerked around and looked at Paula as she stood there with her butt high in the air.

She wanted the branding too, the German thought, wanted it as much as the General 
wanted to see it.

He would do it for her, Horst thought. He would do it to prove his love to the girl.

.But he would do it quickly. Horst wanted to get the whole ordeal over with as soon as 
possible.

He knew as he approached Paula that it would be more of an ordeal for him than it would 
be for her.

The German moved toward the girl and held the branding iron a few inches away from her
butt.

“Brand her!” the General yelled. “I want to smell that flesh!”

In the General’s mind, he was in charge of burning all the Jew sluts of America. Hitler had 
given him that job personally.” He could remember when he walked into Hitler’s offices while 
the German people outside were celebrating the victory. Hitler had stood up and welcomed 
him and complimented him on a grand and glorious job.

“Your work,” the Fuehrer said, “has done more to make our victory than any other work, 
Martin. You have been my right-hand man, and you have done well.”

“I am honored to serve you, my Fuehrer,” the General said, feeling both humbled and 
proud at the same time. It was the kind of feeling that a person always got when he 
participated in victory.

He and Hitler had drank wine, had toasted the victory that the masses were celebrating 
outside.

England and France and Russia and the United States had been brought to their knees, the
General thought.

But the United States was still a problem. It was an ocean away, and so many Jews had fled
to that country during the early part of the war. They had been gotten rid of. And that was the
assignment that the Fuehrer had given his trusted assistant. He had told the General to go to 
the United States and root out all of the Jewish sluts and hurt them.

It had taken the General many years, but, in his mind, this slut was the last one left.

She was the queen Jew slut of America, the last one to be captured and branded.

Now, the General knew, his work would soon be over and he could go home to Germany 
as a hero and Hitler would welcome him and they would settle down to enjoy all of the 
splendor of the Thousand-Year Reich.

But Horst was hesitating, stalling with the last Jew slut in the world.

The General became agitated. He wanted to get this over with. He wanted to hear the 
crowds cheering in the streets when they smelled the burning flesh of the last Jew slut.

“Burn her, Horst!” the General said. “She is the last one! When she is branded, our victory, 
our noble victory, will be complete!”

Horst hated that talk of victory, for he knew that there would never be any victory for the 
General. He pressed the branding iron to Paula’s flesh and felt the sizzling in his own body as 
he smelled aroma of the burning flesh.

And all of the memories came back to him. The ovens with the skeletons in them, the way 
that the General had opened one of those hot ovens and had shown him what had happened 
to the people.

Yes, the German thought then when he was a boy, thought as he felt his stomach turn 
inside of him to a mass of sickening goo, yes they were people. People should not be burned 
like that.

But the General had laughed and had congratulated the man who was in charge of the 
burning.

And then the General had spied something in the ashes and had reached inside and pulled
out a gold tooth and had offered it to the boy as a present.

And Horst had reeled away, vomiting as the General and the other men laughed at him.

And one of those men had said something about his baldness and that had caused the 
others-even the General-to laugh more.

They were people, Horst thought, and they should not be burned.

He pulled the branding iron away and saw the burn in Paula’s butt, the sign of that 
despicable, murderous band that he had once been a part of.

And then he heard the General moan in passionate lust, in memory.

“The ovens, Horst. Weren’t the ovens a beautiful sight? They were the final solution?”

Horst looked at the sign on his lover’s butt and he smelled the aroma of burning flesh and
he felt his head explode with a blaze of heat. His bald head felt like one of those ovens, 
burning with fire and destroying people-people, the bodies of dead people.

He closed his eyes and he saw that gold tooth again in the General’s hand and he felt the 
sickness and the hate that he had felt so many years before.

It all came back to him with a fury, and he turned on the little man in the wheelchair.

He held the branding iron out and he moved toward the little man.

The General came out of his fog of memory when he saw that hot iron approach him and 
he yelled out to Horst.

“Orderly! Orderly! Stop! We have won our victory! Stop!”

And Horst did stop, for, as much as he hated the man in the chair, he could not burn him, 
he could not kill him. He did not want to touch the man. The General sickened him too much.

And then the General grabbed his little chest and tossed forward, gasping, onto the floor. 
Horst watched him with surprise, even though he knew that it would happen sooner or later.

The General lay on the floor and muttered the last words.

“Heil Hitler,” the little man sighed.

And then the General lay there, dead, on the floor of the torture room.

Horst held the branding iron in his hand and muttered one word too.

“Vater.”

The German word for father.

The German had hated the man, but he had loved him too. It was a crazy kind of love, the 
kind of love that every boy feels for his father, Horst thought.

Horst moved away from the dead man on the floor and put the branding iron down and 
moved around the house in a run, opening doors and windows, wanting to get the stench of 
burning flesh, the stench of death, out of his house.

It was his house now, he thought. The General was dead, and it was his house now.

He could live there in peace with Paula and love her and torture her just enough to keep 
her happy, to prove to his slave that he really did love her. He could live there with her and 
hear her screams and know that they were screams of love.

He felt free now, free and lost at the same time.

The confusion that he had often felt about the General had not left him. But he knew now 
that it would leave him someday.

At least, he hoped that it would.

When he had opened all the windows and let the winter air come in, he moved back to the
torture room, and, trying not to look at the dead, little man on the floor, he carefully took the 
painful things off the naked girl that he really did love.

Then he carried Paula to his own bedroom and lay her down on the bed and soothed her 
wounds with ointment and salve. He looked at the brand on her butt. That would remain on 
her for the rest of her life.

But his love for her would remain too, and that would make the brand bearable, for Paula 
and for himself.





CHAPTER TEN


Horst made the General’s burial a secret thing. He did not want any Jewish groups in New 
York City finding out the truth and desecrating the grave.

The German had already found an undertaker in the city that had been a Nazi too.

That undertaker buried the General in a corner of a large cemetery and had put up a 
marker that gave his real name. But Horst and the undertaker knew that no one would take 
notice of that name now. There were a lot of people in New York City named Bormann.

There was no funeral, and Horst found that he did not even mourn very long.

The General had left enough money so that Horst and Paula could continue to live in that 
house, but the two of them were already talking about moving away, to the Southwest.

Horst wanted to be around cowboys again and Paula would go anywhere to be with her 
master.

He was still her master and she still desired regular punishment from him, but now the 
punishment seemed to have more love in it. Now they did not have a mad audience, that 
General watching them. That made Paula feel more at home.

About three days after the General’s death, Horst punished Paula again, punished her with 
a new contraption that he had devised.

Her hands were tied behind her and she was standing against a post.

Spikes were driven into her tits, spikes that went right to the post.

And her mouth was held open with a leather band.

Horst looked at her and studied that Nazi brand on her ass.

For some strange reason, he had grown to love that brand, that sign of the Nazi life.

It reminded him of the General, but it reminded him of so much more too. It reminded 
him that this girl had submitted to this branding because Horst needed something to keep 
the General calm.

She had given up her flesh and she had made her body his with that branding, he thought.

She was the ideal slave, the wonderful slave that he wanted to keep with him every day of 
his life.

Outside, it was snowing, but it was very warm in the torture room, very warm with love, the
German thought.

And this slave had never once laughed at his baldness.

Paula felt the pain in her tits as the spikes moved in her and she felt truly loved.

She had discovered so much with Horst, she thought, so much about her own feelings and
her own kind of love.

She had come to New York City with dreams of being a star, but now all she wanted was to
be a slave, the kind of slave that a loving master such as Horst required and deserved.

She would give him anything that he wanted, she thought, anything at all.

Horst still watched the old movies on television and talked to Paula about the American 
spirit. But he had made her more than a slave during the last few days, since the General’s 
death.

Now the slave slept in Horst’s bedroom with him, on the floor near his bed.

She liked that. She liked being close to him because he was her master.

And she was also allowed to curl up at his feet as he watched television.

Sometimes, during some western or old gangster movie, he would reach down and stroke 
her hair gently and that made her feel very wanted, like a happy puppy dog. She wanted to be
Horst’s dog, forever and ever.

But Horst stood there and looked at the girl who was in pain and he thought that he 
wanted to do something new to her, something that he had never done to her before, 
something that he had done to few women in his life.

When she had become his slave, he had told her that he would probably never fuck her.

But that was exactly what Horst wanted to do now. He wanted to fuck his pretty slave-girl, 
the girl who had endured so much for him.

He thought that Paula deserved a nice fucking from him, and he wanted to give the girl 
what she deserved. He wanted to make her his lover, as well as his slave.

Silently, he moved close to her and he pulled the spikes out of her tits.

She gasped when it did that. The spikes had been in her for several minutes and she had 
grown to think of them and the pain that they gave her as part of her own body But now her 
master was pulling them out and she felt that he was ripping something off her that really 
belonged to her.

But he could do that if he wanted too. Paula knew that.

If he wanted to tear off her arm, she would let him, for he was her master and she was his 
slave and she loved the pain so much that she could hardly stand it.

After the spikes were out, the little trickles of blood started and Horst took time to stop 
that blood and care for her wounds.

He wanted to fuck her, but he would care for her first. His fucking could wait, he thought.

After all, his slave would be with him for a long time tm come.

And he loosened the leather strap and pulled it out of her mouth and then he carried her 
out of the torture room. He lifted her in his arms and carried her as if she were a little girl. He 
was a very strong Nazi.

As he carried her, he touched the brand on her ass. She sighed when he did that, and he 
liked to touch her there, on that place that gave her such good feeling.

Horst carried her up to his bedroom and lay her on the bed and untied her hands.

Then he brought out the ointment and cared for her new wounds. He could see the scars 
on her flesh, the scars that would be there with them for the rest of their lives.

They were, he thought, the scars of love, real and true and honest love.

And Horst had never felt such love before and he wanted to fuck her because he knew 
that he could fuck her with love and it would be a better fucking than any that he had ever 
had before, with the Frankfort whore or with the girl in the back of the jeep near the end of 
the war.

That fucking had happened late at night, while the General was drinking in a tavern.

Horst had been sitting in the jeep, watching the sudden burst of shells around him.

He was not afraid. He just felt manly and proud, even though he knew that most of those 
shells belonged to the enemy, that Germany was near defeat. The General had already 
contacted his friends in the United States and he would be leaving with Horst in thirty-six 
hours.

So the boy sat there in the jeep that night and say good-bye to his ruined country.

And he wondered how he would fit in with the cowboys of the United States.

Then the girl had come out of the tavern, a young girl, probably no more than sixteen or 
seventeen, and she had walked back the jeep. She looked at Horst, and he knew that she was 
looking at his bald head. He was not wearing his cap that night.

She smiled at him and she nodded her head. Then she came close to the jeep.

“You are the General’s orderly, are you not?” she asked in a soft voice.

She was a cute, blonde, German girl, the kind of girl that Hitler had often said was the 
hope of the nation’s future. But now, Horst knew, there was no hope and there was no future 
for Germany.

“Yes,” he said with a smile. “I am the General’s orderly.”

“I heard the General talking in the tavern,” she said. “He was drunk.”

And Horst just nodded his head. That was the way that the General faced defeat, by 
getting drunk often and talking about death and the quick bullet into the head. But he had 
not been talking about that in recent days, Horst thought. He had been talking about the 
United States. And Horst wondered if the drunken man had been bragging about his escape 
there in that tavern. If he had, Horst thought, some of the members of the Gestapo might 
have heard him, and there might still be just the quick bullet to the brain in the General’s 
future and in Horst’s future too.

Horst had lived most of the recent years waiting for the order to shoot himself.

It no longer even frightened him to think of suicide, and he had guarded himself against 
getting up his hopes about the United States in recent days. He had told himself that, until he 
stepped onto the soil of America, he should be willing to put the pistol to his head at a 
second’s notice.

“May I sit with you?” the girl asked him. “I am afraid out here.”

“Certainly,” Horst said.

And the girl had moved into the jeep with him and then another blast had lit up the sky 
and she had clung to him, frightened by the light and the sound that Horst had grown to 
believe in and worship as if it were a god.

And then they were kissing and the girl was opening her blouse and pressing her bare, 
German tits against Horst’s face. And she was moaning to him, making him promises and 
seeking promises from him too.

“If you let me go with you to the United States, if you save me, I will fuck you forever,” she 
said.

And Horst had no intention of letting the girl go with him to the United States. He knew 
that the General would never allow it. But he wanted to hold the girl close to him and kiss her 
and feel her and fuck her. He wanted to say good-bye to his homeland by fucking this girl as 
the blasts lit up the sky around him.

And soon they were naked together in the back of that jeep and the girl was running her 
fingers over his bald head and he was slamming his cock into her.

It was good, the German remembered, very good, the best way to say good-bye to 
Germany.

But it would not be as good as the fucking that he was going to give his slave here in the 
United States, the man thought. There was no love, when he had fucked that German girl. 
There had been only the need to say good-bye with a pretty girl in his arms and the sudden 
lights in the sky and the explosions that had rocked the jeep with their intensity-But there was 
no love at all. There would be love with Paula.

He remembered that, after the fucking, he had lain with the girl in the back of the jeep and
talked to her as he felt her naked tits, talked to her about the United States and his dreams of 
American cowboys. She had accepted his dreams and tried to make them her own, but she 
kept touching his bald head and that started to infuriate the German lad. He began to hate 
her and the attention that she gave to his freakishness.

Her touches became worse than the laughter that he had often heard when he had shown 
his bald head in public, and he wanted her out of that jeep and out of his life. He had already 
said good-bye. He did not need her any longer and he knew it.”

So he told the girl that he and General would wait for her the next day and they would 
take her with them to the United States, where they would live in peace and harmony forever.

He would be an American cowboy, he told’ her, and she could be an American cowgirl.

And they would ride the range together and fuck and live without the sounds of bombs 
falling all around them. And she had left the jeep happy, left to pack her things.

But, about dawn, the General came staggering out of the tavern, just as Horst knew that 
he would and he had ordered the boy to drive away. He had climbed in the jeep and had 
muttered about what a fool Hitler was and the boy had driven away and thought about the 
girl who would show up there in a few hours and would know immediately that she was 
trapped in Germany.

He felt sorry for that girl until he remembered how he had touched his bald head.

And then he felt that she deserved to be blown up or raped by Russians. She deserved to 
suffer all the worst that the enemy could give her.

He thought about that girl as he cared for Paula’s wounds and he knew that there had 
been no love in him that night, no love at all.

But there was love now, and he was older and more realistic. He would not talk of cowboys
and riding the range with his slave. He knew that they would never ride any American range. 
But they could be happy together, happy in the Southwest with their pain and their love.

The girl looked up at him and smiled as the pain left her body.

And then Horst did something that he had never done to her before.

He leaned forward and he kissed her tenderly on the lips.

He was happy that his slave did not touch his bald head. She kept her hands on the bed 
and she lay there, a little surprised at her master’s sudden tenderness.

It was something that she had never expected from him and Horst knew it.

That bald German touched the girl’s face and he was surprised himself-surprised that the 
words that he said softly came so easily to him. He had never said anything like those words 
before to any woman.

“I love you, Slave,” he murmured. “I love you very much.”

And the tears flooded Paula’s eyes as she looked up at that man.

“I love you too, Master,” she said. “I love you more than life itself.”

“Just do not touch my head,” he warned her. “Do not act like my baldness is important to 
you.”

“It is not important to me,” she said truthfully. “It is the pain and the love that you give me.
That is what is important to me, Master. That is the reason that I love you.” And those words 
from the loving slave filled Horst with a warm happiness that he had never known before. He 
pressed his mouth to hers again and kissed her with more passion. She opened her mouth to 
his tongue willingly, as a lover should, he thought with glee.

He was careful as he caressed her body, careful not to hurt her at this moment.

The pain was meant for other times when he was the master. Now he was just a lover and 
he did not want his slave to feel pain, only wonderful happiness in her soul.

And she sighed when he touched her and .-n her fingers over his strong shoulders.

But she did not touch his head. She did not make his baldness important at all.

When the kiss was over, Horst whispered to his slave, whispered those words of love.

“I want to fuck you, slave. I know that I told you that I would probably never fuck you, but I
did not know that I would fall in love with you then. I want to fuck you with love, my beautiful 
and wonderful slave.”

“Yes, Master,” she said, as she felt the chills of happiness run over her wounded body. “Yes,
Master, fuck me. Fuck me with love, and I will fuck you with love too.”

The bald German ran his hands over her stomach and then slipped his fingers between her
legs and felt her wetness there. She sighed when he felt her and opened her legs wide. Horst 
moved his finger into her and felt the warmth and the wetness and the love that his slave 
offered to him.

He would fuck her, he thought, and it would be better than any of the other fuckings that 
he had ever had. He closed his eyes as he fingered her and he remembered the blasts in the 
night and the light that came suddenly to a dark sky and he felt at home.

It was as if he had returned to Germany, he thought, to a peaceful and good Germany, a 
country free of villains. It was as if he had found the home that he had long sought deep in 
her wet and warm cunt.

The girl moved under him as he fingered her, moved like an ocean, he thought.

He would find his home on the waves of her sexy and loving body. He would find his 
home in her loving cunt.

The slave reached out and touched her master’s cock and massaged it, feeling it harden 
with love for her.

She .had found something too, she thought. She had found the kind of peace that she had
longed for back in Ohio, back in Akron She had found it in the moments after torture, the 
moments that were filled with love.

With the pain and the love both coming to her, Paula felt fulfilled, really fulfilled, and she 
wondered if any girl in Akron would feel so fulfilled in her life.

She hoped so. She wished that every girl in Akron could feel what she was feeling now.

She knew that, if every girl in Akron could feel it, then Akron would be a happier and 
better place, a place that would be almost ideal.

Horst pulled his finger out of his slave’s cunt and licked that finger and tasted her warm 
sweetness. He smiled down on her as she continued to stroke his cock with her hand.

Then the slave asked permission to do something to her master, something that she knew 
she would like as much as he would.

“May I suck your cock, Master?”

“Yes,” Horst said softly, turning and lying down on the bed next to her. “Yes, Slave, you 
may suck my cock.”

Paula moved on the bed and felt the delicious ache in her body that came with the 
movement.

Her master had given her that ache, had made her feel alive, not lazy.

And she wanted to thank him for doing that to her in a special way.

Of course, she had sucked on his cock before, but she determined that she would make his
cock-sucking different, better for her master and for herself. The other times that she had 
sucked him, she had been the slave and he had been ordering her to do it.

But this would be the kind of cock-sucking that a lively lover would give, she thought.

And she wanted to make it the best cock-sucking that she was able to give.

She moved her face over Horst’s loins and held the hard prick high. She looked at the rosy 
tip of the prick and then she licked that rosy tip with her tongue. She ran the tongue around 
the tip slowly, tasting the ooze that came to her.

It was the sweetness of a real master, she thought, and she was a real slave too.

She was devoted to the man who had brought her alive with pain.

And then, feeling that devotion in her heart, she opened her mouth and moved her face 
closer to her master’s body and started to suck on that cock with delight and passion.

The master touched her hair as he felt the sucking and felt the hardening of his own cock.

And he spoke to her, gave voice to his love for her.

“Slave, you are special to me, the most special woman in the world. I want you with me 
forever. Suck that cock, Slave. Suck it and make it feel good and then I will fuck you and make 
you feel good too. I want to share the goodness with you, Slave, just like I share the pain with 
you at other times.”

And his soft words of devotion made Paula’s head feel as if it were about to explode with 
passion for the man. She sucked more diligently and used the pressure of her lips to make 
him hard and strong down there.

As she sucked, the master closed his eyes and thought about the American spirit and 
thought that he understood it once and for all. It had something to do with the feeling that he
felt as she sucked on his cock.

He thought that girls probably sucked the cocks of cowboys back in the noble days of 
America, that they probably sucked those cocks and smelled the aroma of horses and gun 
powder and the wide and lonely plains. Cock-sucking was truly American, he thought.

Sure, German women did it too and other women from other countries, but he had never 
had his cock sucked with such a wonderful passion and he thought that that was because 
Paula was an American girl, a girl of the Golden West, a girl who had all of those noble ideals 
of America embedded in her spirit and her lips and her tongue.

Now those ideals were filling the master too, and he felt like a real American. He felt as if 
he were being affected by the American nobility in a way that he had never been infected 
before.

He sighed and knew that he would fuck his slave like a real American.

He felt more happiness in this country than he had ever felt in his own homeland, and he 
knew that he had finally come home to America, had finally tasted that American spirit.

And his cock got hard, like a great, American cock, and he touched his American slave’s 
head and he pulled her off his prick gently.

Then he spoke to her softly with a masterful but loving voice.

“I will fuck you now, Slave,” he said. “Fuck you with love.”

As the girl moved back on the bed, spread her legs to invite his fucking cock into her, she 
asked a question that seemed to pop into her head, a question that had bothered her for the 
longest time.

“Master,” she asked, “why was the General in a wheelchair? Why couldn’t he walk? Was he 
just too old?”

Again, the dark memories flooded Horst, but he knew that he could not ignore his slave’s 
question and he knew that he would have to tell her the truth.

“I shot him right before we got on the plane for the United States,” he said. “I paralyzed 
him with a bullet in the spine and then I cared for him until he died.”

He remembered those brutal moments quickly, remembered how the General and he had 
waited in the middle of the night for the plane to come and get them on the deserted airstrip. 
The General had been drinking, and he was talking again of death.

“It would not be so bad. A quick bullet to the brain, Horst. It would not be so bad at all. 
Only darkness, you know Only darkness.”

But they were waiting to be saved from the darkness, the boy thought. They were waiting 
to be taken to the United States, the land of light.

“General,” he said, “the plane will be here soon.”

“I do not think that it is coming, Horst. I think that we should settle for the quick bullets. 
Give me your pistol, Horst. I will do it first.”

And, trembling, Horst had pulled the pistol out of the holster that he wore and he handed 
it to the General. Just then, another blast light up the sky and, in the light of that blast, he saw 
the General remove his hat and put the gun to his head.

And Horst waited for the shot, the one quick bullet.

He knew that, when the General was finished, he would have to follow him.

He could think of nothing else that he could do.

But the shot did not come. There was nothing but silence in the jeep and then there was 
weeping, the General’s drunken weeping. The man wept as he spoke to his orderly.

“I cannot do it, Horst. I cannot do it to myself. I am afraid of the darkness.”

“The plane will come, General,” the orderly said as he took the pistol back.

“No,” the man barked. “No, it will not come. It has been shot down. I just know it. We will 
not be saved from the Russians. You go ahead and do it, Horst. Put the quick bullet in your 
brain and embrace the darkness. I will stay here and wait for the Russian dogs.”

And then the orderly suggested something quickly, something that came to his mind 
because he could not stand to think of the General being tortured by the Russians who would 
capture him in the plane did not come.

“I will shoot you, sir,” he said softly. “I will shoot you and then I will shoot myself.”

“You are such a noble lad,” the General said. And then he moved out of the jeep and 
turned his back to Horst and waited for the shot.

The orderly knew what the General was waiting for. His hand shook as he lifted the pistol 
and aimed it at the back of the man’s head. He wanted it to be quick for the General, the 
quick darkness that the man had talked about so often.

And then things had happened so quickly. They all seemed to happen at once.

First, there was the explosion and the light in the sky.

And then there was the buzz of the little plane coming into the airstrip.

And then the General had looked up and had started to walk.

But it was too late. Horst’s finger was already squeezing the trigger, and the last thing to 
happen in that quick succession of events was the fire that burst from the gun. The General 
fell forward onto the airstrip and cried out in pain.

Horst knew that he had missed the man’s head, that he had not even made it quick.

As the little plane landed on the airstrip, Horst jumped out of the jeep and turned the man
over and looked at him. He could feel the blood pouring out from the man’s lower back and 
he started to cry.

“I am sorry, Father, sorry,” he said, weeping as he yelled out the words over the sound of 
the plane. “I will take care of you forever. I will take you to the United States and take care of 
you forever. I promise.

And then, when the plane had landed, Horst had picked up the General and carried him 
bleeding to safety.

Horst replayed that scene in his mind as he moved over the naked slave and positioned 
himself to enter her cunt with his cock.

He had kept his promise to the General, he thought, and now he was free-free of the past 
and free of the guilt and free of that homeless feeling that he had had for so long.

He put his hands under the girl’s ass and lifted her and touched the Nazi brand as he did 
that, and then he moved his cock gently into her warm and wet cunt.

And he felt at home in that pussy, like an American should. He felt so at home that he 
never wanted to leave her.

And then Horst started to fuck his lover, his slave, and he felt her hands on his shoulders 
and he knew that he would never hate her, for she would never touch his head.

She would never make Horst feel that his baldness was the most important part of him.

He knew that, for this slave, the most important part of him was not working in and out of 
her cunt.

And she put her legs around him and held him close and smiled at him and felt as good as
any girl from Akron could ever feel.

They fucked like two great Americans. They fucked with love in their hearts.

As they fucked, as Horst moved his cock back and forth in her damp tightness, he thought 
about all the women in his past, the women who had been hurt and mutilated.

And he had never really understood any of it, he thought now.

He had never really understood love and that had blocked out everything else from his 
mind.

He realized now that he had been looking for love all of this time, and, now, he thought, 
he had found it. He had found the love that he needed with this loving slave.

Paula sighed and rocked under Horst. She looked at his bald head and she liked that head,
shining under the light that filled the room, but she knew that she could not mention that to 
him. She would have to keep a secret of her love for his head.

Horst’s cock was moving in and out of her cunt and he was giving her pleasure. She 
tightened her pussy muscles around that cunt and she felt his hands on her ass. She knew that
he was touching the brand that made her his and that pleased her, made her think that 
anything was possible in America. A girl from Akron could become the loving slave of a Nazi 
from Germany. Anything was possible in the land of opportunity, she thought.

And she rocked under him and sighed and felt his cock move in and out of her.

“Oh, fuck me, Horst,” she sighed.

“Yes,” he muttered.

“Fuck me harder. Hurt me a little, Horst.”

“Yes.”

“I want to feel the pain that only you can give so well, Horst.”

And there was no much passion in her voice, so much dedication, that the Nazi could not 
stop himself. He had to give her the pain that she wanted.

“Oh, fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me and hurt me, Horst.”

And he raised up slightly and slammed his cock deep into her and felt her sigh and shiver 
with delight.

“Slave,” he said, “does that hurt you enough?”

“More.”

He pulled his cock out and slammed it into her again.

“God, Horst, that feels good,” she gasped. “Hurt me more. Hurt me in different ways.” And 
then Horst slapped one cheek of her ass, the cheek with the brand, with his hand. And Paula 
yelped with the pain and cried out to him.

“More. More. Horst, hurt me more, you Nazi devil, you Nazi stud.”

Again and again, his cock went into her pussy. His prick plunged into her like a train into a 
tunnel and then pulled slowly out of her. He battered the walls of her cunt with his member, 
knowing that that was exactly what she wanted from him.

He had had a lot of slaves, and he had hurt a lot of women, he thought.

But he had never known a girl who had accepted the pain with such relish, such wonderful 
sighs of fulfillment.

He was hurting her and that was just what she wanted. She still did not understand 
everything about the need for pain that she felt, but she knew that it was there, that it made 
her feel alive, and she knew that she loved Horst for the pain that he gave her. She knew that 
that pain was what him special to her.

Horst slammed into her with his cock.

And he slapped her ass with his strong, Nazi hand.

Then he slammed into her pussy again, and slapped that branded cheek again.

And then it became a symphony of pain for Paula and Horst.

Each time he would go into her, he would slap her ass with his hand. That slap seemed to 
echo the sighs that she made when he fucked her so roughly.

A slap.

A sigh.

A slap.

A sigh.

A slap.

A sigh.

And then the two sounds became one to Horst and he remembered something that the 
General had said to him.

When women sigh, the General had often said, it means they want more and more and 
more.

So he gave Paula what she wanted. The next time that he slammed his cock into her, he 
did not slap her branded ass.

Instead, he slapped her stomach with all of the power that he could muster in his strong 
body, his Nazi body, his German body, his proud body.

And she yelped when he hit her like that, yelped with pain and delight.

Then she sighed to him again, putting her needs into words.

“My nipples are tender from beating, Horst,” she gasped.

“Yes,” he growled. “Yes, slave, they are. I made them tender. I like them tender.”

“I like them that way too,” she said, surrendering to him completely. “Twist them and make
them hurt, Horst. Give me the pain that I need.”

And the man continued to-fuck her, to ram his cock deep into her and he leaned over the 
sexy and surrendering slave and he put his fingers on those nipples.

As she waited for the nipple-twisting to start, she wondered why she had surrendered to 
him in this way. She knew that she had surrendered, that she had given in, that she had not 
will of her own now.

But she wondered what could have brought that about, what thing in her past had made 
her lazy until she had felt the pain, what made her surrender to the pain.

If someone had walked up to her on the street in Akron, Ohio, and had asked her if she 
would surrender to pain, she would have told that someone no. She would have told that 
someone to get lost. She would have called the police. She had loved her freedom that much 
back in Akron.

But this was not Akron.

And the pulsing that she felt in her body, the sexy heat that came with the pain, was 
something that she had never experienced in Akron at all.

She sighed.

She moved under Horst as he rammed her again and again.

And she waited for the nipple-twisting to begin.

Just having his fingers there on her tender pinkness hurt her a little, she knew.

But it was not enough, not enough for a real and loving slave.

She needed more than just a little pain, she thought.

She needed a lot of pain. She needed the paramount of pain, the ultimate in pain, the 
Everest of pain. She needed to climb the peak of pain and feel it down in her bones and in her
soul. She needed to know that that pain was real and more than most people had ever 
suffered.

She sighed.

She surrendered.

She needed pain.

And then she called out to her master, the Nazi commandant of her dreams.

“Twist my nipples, Horst!”

He growled when she said that, but he did not move his fingers. He just fucked her.

“Twist my nipples and-give me the pain, you fucking Nazi bastard.”

Still he did nothing, and Paula felt the pain of the loss that she was suffering.

It was a loss of pain and that loss of pain gave her greater pain, she thought.

She had surrendered completely to him.

This was not Akron, Ohio. This was New York City.

After her surrender, she thought angrily, she deserved the full and complete pain.

Yet the man refused to give her that pain, just kept his fingers on her nipples and refused 
to twist them and bring her to orgasm.

Yes, now she knew that a simple twisting pain on those nipples would get her off.

She moved her legs up and stretched them up over her body. The strong, German man 
bore down on her and her legs went back. She was almost bent double.

That felt good, because it hurt a little bit, Paula thought.

But the real pain was not there, and she needed that real pain.

Then she looked at Horst as the side of her foot went across his ear and she noticed the 
baldness.

And she knew that she would have to be an unruly slave. She knew that she would have to
anger her master. That was the only way that she could get the pain that she deserved.

So she summoned all of her courage and she barked at him with her wrath, the wrath of a 
pain-loving girl, a slave, a complete sack of need, need for total agony.

“Twist my nipples, you bald bastard!”

When she said that, the words seemed to explode in Horst’s head.

He had been thinking about nothing, just fucking her. He had meant to twist her nipples 
but when he had looked at her he had remembered the love that he felt for her and he had 
been unable to do it.

But he would be able to do it now, he thought. He would be able to give her the kind of 
pain that she wanted.

“Bald freak!” she yelled.

Another explosion came into his head.

“Bald Nazi freak!”

With those words exploding in his bald head, Horst remembered all the humiliation that 
he had suffered as a boy, all the strange looks that he had gotten because he had been ill and 
lost his curly, golden locks.

And that memory drove him on to hatred, hatred of his slave.

He twisted the nipples with relish and snarled at her.

“Slave!” he yelled. “Slut slave!”

She gasped with the pain and wallowed in the pain as he twisted those tender things.

And then she knew that she had to keep that pain coming to her. She cried out in her pain
and in her joy, as the tears came to her eyes and as the agony stiffened her and as the orgasm
came flooding through her.

“Bald Nazi freak! Bald Nazi freak! Bald Nazi freak!”

And Horst did just what Paula had expected him to do.

He continued to twist on those nipples and growl at her and fuck her as she tossed under 
him in agony and came and came and came.

This, the girl thought, was the most delicious orgasm that she had ever experienced.

This was better than anything she could have ever had in Akron.

This was love and pain combined, and she never wanted to be without that combination.

Never.

She wanted to die with Horst’s fingers twisting her tender, pain-wracked nipples.

As the girl churned under him, Horst groaned with desire and felt his own balls erupting.

And then he shot his lava flow into her, shot it with long and sexy spurts, as his body 
tensed and as he felt that wonderful feeling of loving mastery in his soul.

Then he also knew that his slave did not mean it really when she called him a bald freak.

He knew that she had only done that to bring him out of his own thoughts so that she 
could get the pain that she wanted.

Horst understood it all better then, as he was coming.

And the two of them came together, filled with pain-giving and pain-taking.

When the orgasms were over, Horst pulled out of her and rolled over to the side of her.

He lay there and said it softly, deeply, like a real master.

“I understand, Slave.”

“Understand what?”

“Why you called me that.”

“You mean-” She paused. She was not angry now and she did not want to hurt his feelings.

Not after he had fulfilled her in that special, painful way “A bald, Nazi freak,” the man said, 
a little sadly.

And then there was silence in the room for a moment as the two of them lay there and let 
the words of insult circle above them in the air. It was at that time that Paula felt truly sorry for
the man, sorry for what she had said, sorry for the pain that she had caused him.

But she hoped that he understood that she had had to do that to get the pain from him.

That was all that she had been after, just the pain.

“I am sorry,” she said softly, not looking at him but looking at the ceiling. “You know that I 
did not really mean that. I love you, Horst. I hope you know that. I love you because you are 
my master and because you have made me feel alive again.”

“I know.”

And then he softly repeated the words to himself and to her.

“Bald, Nazi freak.”

“Don’t call yourself that, please,” the slave said, almost near tears.

“Why not? That is what I am. I know that. I have known it since I was a little boy”

“No, Horst.”

And by then she was crying. It seemed that her master’s sadness made her feel even worse
than the pain, even worse than the lack of pain.

She would have gladly let him leave her, she thought, leave her alone forever.

She would even have let him kill her if that would have cured his sadness. That sadness 
hurt her too much.

“I know I am a freak,” he said.

“No,” she moaned, weeping. “You can’t be. I love you, Master.”

And the man looked at her and smiled.

“That love means something to me,” he said. “I appreciate that love, Slave.”

But everything had started to come clear to Horst then.

He knew that he had been lying to himself for all of these years. He had been saying that 
he only beat up on girls because the General demanded it of him, because he owed his life to 
the paralyzed, little man.

But now he knew the truth, and the truth did not set him free.

It held him captive in his own self-disgust.

He was a true Nazi, he thought. He was just like all the others who had tortured and killed, 
the others who had sickened him. He was a sadist, just like the General had been, just like the 
others in the Nazi regime had been.

And he had hurt this girl that he loved. He looked at her and thought that it did not really 
matter that she wanted to be hurt. The fact was that he had enjoyed hurting her more than 
any other girl, that he had actually enjoyed and relished the thought of giving her pain.

And that made him a bad man, he thought, a very bad man.

Just, like the bad men who had sickened him. Not he sickened himself.

He knew the truth, that he hurt girls because he was trying to revenge on the world for his 
bald freakishness. He knew that now and he did not think that he could live with that 
knowledge.

And he remembered the thing that the General had talked about so many times when the 
Reich was tumbling all around them.

Horst got up from the bed and he walked to his bureau and opened it.

He pulled out the pistol and loaded it carefully with just one bullet.

That was all that he would need, he thought.

And then the bald man turned around and looked at his slave.

“You will be free to go,” he said, “when I am finished.”

“No,” she moaned, weeping her heart out. “No, Horst. If you must do that, do it to me too.
I could not stand to live without you.”

Paula knew that she should get up and try to stop him.

But she was too weak. She could not move. She could only lie there, naked and hurting, on
the bed and plead to be taken with him.

But Horst did not put another bullet in the pistol.

He walked by the bed and spoke to her softly.

“You are not a freak, Paula. You can be helped, maybe. I think you need to get help.”

“You are my only help,” the girl moaned, still crying.

And then she turned over on her stomach and buried her face in the cool sheet of the bed
and remembered the pain and wept. Her body shook with the weeping, but she knew that she
could not stop him, knew that she could not make him take him with her.

And she knew too that, when he was gone, she would not be able to use the pistol on 
herself.

She did not have the strength to do that at all, and she wondered what she would do 
when Horst was finished. Perhaps, she thought, she would just lie there and weep and starve 
to death on that bed. She had heard stories about dogs who did that, who starved right next 
to their masters because they could not leave the men who had cared for them.

And then she heard the shot out in the hallway and she looked up toward the door.

She heard the heavy body falling on the floor.

“Horst!” she yelled.

But the man did not answer her, and she knew that he never would answer her.

The naked slave moved slowly off the bed. She was not weeping now. That shot seemed to
have dried out her tears.

And that shot still echoed in her own head. She was surprised that it had been so quick, so
sudden.

She stood by the bed and remembered what she could of the history of the Third Reich.

And she knew that Horst had gone out like a true Nazi, that he had done it cleanly and 
quickly, that he had finally accomplished the ultimate Nazi goal.

She moved slowly toward the door, both wanting to see it and fearing to see it. She was a 
slave, she thought, and she had to go to her master. But she was also afraid that she would 
not be able to stand the sight of his blood.

Her blood had been all right, had been sexy for her.

But his blood He was her master and she did not think that she would be able to stand to 
see his blood and his lifeless body.

Still, she went to Horst, went to him like a dog, because she thought that he might need 
her.

She moved into the hallway of the big house and she looked down at him.

He was lying on his face, and the pistol was still in his head.

There was a hole in the bald head and the blood was pouring out of that hole.

She knew that it was over, that Horst was finished now.

He had said that she could be free to go when he was finished, but she knew that she 
would never be free. She had felt too much with Horst, had learned too much about herself.

She could not go out and seek help, professional help.

She did not want to leave that house at all.

Paula moved down and sat on the floor at his feet. She reached out and touched his leg. It 
was cold already.

And the chill of that cold flesh seemed to invade her and freeze her.

She kept her hand on the leg for a long, long time.

She remembered that Horst had done this because she had called him a bald freak. She 
felt terribly guilty. It was as if she had killed her only love. Now it was her turn to suffer, she 
thought, really suffer from the starvation and the thirst and the loneliness that would come to 
her.

But she would never be able to leave Horst, never be able to leave her master.

She sat there on the floor of the hallway and held her hand on his leg and closed her eyes 
and knew that she would never get up.

When they came to find them, when the neighbors smelled the stench and called the 
police, they would find her sitting next to her master, touching him and surrendering to him in
that final surrender.

And they would say that her love for him was sick and perverted.

Paula knew that it might just be, that it might be sick and perverted and abnormal.

But she also knew that that love had made her feel alive, and she knew that that love had 
conquered the lazy sexuality of her body.

And she knew too that she certainly could not leave a man who had given her that kind of 
love, that kind of pain, that kind of life.

She felt the coldness from Horst’s body invade her and she sighed.

And she sat there, frozen and waiting for the end to come.


THE END
