Copyright (c) 2014,   madvlad.  ALL Rights Reserved

Date of first publication in Mr Double's Palisade :
Tuesday, August 12, 2014

This story may be downloaded by Palisade members uniquely for their private use, and 
may not be distributed for profit or posted to newsgroups or other websites.  Mr Double 
may be contacted by emailing mrdouble@mrdouble.com.


A Palisade Author story from MrDouble's archive, 
Filename: tothevic.txt
http://www.mrdouble.com


story_codes: M/g(8), non-cons, semi-cons

story_intro: When an SS officer in occupied France learns of the gang-rape of a little girl, he questions the soldiers involved - becoming very interested in the details. Then hearing of her addled condition where she now craves being raped, he decides to pay her a visit. After all, are the fruits of victory not meant to be taken?

story_language: English





To The Victor Goes...

Written by madvlad


	Dieter Mosbacher checked is reflection in the rear view mirror, noting that nothing was out of place - his face was smoothly shaved, the hair perfectly combed, and the black uniform of an SS lieutenant colonel immaculate. It was as it should be, as was everything else this evening in a hamlet near the Normandy coast.

	Oh yes, the war had not been going particularly well for  the Reich for these past two years, but those who thought the war would be nothing but an endless series of victory parades were nave or utter fools. Dieter actually thought that the setbacks were actually positive in a way (a thought he kept completely to himself). Let the little problems here and there expose who the dilettantes were and who the real Nazis were so that in the end only the loyal would receive the full fruits of the new Germania. 

	Africa and now Italy shared the same thorny problems for the Reich - the fabulously incompetent and jelly-spined Italian "allies". Once they were out of the way, Britain and the US would find a stiffer opponent in the unencumbered Nazis. And the Soviet Union was so engorged with sub-human peasants that it would naturally take time to reduce their numbers until Stalin had no more human waves left to push at the Aryan advances.

	In this sector of the Atlantic Wall, though, all was calm in May of 1944. The last showing of the Resistance a year ago had been met with perfect efficiency. Many of the regular Wehrmacht troops were walking wounded from other fronts or even those who had been previously rejected for duty because of age or physical limitations. And although all soldiers were required to take an oath of loyalty to the Fuhrer, Dieter knew well that a good many of them were less than devout in following these oaths and it undoubtedly emboldened the Resistance in their acts of sabotage.

	But the arrival of a Waffen SS company had injected the necessary steel intro the local forces. After a railroad bombing left three box cars of munitions in flames and seven German troops in wooden boxes, the Nazi Party's armed guard spearheaded the reprisals. Seventy local men, ten for each slain German, were rounded up and executed. Whether any of them were actually involved was immaterial - the important thing was that there was no more counter-activity since.

	The only thing wrong in this area had been the grisly death of Captain Bruckmann, the commander of the Waffen SS company. Notorious as a hard drinker, the man had apparently stumbled or passed out on some railroad tracks and was unseen when a twenty-three car train passed over him. Dieter had personally investigated, finding the shattered remains of a flask with the Death's Head logo of the branch emblazoned on it. Bruckmann was also in possession of some sensitive papers, but an examination showed that all were present. 

	It was a shame as Dieter had come to like the man. During the last reprisals, the wife of a man who had been rounded up had appeared at headquarters begging for his life. It did her husband no good but Bruckmann and some of his men decided to pay her a visit in the small farmhouse she shared with her young daughter.

	While the child had cowered in a corner, the men had their way with the mother. But the woman had remained still, refusing to respond in any way as she was repeatedly raped. 

	"It was like fucking a corpse," Bruckmann had told Dieter later.

	In an effort to bring the mother to life, Bruckmann grabbed the girl and threw her onto the kitchen table, tearing at her clothes. She was a pretty little thing of seven years with brown eyes and long brown curls cascading from her head. Her pussy, Bruckmann had dutifully reported, was free of any such adornment. Martine, the girl, had fought and screamed like one of those Indians from American cowboy movies.

	Now the mother tried to intervene, but the sight of such a small female with a very tight looking pussy set fire to the blood of Bruckmann and his men. He wrenched the struggling child's legs apart, hawking some spit and smearing it on her tiny, bald mound. Two of the others held the mother upright, forcing her to watch as her innocent, virgin child was transformed into a little French whore made for servicing Aryan cocks.

	How she had screamed when Bruckmann first tore into her. He spoke in detail to Dieter of how her maidenhead had thinned before it broke around his lusty glans. And then he described the exquisite tightness of a seven year-old cunt, all hot and slippery from her shredded cherry, as it received the man's prick in a heavy rhythm of strong thrusts. Although some of the fury had gone out of the child after the first ramming had filled her stretched kiddy cuntlet to its limit, she still struggled and cried for her mama, who could only watch her baby girl get defiled.

	The men had laughed after Bruckmann came. He had pulled out, with much of his semen following in pulses of bloody gobs. The top half of his penis was red - stained from the child's savaged pussy. But the bottom half was still pale as he could only push in so far. Still, she had been one hell of a great fuck even with only half of his prick in use.

	The men took turns, rutting between the sobbing tyke's rape-stained thighs until everyone had pumped their load into the squirming little body. But they wanted more and Bruckmann, pulling rank, decided to change strategies with an assault from the rear. 

	She had the smoothest little buttocks, so perfectly round like a pair of forbidden fruit. But nothing was forbidden to the men in the black uniforms. Surprisingly, she was able to howl even more loudly from before as Bruckmann punched through her anus using her cunt rape fluids as lubricant. She had a silky, meaty young rectum and even if she didn't have a hymen there, she was bleeding by the time the entire group had flooded her bowels with more conquering jism.

	Dieter had interviewed the other men involved too, assuring them that they were in no trouble - none at all. They grinned as he praised them for having the guts to teach the little bitch a lesson in who was boss that most regular army men would have shied away from. Each time, he sat behind his desk, maintaining a mask of amused semi-detachment. In truth, he was incredibly aroused by such a tale, told over and over in gloating detail and needed the cover of his desk to hide the reaction in his uniform trousers.

	Having taped each interview, Dieter transcribed them to text himself, giving himself hours of endless material to read while he was alone in his quarters. Another secret he had kept to himself was his attraction to little girls - something that could lead to a piano wire around his neck if not a one way trip to one of the camps. 

	It might have gone no farther had Dieter not overheard a couple of elderly local women speaking in low voices as they did their cleaning chores just outside of his office one day. The wrinkled old crows spoke more loudly than they thought they were, undoubtedly due to the loss of hearing in their advanced years. 

	They were discussing Martine, now eight, and the unfortunate result of her gang rape from a year ago. Apparently the child was now fixated on being cunt-fucked by Nazis in uniform. It had to be those men with the black clothing with the Death's Head on them. The addled child, now crazed from her attack, would spend hours using whatever object she could find to diddle herself. But the only true peace was when a real SS man would pay her a visit. The harder and more hurtful he made the experience, the better sated she was. The girl's poor mother could do nothing and was actually grateful when the men came as her daughter would be less manic in the days afterward.

	Dieter felt put out. How come he had not been informed of this situation? Upon further consideration, he saw how men might be reluctant to have it known that they were still fucking a little girl. The initial gang rape had been one thing, but continuing for a year afterward was something that certain prudes in Berlin would not care for at all. Still, it gave Dieter the long-sought opportunity he was seeking. 

	There had been that girl of twelve back in Poland, but that was way back in 1939. But damn, she had been good, letting Dieter perform all sorts of degrading acts upon her fresh, barely developing body in exchange for a little bread to feed her family. Thinking back, Dieter wasn't sure what had ever become of her, but he knew for certain that her village no longer existed. 

	Security protocols detailed that no man - and certainly not one of his rank - should travel alone. But this area was properly secured and the population sufficiently cowed that Dieter had no fear as he approached the shabby little farmhouse. After rapping on the door, he was greeted by a woman who might have once been pretty before the personal ravages of war fell upon her. She paled at the sight of his uniform and Dieter approved of her most proper reaction.

	"I'm here to fuck your daughter," he announced perfunctorily. 

	The woman dropped her head and stepped back to let him inside. After pointing to a small room off the main room that served as kitchen and dining area, she sat down at the table with her head in her hands. Dieter took a moment to survey the room. There were no knives anywhere near the woman, who looked thoroughly defeated. Yes, everything here was as it should be. 

	Striding into the bedroom, he found Martine sitting on the bed, staring vacantly at the far wall. When she saw him, her eyes flickered with some deep emotion. Dieter closed the door and took a small vase of flowers from the small bureau that was the room's only other piece of furniture. He placed it by the door. In case the mother actually decided to try to defend her baby whore of a daughter, she would knock it over and alert him to her presence. 

	Efficient as always, Dieter unbuttoned his pants and produced his raging hard-on.

	"I have what you crave, whore," he announced. "Come and get it."

	Martine's eyes were fixed warily on the penis as she approached him.

	"Come to my bed, please," she said, extending a hand.

	Lunging quickly, Dieter snared her wrist and jerked her to him. Martine gave a startled yelp. Grabbing the girl's threadbare dress at the collar, Dieter tore the garment away from her, uncaring that it might be the only dress she owned. 

	Martine shivered in terror as the SS man's eyes raked her meager young body. No tits at all on her thin chest, only tiny nipples now stiffening from her fright. A petite, hairless swell was tucked between her legs, the slit appearing too small to take any man's hardened prick, but Dieter knew it had been stretched plenty of times already. But it wasn't where he wanted to start.

	Snatching the girl up, he threw her face down on the bureau with her legs dangling. It was the perfect height for him as he gripped her rubbery little buttocks, enjoying the childish smoothness of her skin as he squeezed and twisted the globes. When she felt his hardness pressing between her abused cheeks, Martine tried to kick and plead.

	"No, please! Not there! I beg-"

	A hard smack from Dieter across the back of her head put stars in Martine's swirling vision. She heard him spit and then felt his wet fingers poking her puckered orifice. She sobbed helplessly as he took hold of her waist and pushed against her with his prick. Her sobbing ended with a scream as the man slammed through the tight ring of her anus, renewing the unwanted memories of that first awful night. 

	Like then, there was no escape as she was pinned by the hard cock battering her little rectum, surging forward as the man heaved his way into her. Then the movements started, hard and long, burning her orifice and stabbing hard on the way in. It felt as if she was being punched inside her belly from below.

	The child was very hot in her innards, Dieter noted. Her ass chute baked his prick nicely as he made it expand. What little moisture she had there was augmented by his spit - just enough to make both of them feel a slick friction as the prick rammed in and out. Martine wailed the entire time, but never called for her mother. Dieter guessed that she had learned that her mother was no source of help.

	The eight year-old's little buttocks, spread by the huge shaft surging between them, quivered back and forth during her forced sodomization. The girl's hips were becoming bruised as they were rammed into the edge of the bureau, but that was only a small part of her discomfort. Her ravaged rectum twisted around his dick, going one way as it was made to open during his inward thrust and then reversing as he pulled out. With one more hard push, Dieter bored his way in a little further before seeding the child's bottom with a heavy load of semen.

	Dieter stepped away, stretching to ease a kink in his back while Martine lay on the bureau with his rape juice trickling from her abused asshole and down her legs. Taking Martine by the hair, Dieter pulled her off the bureau and pressed her face against his limp penis. 

	"Clean it off," he ordered. "You have to earn a cock in your cunt, you worthless French whore."

	The expression of pure vitriol that flashed over Martine's face took Dieter by surprise. Her figured her to be completely broken and was reassured when the look left as quickly as it appeared, replaced by utter despair. Martine opened her mouth, wincing at the contact of the man's rape-soiled dick on her tongue, but she closed her mouth around him, cleaning him with her tongue and lips while carefully keeping her teeth from touching him. Seeing that pitiful face stuffed with the cock that had just plundered her ass helped Dieter regain his erection as much as the wonderful feel of her mouth on him.

	"Now you can get what you want," he announced as he pushed her face from his crotch.

	"On my bed, please. She said as she backed toward it. "It's...best...when a man is on top of me. I get frightened but I..."

	"Of course," Dieter said reasonably. 

	He removed his gun belt and set it at the foot of the bed - easy reach in case the mother should decide to act. Martine had her legs spread and was rubbing her bald snatch with spit-moistened fingers in anticipation of her reward. Her face still held a look of fright, which meant part of the girl's damaged psyche craved fear as part of the rape - just as it must have been that first time.

	Pulling his already unbuttoned pants down to his knees, he clumsily got on top of Martine. His probing glans found the tiny cleft which felt even more enticing as its smooth skin was now damp for him. With a lurch of his pelvis, Dieter entered the girl brutally. Martine moaned in pain as her cunny was plumbed by the SS man's thick member. Trapped beneath him, she looked even smaller and more helpless, unable to prevent the harsh invasion of her tiny body.

	Dieter gave her no mercy as he bounced hard with every stroke, making the eight year-old squirm and groan beneath him as his cock as it mauled her tender little pussy. As Martine bore the full brunt of the SS man's rape, her delicate chest heaved as she struggled for air as it was driven from her with nearly every thrust. Observing his little slut, Dieter was slightly amused as he watched her hands scrabbling at the edges of her blanket, desperately seeking something to grip and perhaps lessen the pain in her preteen loins.

	Her childish sex tube was even tauter than her ass had been as it wrapped snugly around his rampaging cock. And she was wetter in this hole, making it easier to thrust into her with greater force. When his balls erupted, Dieter cursed as he strained to push into her cervix. It held together, but could not prevent the penetration of Aryan seed into her undeveloped womb. 

	His climax was so magnificent that Dieter barely noticed the sharp stick in his side. Thinking it was a splinter, he was shocked to spy a syringe clutched in Martine's small hand. Grabbing the girl by the throat, he roared.

	"What are you trying to do youuuuu lllllliii..."

	For some reason, his mouth wasn't working right. Neither was the hand on the girl's throat as she effortlessly pulled it away. Dieter's balance wasn't doing well, either as he fell forward on top of the girl. Martine wriggled out from beneath him, turning his head to face her as she stood naked by the bed. 

	Wiping at the jism oozing from her pussy to mingle with the stuff from her earlier sodomy, Martine made a face.

	"This is the last dirty Boche cock I'll ever have to take," she said. "I am so glad."

	Looking carefully at Dieter, the girl showed no malice or sorrow. Just a touch of relief as she spoke to him matter-of-factly in her sweet, girlish voice.

	"Don't worry, Colonel Mosbacher," she explained. "The drug will wear off soon and you will be able to move and talk again. Talking will be very important as Major Hudgeons will have plenty of questions for you."

	Dieter's mind was working just fine, but it was trying to come to grips with what was happening. It didn't help that he could feel a slight chill on his exposed buttocks, which made him feel ridiculous in spite of the evident danger he was facing.

	"Major Hudgeons didn't want to try this again because he was worried for me," she went on. "He is British SAS and he and his men have been here for six months now. He is very kind to me and Mama but he doesn't like the Boche. He used to have a family that lived in a place called Coventry. Then you Boche sent your bombers.

	He made that captain's death a few months ago look like a very real accident, didn't he? He said you'll be found in the morning with a broken neck after you must have lost control of your car and drove into a ditch. But before then, you'll have all night to talk to him. 

	You were quite easy to catch, with the old women whispering their stories about me. That was the first part of the trap. Then I came next and now you'll meet Major Hudgeons."

	With that, Martine walked to the door, replaced the vase on the bureau and opened it. Her mother swept in, hugging her naked daughter and weeping. Martine wept a little too as she sought comfort in her mother's arms.

	Releasing her daughter, the mother spoke gently to the girl.

	"I have a warm bath ready for you, my brave little angel. I'll be in to help you in a moment."

	Martine disappeared and her mother crossed her arms as she regarded the SS officer with his naked rear jutting in the air as he lay on her daughter's bed.

	"I couldn't protect by daughter that night your men came here. Do you know how that feels as a parent? Of course not. And I could not restore her innocence, either. But in times like these, at least I could offer her some vengeance to ease her soul and that is something, no? Perhaps now she may become an ordinary little girl again now that she has some peace after settling accounts."

	The mother looked like she had more to say, but stopped. She regarded Dieter for another moment with an unreadable expression. Turning her head to look out into the kitchen, she nodded and Dieter heard the scrape of a chair. 

	The woman left to attend to her daughter and Dieter remained on the bed, unable to move as he heard the heavy footfalls of a soldier approaching the doorway.



madvlad@mrdouble.com
http://www.mrdouble.bz/htm/authors/madvlad.htm





















This story is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.


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