Warsaw. June 5, 1949

The bed trembled as the train passed silently by on electro-magnetic rails. Yet another innovation by the fascist’s war machine. It would be nice to imagine that it carried food and medicine but I knew better than that. It carried troops and weapons.  Trying not to think about it I sat up, not bothering to cover myself with a sheet.  For one, the room was dark. For another, I had not a milligram of modesty, or decency for that matter, left in me.

Nor did Jacque. I found myself admiring his silhouette as he stood at the window, the last dregs of twilight casting his shadow image on the wall beside the bed. He was naked, and the dank light was a kindness, hiding the scars he’d accumulated fighting the Fourth Reich’s Übermensch. Vive La Resistance.

“Bastard’s right on time,” he said, his heavily accented voice just loud enough to be heard over the sound of displaced air as the locomotive zipped past. 130 tonnes of steel and chrome riding the rails at 200 klicks per hour on its way from Berlin to Moscow.  “Like clockwork, non?”

I knew, without asking, what he was thinking. A well-timed explosive would derail and possibly destroy it. A blow struck for liberty, yes, but one that would bring the Stasi down upon us in droves. They were relentless and cared little of innocence or guilt. Rynek Starego Miasta would become a forest of gallows and corpses. I’d learned that the hard way after being orphaned at the age of twelve.  

“Come back to bed. Make love to me. Forget about the war, just for a few moments,”  I murmured once the train had passed, knowing it was an impossible request.  Jacque was unable to let go of the fight, even while fucking. Too many ghosts lived inside his head. In mine as well. Still, it was worth a try…

Sometimes our lovemaking was gentle. He was, in the bed at least, a gentle man. Tonight, however, it was desperate and brutal. His kisses were hot and fiery and he held me down and took me from behind. In truth, I preferred it that way. We didn’t make love so much as rutted. When it was over, I collapsed, him on top of me, both of us breathing hard, the bruises his fingers left just beginning to blossom.

“Brute,” I teased, finding his hand with mine.

“I am sorry, Astrid. Very sorry.”

“Don’t be. You know how I like when you lose control.”

“Oui. Not for that, though.”

I thought he might say more. He might have, only we were both worn out and it had been a long day. We fell asleep like that, flesh damp with mingled sweat, his seed leaking from my sex onto the bedsheet. When I awoke the next morning, he was gone. Explaining his absence with a note written in his native tongue.

I am deeply sorry. It would be best if you forget me. I will always love you.  

I burned the note. It would be used as evidence against me. I considered burning the small apartment we shared, too. In the end, I decided it would be suspect to do so. Best I simply do as he said. Forget him. In my head, perhaps, but not in my heart. I could never forget him in my heart.

Warsaw. June 7, 1949

The explosion shook the house, knocking pictures from the wall. Mementos from tables. Shattering the windows. Afterward, I stood where he had stood two nights before, watching as the train burned, more explosions ripping apart the cars. It had been well planned. Soldiers spilled out, many in flames and screaming. Another explosion sent shockwaves through the air. Weapons, perhaps. And ammunition.  Chaos and confusion reigned and I could hear sirens in the distance. I wondered when they would start rounding up ‘suspects’? Soon. Before the night was over. I was confident that I would be one of them. Had I been wise, I would have fled weeks ago, but I was tired of running and in truth, I’d run out of places to run to. And so I did a very foolish thing.  I took my mother’s uniform, one of the few things I had left of hers, from its hiding place under the floorboards and put it on. It was a little loose on me for I was not a large woman. Quite the opposite, in fact. And then I waited for the inevitable, watching as the train continued to burn. It was a magnificent sight.

“Viva La France,” I murmured, wondering if I would ever see Jacque again. “Der er et yndigt land. There is a lovely country…”

Berlin, June 23, 1949

I was blindfolded and dragged to the interrogation room by the guards. Faceless and nameless, dressed in black armor and gas masks and, of course, the iconic helmet of the Fourth Reich. Wisely I kept my mouth shut and simply let them manhandle me. This was my third trip and I had been taught a few lessons already with the pulse knives they both carried on their belts.

The blindfold was removed only after I’d been shackled, wrists and ankles, to a steel chair in an uncomfortably cold concrete room with one door and no windows.  Before me was a steel table and beyond that, the only item of comfort within the room. A chair with a padded leather cushion and back, its armrests and legs made of oak. That’s where she would sit. Until then, it would remain empty and I would remain alone, only my thoughts and fear keeping me company, dressed in threadbare pajamas, for lack of a better word for the ‘uniform’ I’d been given.

She was Oberstleutnant Wollf, a name that fit her perfectly. A fierce yet patient predator. And I was simply Astrid. At least she used my name. To the guards, I was simply Hündin. I’m not sure how long I waited. Long enough that my bladder felt uncomfortable and I was shivering.

Eventually, the door opened, startling me, and she came in, taking her time removing her trench coat and gloves before placing her pulse whip on the table between us, a reminder of what would happen if I ‘misbehaved’. Having had a taste of the guards’ pulse knives, I was wary of the whip and always kept my tongue in check with her.

“Guten Tag, Astrid. My apologies for keeping you waiting.”

She hardly sounded apologetic, but as I said, I’d learned to keep my comments to myself.   

She sat, snapping her fingers. A moment later a mekanik appeared. A mechanical man. Built to serve. It held a tray, which it placed before her. Sauerkraut and pork sausage. It smelled wonderful.  Unable to help myself I began salivating.

“You are hungry?”

“Yes, Fräulein Wollf. Very,” I whispered, unashamed that I was admitting weakness. My body hadn’t been the only thing to take a beating. So had my pride.

“Perhaps I will share with you. If you answer some questions for me. Maybe, if you’re a very good girl, I will have the guard bring a strudel in.” She picked up a fork and took a bite, her eyes never leaving mine as she chewed and then swallowed.

She chuckled as my stomach growled audibly.

“It is quite good, Astrid,” she told me. “Now, let’s get down to business.”

Leaning forward, her gaze sharp, she began asking questions. The same questions she always asked. And I gave the same answers I always did, having come to the conclusion that lying was pointless.

“Who set the explosives, Astrid?”

“Jacque Boucher. I think. I don’t know for sure.”

“And who was he to you?”

“My lover.”

“He is part of the resistance, ja?”

“Yes. He is.”

“As were you, Astrid?”

“Yes.”

“Who else?”

I merely shrugged. I’d already given up the names that I knew. There were only four others. I imagined that they’d been captured as well. Possibly nearby, being interrogated in other rooms identical to the one I was in.

She took another bite of the sausage, watching me thoughtfully as she chewed.

“Perhaps you are not hungry enough, Astrid.”

I stared at her as she swallowed, my eyes welling with tears. Hungry. Tired. Scared. Had I more names to give her I would have.

She paused a moment, reaching into the pocket of her coat, and producing an envelope from which she pulled several photos which she arrayed neatly on the table before me. Remy. Hans. Mikel. Andrew. Jacque’s photo, however, was conspicuously absent.

“Dead, Astrid.”  She nodded towards the whip coiled upon the table. “A very unpleasant way to go. Only there is one missing. Boucher. Your lover. I wonder where he might be hiding.”

She stood, suddenly, and paced, her path taking her behind me where she paused, her hand resting on my shoulder as she leaned down and whispered in my ear.

“I think you know. I think you know and aren’t telling me.”

She clicked her tongue several times, showing her disappointment.

“You are very pretty and I like you, Astrid. Perhaps you will come to your senses and tell me. Perhaps I can find a way to save you from the same fate. I will think on it. I suggest you do the same.”

Reaching over me, she plucked the half-eaten sausage from the tray and offered it to me.  Unable to resist, I took a bite, and then another, gobbling it down hastily before she changed her mind, much to her amusement.

“I can be generous. Or I can be cruel. Remember that. We will talk again, very soon. And maybe your memory will improve.”

I watched, a feeling of dread descending over me as she put her coat back on and retrieved her whip.

“Very pretty,” she repeated, her gaze moving over me intently, her smile devoid of warmth. And then she left.  

Berlin, June 27, 1949

This time was different…

“Undress, Hündin.”

I stood there stupidly, the words not quite registering until the guard unholstered his pulse knife, the flickering blade coming to life with a push of a button.

“Strip!”

I stripped. I was escorted, naked, once more, to her room, as I had begun to think of it, trembling with more than just the chill. Fear and humiliation were also at play.

This time there was no chair, at least not for me. Only her chair. That and the table.

“Up. Up!”

No chair. Just a step stool placed below a chain descending from the ceiling. A pair of manacles hung from it.

“No, please. There must be some mistake.”

Panicking, I resisted, fighting the pair of faceless guards with all my strength. It was all for naught. I was too weak. It had been too long since I’d had a proper meal or a good night’s sleep. I was left to stand on tip-toe on the crude metal stool, held upright by the steel shackles locked around my slender wrists.

For how long, I cannot say. Long enough to tire me. By the time the Obersteutnant entered I was exhausted and in tears.

“Guten Tag, Astrid. As you can see, I have decided to use a different strategy today. When the carrot will not work, one must resort to the stick, ja?”

I watched as she took off her coat and set it on the back of her chair, never once taking her eyes off of me. Not my face. Not this time. I could sense real hunger in her as she ran her gaze over my naked body. I felt vulnerable in a way I had never experienced before.

I began to whimper as she removed her gloves and then lay the ever-present coiled whip on the table.

“Shush, Astrid,” she commanded. Eyes wide, I did my best to quiet as she went on as if a professor lecturing a class.

“The pulse whip has four settings, Astrid. I watched as she activated a button on the handle.  “The first is very mild. So mild that those with such inclinations often use it for pleasure. I don’t suppose that applies to you. Or perhaps it does?”

I shook my head, my legs feeling suddenly wobbly. After all, I had been standing on my toes for quite a length of time.

“I have observed some overcome by a sense of euphoria when properly whipped, Astrid. Sometimes even ecstasy. When was the last time you felt either? Not since your incarceration I imagine. Perhaps you would like to experience it now? All you have to do is ask…”

The room was silent save for the pounding of my heart against my ribs and my ragged breathing. She stood before me. Patient. A predator observing its prey, her features emotionless.  Eventually her patience grew thin.

“No? Perhaps the second setting. Much more painful. A kiss of electricity that will feel like fire against your soft flesh.

The whip flickered. This time the soft blue light was replaced by a dark blue one and I could hear it faintly buzzing.

Wollf moved around the table, the sound of leather heels preternaturally loud in the small colorless room.  I turned my head, trying to keep her in my sight.

“Would you be surprised that there are some who find that erotic as well? Have you ever heard of a book called Psycopathia Sexualis?”

She paused as if awaiting an answer, one I felt compelled to eventually give.

“No.”

“No, Domina, Astrid.”  She accented the title by flexing her whip, increasing the sound of the electric pulse flowing through it.”

“No, Domina,” I whimpered, flinching.

“Good girl. It was written by a German psychiatrist - Richard von Krafft-Ebing. He described masochism as obtaining sexual pleasure from receiving pain inflicted by another person.”

She moved closer. Uncomfortably closer, and let the whip uncoil. Mesmerized, I stared. About a meter in length and slender. It suddenly turned an angry looking purple, and the Oberstleutnant reached out, her fingers brushing my nipple, her eyes locked on mine. I tried to look away. I tried really hard but failed. A hint of a smile playing upon her lips mocked me for my efforts.

“Third setting delivers agony.  You would scream until you were hoarse and, eventually, you would tell me where Jacque may have gone to ground.  And anything else I might find useful. But neither of us wants that. I’d rather you told me of your own free will, Astrid. Tell me and I will make it less unpleasant for you.”

She began stroking, alternating between gentle fingertips and unyielding nails, sending shivers of pleasure through me. It had been too long since I’d been touched like this. Since I’d been treated as anything other than a dog.

The whip changed color once more. This time to red. A sound not unlike a swarm of angry bees filled the room.

“The fourth setting. This is the last sound that your comrades heard. They told me so many secrets, Astrid. They gave up so many names. The one thing they didn’t tell me was where your lover was hiding. I can only assume they didn’t know. I am hoping you do. I would hate for you to share their fate. I took my time with them. They lasted through the night but in the end, their hearts gave out.”

I let out a soft gasp as she took my nipple between her fingertips and began to slowly twist it.

“This hurts, ja? And yet, I can see it in your eyes that there is a part of you that relishes it.”

“No,” I whispered, fighting the feeling welling up in me. She was right. Deep down within I welcomed the pain. Like the times when Jacque had been rough with me…

“I can give you what you need, Astrid. But only if you give me what I need.”

The whip suddenly changed from red back to the soft blue pulse of earlier.

“I am going to whip you now. I think you will enjoy it almost as much as you hate it. And you are going to tell me where your lover is hiding. Is that clear?”

“No,” I whimpered, shaking my head for emphasis.  She only laughed as she circled behind me and gave me my first taste of her whip.

I felt the kiss of electricity along my spine. The first of many. It hurt, but not as much as I imagined it. I think the worst part was how I, or rather, my body responded to it.

“You cannot hide it from me, Astrid,” she told me after half a dozen strikes, each one followed by her touch. Intimate and sensual. My breasts first, until my breath grew ragged and my nipples painfully swollen.

“You see? Your flesh craves this. Desires it. It is only your head that fights it. Surrender and you will be much happier.”

Soon, she had touched me everywhere. Everywhere but my sex. Had she touched me there first, I would have recoiled. Now, however, I began to long for that most intimate contact.

“You are wet,” she commented, her gaze focused between my thighs. “Ask me nicely and I will touch you there too.”

Not trusting myself, I kept silent, squirming as I did my best to keep my balance, my arms and legs growing weary.

She struck me again and I reacted, not with a cry, but a moan. The euphoria she had promised had sunk its claws into me and I was on the brink of something more.

“Where is he, Astrid? Where is your lover hiding?”

I felt the kiss of her whip again, gasping as a small spasm of pleasure pulsed within my sex.

“Perhaps I am being too gentle with you. Perhaps you would prefer the second setting.”

“No, plea-“

My plea turned into a scream as she struck me upon my bottom.  If the earlier blows had been kisses, this was a slap. I screamed as electricity burned the tender flesh of my ass.

“I am sorry, Astrid, but my patience is wearing thin. Tell me what I want to know.”

She struck me again, this time upon the other cheek. I let out a sharp cry and began to sob softly.

I am not sure if she took pity on me, or if this was part of her way of breaking me, but circling me once more she took my face in her hands, and kissed me. It was gentle. Soft. And yet full of passion. I could feel her mouth tremble against mine, as if she was holding back by force of sheer will. And then I felt her hand between my thighs, her fingers stroking me, teasing me, leaving me breathless when she finally pulled away.

“Very wet, Astrid.”

I shuddered as she rubbed her fingers over the swollen nub between my folds, unable to stop myself from pressing against her as best I could, hoping for relief.

“You wish to orgasm, ja?”

Panting I did my best to turn my head, not wanting her to see the need that I knew was in my eyes. She simply grabbed hold of my chin and forced it back, forcing me to meet her cruel gaze.

“You know what I want. That is the price of your pleasure, Astrid.” She accompanied her words by thrusting her fingers into me, sliding them in and out like a piston. Slowly. Painstakingly slowly. Deeper and deeper with each thrust, her thumb pressing against my nub, rubbing small circles against it until I couldn’t think straight or even breathe.

“Tell me, Astrid.”

In the end, I told her what she wanted to know and, in return, she gifted me with the most amazing orgasm I had ever experienced.

Berlin, July 5, 1949

This time I wasn’t shackled to the chair nor was the chair made of steel. It was made of wood and I sat upon a cushion. I’d also been allowed a shower. Not hot, but not cold either and I was given soap. It was scented. I tried to remember the last time I’d used scented soap. Before my time in Warsaw? Afterward, I was given fresh clothes. A simple blue shift. And underwear.

“You look delightful, Astrid,” the Oberstleutnant remarked upon entering.

“Thank you,” I told her, blushing, watching as she removed her coat and gloves, setting one upon the back of her chair, and the other on the table.

“I wanted to thank you.”

“Thank me?” I asked, confused.

Instead of answering, she reached into the pocket of her coat and placed a photo on the table before me.

I stared, my heart sinking, too stunned for tears. It was Jacque, but not as I remembered him. His face was slack and his eyes were lifeless.

“He shared many secrets before he died, Astrid. My superiors were quite pleased. Quite impressed. They offered me a promotion. So yes, thank you.”

“He’s dead. Because of me.”

Fräulein Wollf leaned over, placing her hand over mine, her smile gentle. For a moment I thought she might actually feel remorse.

“No, Astrid. Because of what he did. You cannot blame yourself. He was an enemy of the Reich. My superiors also granted me a boon.”

I said nothing, feeling the emotion drain out of me. I had loved Jacque and I had, in the throes of passion as the Oberstleutnant drove her fingers into me until I was overcome with ecstasy, betrayed him.  

“I asked if I could take responsibility for you, Astrid. They agreed. You won’t be kept here anymore. You will stay with me.”

I felt a sudden emptiness inside. What was the word for it? Tabula Rasa, I think. My life before was over. There was only one path left for me. Forward. I felt that I should be angry. That I should rage and vow vengeance. That I should spit in her face. Instead, I merely stared at the photo while she stroked the back of my hand, offering unexpected comfort. Eventually I met her eyes shyly and offered her as much of a smile as I could muster.

“That would be nice, Domina. Thank you.”

Berlin, July 9, 1949

We paused at the Brandenburg Gate so that I could admire it. I had to admit it was impressive. This was my first time outside since arriving here.  Although I was still a prisoner of the Reich, I was also under the care of the Oberstleutnant or rather the Domina, as she insisted I called her.

“Sit up straight, Astrid,” she said, snapping her fingers. Knowing my place I complied immediately.

Berlin itself was just as impressive, if not nearly as beautiful. Unlike Warsaw or the city I had grown up in, bombs had never fallen here. It was a city of concrete, glass, and steel. While there were touches of elegance to it, the overall feeling was cold and sterile. The only colors on display were the flags and banners of the Fourth Reich.

Mag-levs, bristling with turrets, patrolled both day and night, hovering above the streets like alien ships. Dreadnaughts – oversized militarized mekaniks -  stood watch outside of government facilities, ready to squash any sign of insurrection without prejudice as did soldiers dressed in black armor, gasmasks, and helmets, identical to the faceless guards who had watched over me.

“What do you think?”

“It is-“

“Ugly.” She didn’t even give me time to reply. “Admit it. You think it is. And it is ugly. But it is also necessary.”

I felt the brush of her fingers on my cheek. In my hair. Gentle, yet firm. A sign of ownership. Shivering I held perfectly still, letting her touch me as she pleased. I hated to admit, even to myself, that I welcomed it.

Overhead a formation of planes flew past, far above the city. Like everything else, they had been built for war. She glanced out the window of the car. It, too, was a monstrosity of steel and chrome. Cocooned within as we were we could not hear the noise of pistons as it rumbled through the city to her apartment.

“You will not like it there, either. I have a cottage in the countryside, however, that you will adore. Perhaps, in time, I can show you. As long as you continue to behave.”

“As if I have a choice,” I said, softly, hoping she took no offence at my words.

“If you had, would you choose differently, Astrid?”

I thought about it, staring out the window as we passed shop after shop, staring at the citizens of Berlin. They reflected the city they lived in. Prosperous yet drab. As if reading my mind, she took my hand in hers, toying with the steel manacle clasped around my wrist that had become a permanent part of my attire.

“I will take you to the museum tomorrow. It will lift your spirits. Many of your country’s painters are displayed there. Do you have a favorite, Astrid?”

“Vermeer,” I murmured, turning away from her, my eyes damp with unshed tears. There was some joy in knowing that some part of Amsterdam had survived the bombs.

“If you smile for me I will take you to see your beloved Vermeer then.”

Turning, I managed a faint smile. Not the fake one I sometimes gave to some of the visitors she’d occasionally introduce to me while in the interrogation room, but a real one, one that earned me a kiss.

“Good girl.”

I couldn’t help but blush.

Berlin, Jan 4, 1950

“There is good news, Astrid. The Americans have sued for peace.”

What choice had they had? I’d seen the photos in Völkischer Beobachter. A mushroom shaped cloud where New York City had once stood. Another one turning Philadelphia into a charnel wasteland.

“The war goes well for us. This calls for a celebration!”

I had learned quickly that my Domina’s idea of a proper celebration was unorthodox at best. It usually involved her inflicting pain upon my willing flesh while fully dressed in uniform. I had to admit that she looked stunning, her dark hair tucked up under her cap, her boots so shiny that I could see my reflection in them. Afterwards she would allow me to pleasure her with my mouth. If, and only if, she was pleased with my performance, would she grant me the orgasm I so craved. There were also times she withheld it just to be cruel.  What was even crueler was that I felt myself slowly falling in love with her…

Berlin, April 13, 1950

“I have arranged for some time off, Astrid. I thought we might spend it in the country. You’ve been a very good girl, after all. Would you like that?”

“Yes, Domina. Very much.”

Bavaria, April 29, 1950

It was an idyllic week. For a time I forgot that I was a prisoner of the Fourth Reich. More accurately, I was Her prisoner, something the ever-present steel cuffs I wore reminded me of daily.  Unlike Berlin, Bavaria still held an old-world charm. She even took me through Schloss Neuschwanstein, using her recent promotion from Oberstleutnant to procure us a room for the weekend. It was incredibly romantic. A strange notion, perhaps, but true.

The night before we were to leave we were invited to dinner.

“A very special dinner, Astrid. I want you to be on your best behavior. And I want you to make yourself pretty for me.”

“Yes, Domina. I promise not to disappoint.”

And I didn’t. I dressed up for her in one of the stylish gowns she had gifted me with. Blue was her favorite color, so of course I chose the blue one. I even had one of the bellboys pick edelweiss from the garden to adorn my hair, showing myself off to her shyly before we left for dinner, taking delight how her eyes seemed to sparkle when she took me in.

“You are such a good girl,” she assured me, kissing me tenderly. “I am very pleased with you.”

“Thank you, Domina,” I murmured shyly, returning her kiss just as tenderly.

It was, indeed a special dinner. Our visit coincided with that of Reichsführer Himmler, head of the Schutzstaffel.   He was very charming and very interested in our relationship. Of course, he was aware of my Domina’s role in capturing key members of the resistance. Jacque, like me, had given up much information, although the methods used were much different than the ones used on me.

“I don’t suppose I could borrow your… what is she? Slave? Pet? For the night,” he asked during dessert.

“She is simply Astrid, Reichsführer. She is my good girl,” she replied, tight-lipped, obviously not liking the request but powerless to turn it down.

“Astrid, then. Such a lovely name. I promise to return her… unbroken.”

And so it was settled. I would spend the night with him…

“I am sorry, Astrid,” were her parting words. “I am, truly.”

“No matter what happens, I will still be your good girl?”

“No matter what happens you will always be my good girl,” she assured me.

 Bavaria, April 30, 1950

I tossed the pulse knife on the bed next to the corpse of Himmler. Her pulse knife. She would be suspected, of course. Probably arrested and questioned. Perhaps executed. I felt a moment of regret, tears blurring my vision as I turned my back on the butcher and stared out the window.  

“I am truly sorry, Domina,” I murmured.

 It was late. Just after midnight. I considered fleeing, knowing I wouldn’t get far. It didn’t matter. It was done and I could finally rest easy.

“Der er et yndigt land,” I whispered, remembering Amsterdam before the bombs had fallen. So beautiful and full of life. “There is a lovely country...”