Batwoman meets Catwoman Part One
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Notes On The Early DaysPart 3: Two Occupation Stories free porn video
Melissa Stevens shuddered as the smiling soldier opened her cage, hooked a leash on her collar and led her to the elevator. Four men has used her body the previous day and then one of the guards took her in her small cell last night, pressing her to the bars as he humped into her ravaged anus from behind, grunting like an animal, pawing her full breasts with both hands, yanking on her nipples, slapping her buttocks. She was sore all over.
Melissa had been in the Pentagon pleasure program for almost a month and had undergone two weeks of rigorous training and practice. She and her younger sister had been taken when her northern Virginia neighborhood was cleared for incoming homeland cadre.
They and a couple of dozen other young women were lined up in the Pentagon courtyard, forced to disrobe before a crowd of smiling SS officers and then selected for various levels of prostitution to the conquerors. Level threes for enlisted men; level two for low ranking officers, and the Pentagon girls for the top brass.
Her sister had disappeared that day, an officer in a black uniform led the 15-year-old beauty away and Melissa had never seen her again nor heard what happened to her.
Now the elevator doors hissed closed and the soldier fumbled open her shirt and bent to suck and gnaw at her breast, crushing it in his big hand and ignoring her gasps of pain. When the lift stopped, he pulled his face away, and she covered her chest as she was led down the hall and into an office.
The soldier clicked his heels and handed her leash to a young officer who leered at her and then took her to an inner office and told her to stand by the window.
When the fat Generalmajor hung up his phone and rotated his chair, he stared at her and made a face. “She will do,” he said with a smile. “Put her over there by the door.”
The leash loop was hooked to the top hinge, and Melissa had to stand on her toes to keep her wide collar from choking her. She watched the big officer straighten some papers and then he stood, pulled down his jacket, smiled at her, massaged his groin, took the leash and led her back down the long corridor to another office.
Melissa, wearing what all the girls in the Level One pleasure corps wore, a man’s buttonless uniform shirt and wooden clogs, followed along, skipping at times to keep up. She was pulled into another office where two men gabbled in German and then to an elevator and down to a car park. A long, black Chrysler-Mercedes glided up and the officer pushed Melissa into the back and then sat beside her as the car moved away.
“Liebs,” the gruff man said, patting the girl’s thigh, “what is your name?”
“Melissa, sir,” she said, properly cowed, doing as she had been painfully taught in the last few weeks, being polite and subservient. The alternative, she knew, was death.
He nodded and unbuttoned his flies. “Get down here, ja, between my knees and show me your talents.”
The girl tried to ignore the foul smell of the fat man’s genitals as she cupped his scotum and mouthed his soft glans. She sucked and bobbed, looking up at his wide belly and making sure her teeth were covered by her lips as she massaged the small, wrinkled organ.
The man grunted and wheezed as his penis thickened and stiffened in her mouth. He dug his hand into her hair and pulled her face to his hairy groin, gagging her so that she tossed her head from side to side.
The general yanked Melissa’s head way from his small cock and smacked her face. “Take it, take it,” he yelled at her, “take it all, you American bitch.”
Melissa did her best, moving his cock head from cheek to cheek and using her tongue furiously but gagging again when he tried to drive his short, thick member down her throat. He cuffed her aside, put his foot on the small of her back and pushed her into the deep carpet, mumbling as he stroked his rigid prick until it spurted against the front seat. He let the thick dribbles fall on the prone girl’s body and legs.
At his home, a large brick mansion in the Great Falls area, he yanked Melissa from the car and dragged her to the back door. His boys were waiting for him, as they were almost every Friday. He pulled the girl in, seated himself, made her kneel beside him, head down, and his sons handed over their weekly reports. He studied them, nodded, said, “Goot, goot,” and gave over the leash.
Actually both of his sons were on the verge of failing and had been in trouble, disciplined twice that week, but they had stolen forms from the office and now created their own reports every Friday for their gullible father who usually rewarded them with a girl slave. Melissa was the tenth one since they moved to Virginia, and they prided themselves that they had only killed two in their vile games although they had returned several with broken bones.
General Smotz had led a panzer division on the Canadian front in 1943, winning an Iron Cross and suffering two battle wounds from air attacks from the much-feared Jugs, the P-47s. He had served in the Pittsburgh zone for a year and had been able to bring his wife and children to join him. In 1944 he had arranged an accident in which is nagging wife was killed and then took the first of a series of American mistresses. He now had three, two living together in an apartment in Arlington where they also served several of his subordinates, and the other his current plump and docile housemate. With his sons occupied, he mounted the stairs and then fucked Magda, the 30-year-old widow of an American naval officer.
The soft woman did her best to sound interested and pleased by his efforts although his inadequate erection barely aroused her pleasure centers. She wrapped him in her long legs and heaved against his always-brief humping and then kissed and praised him when he rolled off her.
Down the hall, Hans and Kurt, the general’s horny sons, were whipping their prisoner with electric cords, both of them naked from the waist down and their small pricks as hard as they ever got. When Melissa’s back started to bleed, the savagely sodomized her, one right after the other with the girl on her hands and knees. Then they dressed and hauled her down to their school where the Hitler-Jugend group was meeting in the gym. In the next hour a dozen boys and two young men used the girl, often two at the same time, and when the meeting ended the general’s boys were praised for providing the entertainment. Then they stood, saluted the Fueher’s picture and sang the Horst Wessel song while Melissa vomited in the washroom.
On the way back to the house, Melissa stumbled and moaned, and the boys moved to her sides, each supporting her with an arm, sniggering at each other about the smears of jism on the girl’s body and the distended state of her nipples, their hands kneading her buttocks.
As they started up a small hill, Melissa suddenly grabbed each boy around the neck and smashed their heads together in front of her. The bigger boy fell dead, his eye sockets crushed and nasal bone thrust up into his brain, and his brother dropped to his knees, bleeding from the forehead and ears. Melissa took off one of her wooden shoes and hit him with it, hit him until he collapsed and then hooked her shoe into his neck scarf and twisted until she was sure he was dead, tongue protruding and eyes bulging. Then she ran.
She ran into the woods and then into a park where there was a narrow, stone-walled ditch. The old canal trench led to a defile that went down to the river by wide steps or locks. Melissa scrambled down, bruising her knees and elbows.
She looked at the dark and tumbling river, was tempted to give herself to it and then saw the red nose of a one-man kayak hidden in the weeds. It had obviously been there for some time, perhaps since the war ended. There was no paddle so she bent and then broke a sapling, shook out the debris in the flimsy craft, put the nose of the tiny boat in the shallows, tossed her wood-soled shoes into the river, climbed aboard, pushed away from the stone jetty and the river quickly carried her along, down toward the ruined city.
Once through the tumbling rapids, Melissa used her make-shift paddle to steer toward the far shore, bumped a small island, spun around but finally reached a muddy bank on the Maryland side. She got out into knee-deep water, pulled the kayak up into the weeds and cattails and sat, gasping for breath.
Most of the Capital had been destroyed by a bomb almost three years before, the same day that New York and Philadelphia were incinerated and America surrendered. She remembered the flash of light on her classroom wall and her mother’s tears and her father’s anger that night.
And then came the occupation and the start of slave labor conscriptions. Her father had been taken by the end of the year, and the girls and their mother and her in-laws struggled on until their home was confiscated a month ago. Her grandparents were hauled off somewhere and her mother sent to a labor camp while she and her sister were conscripted as pleasure girls. Actually the older people were gassed in the van that hauled them away, their bodies burned and their remains bulldozed into the tidal Potomac. The girls’ mother was put to work in a textile factory, 12 hours a day, seven days a week.
Sitting in the dark, Melissa suddenly saw lights on the Virginia side to the northwest, up river where she had found her boat. Obviously the bodies had been discovered and they were looking for her. Then a motorboat came rapidly up the Potomac, its searchlights sweeping the water and the banks. The girl retreated deeper into the scrubby woods and through a rock-filled creek bed until she came to a chainlink fence.
She went along the fence, heading away from the river and crossing several long-abandoned roads. Then she saw a small, flickering fire at the bottom of a gulley and moved toward it. Two men sat near the bright blaze, cooking something on long sticks, their unshaven faces made orange by the flames. Melissa crouched and listened. They spoke English and they did not wear uniforms. She stood, cleared her throat and said, “Can I join you?”
Both men jumped to their feet and one produced a long-barreled weapon. “Step out where we can see you,” one said, waving his shotgun.
“I’m alone,” Melissa said as she came closer. “I’m unarmed, honest.”
“By damn,” said one of the young men, “it’s a girl. Where’d you come from? Get over here and sit.” He gestured.
Melissa sat Indian fashion and pushed her shirttail down between her legs, aware of how bare she was before these strangers. “Over there,” she said. “Virginia. I got away. They’re looking for me.”
“The Nazis?” asked one.
“Got away from what?” demanded the other, his long gun still in his hands.
“Your meat’s burning,” the girl said, pointing.
“It’s squirrel. You want some?” asked the younger man. “I’m Jerry. What’s your name? This is Mike.”
“Melissa,” she said, shaking the man’s hard hand and nodding at the older man who set aside his weapon, pulled the seared meat from the fire and smiled at her. “I killed a couple of boys.” She sniffed and bit her lip. “That’s why they’re after me.”
“Germans? Good for you,” Mike said. “We haven’t killed any yet, but we’re going to.”
“Why’d you kill them?” Jerry asked, peeling blackened skin from his piece of squirrel.
“To get away. They’d been beating me and raping me, a whole bunch of them, Hitler Youth boys.” Melissa felt tears in her eyes.
“Raping you?” Mike asked, frowning, not sure if he believed this pretty girl with bare legs.
“I was a slave, a sex slave at the Pentagon. There’s a whole bunch of us, girls from neighborhoods they’ve taken over.” Jerry handed her a piece of meat and she chewed and swallowed quickly. It was the first food she had eaten since her meager breakfast twelve hours before.
Mike tore off a piece of his browned squirrel and tossed it to the girl and then raked two small potatoes out the fire’s ashes, broke one open and handed that to Melissa. “Be careful; it’s hot,” he said with a smile.
“What’s this fence?” the girl asked.
“DeeCee barrier. We’re on the inside, the contaminated side. We’ve been looting places, looking for food; didn’t find any.” Mike tore off another piece of meat and handed it to her.
“Thanks,” Melissa said. “You know they might come here looking for me.”
“Not on this side of the fence,” Jerry said. “I don’t think so. We’ve never seen a German on this side. I think they have orders. Probably think it’s still dangerous, radioactive.”
“Is it safe?” she asked, chewing hungrily.
“Don’t know, but if we stay put, we’re dead. They’re killing young men or forcing them into labor battalions.” Mike shook his head and then put his finger to his lips. He quickly kicked dirt over his fire, grabbed his gun and stood. “Thought I heard something.”
“Let’s go back to camp,” Jerry said, picking up a sack that bulged with bulky cans.
Mike swung a backpack to his shoulder and they hurried away. Melissa followed, wishing she had kept some shoes. In a few hundred yards they came to another creek, waded in and ducked under the fence and then hurried along, knee deep in water, splashing each other. Then they climbed the bank and followed weedy streets past dark buildings, some obviously burned to empty shells, and up a long hill and past a white-domed observatory.
Their camp was in a construction shack at the site of the unfinished Washington Cathedral on the hill above Georgetown. They stood together and looked back toward the city. It was dark.
“Men come here to work sometimes, old stone carvers,” Mike said, putting his arm about Melissa’s shoulders in the chill of the evening. “I think they know we’re here, but they leave us alone. Most people have gone, left the area. All the stores out here are empty, stripped bare, but there’s still some stuff in town.”
“We have a little radio, battery powered. We’ve a whole bag of batteries. So we know what they say they are doing. You know, they’re still fighting up in Canada and other places too, Australia I think.” Jerry pushed open the door with his shotgun and flicked on a small penlight. “It’s ok,” he said and went inside.
“We’re brothers,’ Mike said, enjoying the feel of the girl beside him. “He was in college; I was in high school when this started, when the war ended.”
“I was only in fifth grade. My sister’s fifteen. I don’t know what happened to her.” She began to cry and buried her face in Mike’s chest, enjoying his warmth and his smell.
Dottie
- 05.03.2020
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