In a Nazi Whorehouse

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by John Savage

Salon Kitty was a high-class brothel in Berlin, in World War II.  It was used by the Nazis to gather intelligence, secrets pried from clients at the brothel by booze and sexy women.

That much is true, and a matter of historical record.

Were there really secret rooms in the basement of Salon Kitty, rooms where beautiful women were kept as playthings for a kinky, sadistic, high-ranking official?  Major Mueller, recently transferred to the SS and promoted to Lieutenant Colonel, was sent to investigate rumors that there was more going on at Salon Kitty than sex and information-gathering, but what he found would change his whole life… after he had had the opportunity to sample some of the “merchandise” of Berlin’s most notorious brothel, of course.

Published: Nov 2015          No. words: 36,800EX1t

The room was small and dark, lit only by a small light overhead.  Although only a handful of feet from the auto traffic along Giesebrechtstrasse, no sound penetrated the thickened walls of that tiny basement room.  The only sound to be heard within was a soft moaning coming from the woman hanging in the middle of that room.  Her body was suspended by the ankles from a hook set into an overhead beam, her long auburn hair hanging down to just touch the floor.  She was naked, her skin a soft pale white in the dim light.  Her hands were tied with rope behind her back.  She had been crying, wet marks on the concrete floor attesting to falling tears, but now she was quiet save for an occasional moan she was not even aware that she was making.

At first she had struggled, but now she hung motionless.  The jerking of her hands and twisting in mid-air had only tired her and hurt.  The ropes were tight.  Although not gagged, she did not call out either in distress or pleading for release from that painfully uncomfortable position.  She knew no one would come to her aid, even if someone outside that depressing room could hear her.

Time in the basement prison dragged slowly for the hanging woman, each minute seemingly an eternity.  Yet, she knew that worse than this torment was to come and she should be glad that there was only discomfort, albeit severe, for now.  He was coming.  She knew it because she had been dragged from the jail cell in another part of the basement to this torture room and hung up like a side of beef.  He would come and then she would feel his pain.  It was the pattern repeated four times previously; there was no reason it should be different that night.

She heard the door being unlocked but did not turn her head to see who was coming in.  She knew.  It would be that woman she hated.  And who hated her.  Perhaps that particular woman hated all women, for she seemed to take delight in tormenting and causing pain.  When she felt that woman’s hands grabbing her bound wrists, she knew what was to come next.  More rope was wrapped around that already on her wrists and knotted tightly.  There was a pause as the intruder knelt and threaded the rope thought a ring set in the concrete directly below the hanging woman.  Following the pattern established the first time, that rope was pulled upon and she felt her arms being drawn down towards the floor.  The woman holding the rope pulled with all her strength until she could force those arms no farther.  Then she tied the rope off at the ring.

She stood to view the prisoner.  It was a view Elsa enjoyed.  The hanging woman was now in considerably more pain.  Not only was the rope around her ankles cutting in with the full weight of her hanging body, but also her arms being pulled downward forced her body into a contorted position that threatened to dislocate her shoulders.  Elsa traced a line with her fingernail down the flank of this young woman, past the narrow waist and all the way to the firm, youthful breast.  Taking the nipple between her forefinger and thumb, she squeezed hard, viciously digging her nails into the soft flesh.  She was rewarded with a squeal of pain and a jerk of the tied down body.

Elsa, while only in her late twenties, was not a pretty woman.  She was overweight, and could most kindly be described as “plain”.  She wore expensive clothing and jewelry to make up for that, but no one would confuse her with the lovely, slender and curvy nude woman hanging there.  One was sexy, the other dumpy.

And she hated that comparison.  Reaching across, she took the other nipple between her fingers and squeezed hard enough to bring forth an even louder cry of pain.  Elsa smiled.  She would have stayed to torment the younger, prettier woman but knew that he would be coming in soon.  He would not want to find his prize being played with by what he considered the “hired help”.  With a sigh, she left the room.

The hanging woman shed a tear for her sore nipples, and waited.  What would happen next would make her forget about the tweaking of her nipples.  It was the pattern.

When the door opened again, many pain-filled minutes later, she closed her eyes.  She did not want to see the man she knew was standing behind her.  She had looked upon him before and had no wish to see him again.  She felt his hands on her bindings, testing them, and heard his grunt of satisfaction at their effectiveness.

This lovely young woman, whose name was Jennifer, waited with growing fear for the pain she knew would come.  It was the pattern.  She was strung up like a slaughtered animal and then would be whipped.  He would start on her bottom. The strokes would be hard but not as much as they would be later.  After a dozen or so on her slender ass, he would begin to whip the backs of her thighs.  The pain would increase, for that area was not padded as was the ass.  And there were plenty of nerves there to yell in protest to the bite of that slender, black braided leather whip.

Then he would whip her flanks, allowing the end of the whip to snap around and kiss her tender pubic mound.  He enjoyed making the whip land on her flank and then curl around to snap its tip against that most tender place on a woman.  After that, he would place vicious red marks across her breasts.  By that time, she would be screaming.  The sound would be loud in that room but go no farther.  The room had been made for just such abuse of a female.  Throughout this abuse, her body would be jerking and her fingers fluttering uselessly.  Her head would jerk back and forth, making her long hair lash out, much like the whip.

If the pattern ran true, he would then spend some time alternating between whipping her and feeling the rising welts on her flesh.  He enjoyed touching the swollen flesh.  It fascinated him.

It would be only a brief rest before he picked up the whip and went back over the same territory again, only this time the screams would be louder.  Those parts of her body covered with the first set of whip marks would be sensitized.  The fresh batch of lashings would hurt much worse.

During this second set of whipping, she prayed that she would pass out.  But she never did.  The first time, she had begged and pleaded, even to the point of offering her body to him if he would only stop the terrible pain.  Her pleas were ignored and the pain continued.

Only when her hanging body was a mass of swollen, inflamed and tortured flesh, did the whipping cease.  For a while she would hear his heavy breathing and other noises but would be so lost in her own world of pain that she would not care what he was doing, so long as the whip no longer cut at her.

He would open the door and she would hear some words in German spoken.  Not speaking the language, she did not understand, but, after several repeats of this pattern, she became sure that he was giving orders she not be taken down for at least a hour.  The door would then be closed and she would be left alone to sob in her agony.

That was the way the pattern always went.  So it was that night, also.  He began whipping her round, soft ass.  She began moaning loudly as the leather bit into her skin.  The prolonged agony was beginning.

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