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her suck them off or even lick their Horenrohen, the thrill would be indescribable.
    The toothpicks ascended the lovely rounded white column of Helga Nordheim's white thigh en route to her yawned-opened bottom-globes. He paused at the top of the thigh to remark, “I'm getting very close to a tender spot, you know, dear Helga. Are you sure you've told me everything you know? Quite everything?”
    “Oh God—stop it—Oh, I'll go crazy—I beg of you—in the name of Heaven, help me, Herr Oberst —have pity on a poor woman. I've done nothing wrong—I love the Third Reich—I believe in Der Fuhrer, truly I do! Only stop—stop, in the name of God, before I die!”
    He smiled at his two “boys” and although it could never be said of Friedrich Mueller that he had ever shown the slightest inclination towards homosexuality, the fact was that he was almost in love with them both at this moment. For they were the perpetrators of his will on the tasty flesh of this naked, white-skinned bitch, who was soon going to pleasure his prick in a way she would never have dared with her own husband in bed together. He liked this part of the interrogation, too, knowing that by careful, dedicated work, he could turn even a prissy virginal schoolmarm into the most abject and lascivious of whores, make a chaste, convent-bred little piece of kootzele kneel down and lick his prick or his asshole as he chose, and try to pretend she loved it. It gave one a sense of almost God-like power to be able to do this to other human beings, to strip away all the veneer as one did the clothes, to pierce through all the smug ideologies and book-learning to the craven flesh and the shuddering psyche hidden inside the person you were interrogating. When you began, he or she was clothed, presentable, respectable, cocksure of answers and of background. And then step by step, the first suspicious anguish in the eyes, the trembling of lips and chin, the dry throat, the fight for breath, the nervous pauses in thinking up answers—which would, of course, always be the wrong ones. It was glorious, this work in the Fuhrer's name! Hungry though he was for decorations, ambitious as he was for promotion, Herr Oberst Friedrich Mueller would not have traded this moment in this room in his present occupation even for the honor of leading the Third Panzer Division in Africa!
    “You know, Helga,” he said conversationally as he paused now, the toothpick still clutched in his three fingers, “you're a damnably attractive bitch. I can't see for the life of me how that professor could have passed you over in favor of that young student of his—what was her name? Oh yes, Kathy. Myself, I've always preferred ripe fruit to green. Now if you and I were alone together, my dear Helga, I could make certain advances to you. They would be most discreet, but very flattering, I can assure. But you see, your obstinacy forces me to be very ungentlemanly. Do you think I enjoy having these buck privates fingering your most intimate flesh this way? Feasting their eyes on your naked body stretched out on this table as if you were just another sow for the butcher's knife? Of course I don't. Now, why don't you be sensible and tell me the truth? Let's just pretend, you and I, that we're playing a little game. Let's pretend, for instance, that your man has had one of those hot flashes that I'm told married men sometimes get after a dozen or so years of matrimony, and he gets the hots for a cute little bitch in his class. Maybe she crosses her legs and shows him her panties and he'd like to know what's inside them, nein? Well then, you know how a man is, my dear Helga. I don't have to tell you, since you've been married and getting it regularly. Then all of a sudden you don't get it regularly any more, and your man starts reading his newspaper and staring out the window and wishing he were in bed with his little Kathy. Maybe she does a few things for him that you never thought of doing. You know,