"Francoise Chambet, Ex Model. Ex wife, and soon to be Ex Publisher." The thoughts wouldn't leave her. Here she was, two years into the war, and now the Boche have murdered her editor. It had been bad enough when her husband Gilles had been killed at the beginning of the war, but at least he had died fighting, and had also left her his fortune and publishing business. Life had been tough. At first, as Nazi censorship took hold, all pretence at objectivity became futile, and Francoise had decided to give up. Let the Boche publish their own lies. It had been Bernard who had persuaded her otherwise.
"Run the paper for them, but use your contacts to help the Maquis" he had said. So she did. And now, probably by accident, she was alone. The air raid had been precise, the old police station reduced to rubble, her Editor-Brother killed by allied bombs as he cultivated his contacts in the local Military headquarters., leaving her staring at the flickering flames wondering what on earth she should do. Somehow she had to find a way of keeping the information flowing.
She looked sullenly around the huge room she was sitting in. Memories of the five years she had shared with Gilles before the war came flooding back. In her mind the room took on it's previous glamour. She remembered how the Chateau used to be the social centre of the district.
"That's it" she thought bitterly to herself. If society is to be run by the Germans, then I will offer them the premises from which to do it.
"Hierein!" Ernst Hartmann sat behind his huge oak desk, revelling in the space afforded him in his new, if temporary office. At One metre 80, he was not amongst the tallest of men, but he was tall enough, good looking, and exuded that indefinable authority that made people accept his orders without question. The allies had done him a favour, wiping out much of the hierarchy and elevating him to Regional Head of the Gestapo. From here, he would be more able to effect schemes that not only served his masters, but also allowed him to practice being one.
The young woman dressed in full military uniform stood stiffly to attention in front of the desk. "Corporal Monika Glasneck at your service Sir" she shouted.
"At ease! Corporal." I will call you Monika in private, you will call me Sir! Understood?"
"Yes sir". She adjusted her stance, dropping the salute, resting both hands clasped together in the small of her back, feet slightly apart, heels closer together than toes.
"Well then, Monika, tell me about yourself"
"Yes Sir!" Her heels clicked, despite being "At Ease". "I am 22 years old, married, from Dresden, Sir. I joined the Hitler Youth at 16, joined the Administrative Corps two years ago after I married. My husband was posted to North Africa so I volunteered for special duties, and was posted here as secretary to Colonel Grauhof, Sir!" Although not overly well developed, her chest swelled with pride as she yelled her CV.
Hartmann stood up, and walked leisurely around the desk. He stood behind Monika, legs slightly akimbo, tapping his stick gently against his leg. "What do you know of your assignment?"
"I am to provide secretarial services to the Colonel, but am covertly assigned to your section, Sir! My orders are to follow your orders, Sir"
"And did they teach you to take orders, Monika?"
"Yes Sir, without questioning, Sir"
Hartmann stroked his cane against the seam of her stocking. She stood still, not flinching as he ran it between her knees. He tapped the cane gently between them, encouraging her to spread her stance. She did so, immediately, unquestioningly.
"Were you not taught to put your stockings on properly? Your seams are not straight"
"Sorry, Sir", she replied, knowing full well she was being tested. Her seams were immaculate. They always were.
Hartmann smiled to himself. He had been told that having a compliant obedient indoctrinated little bitch like this one was a perk of rank, but he never expected to get the opportunity to savour it so swiftly. I can't let you out like that Monika, can I? I will straighten them for you. Bend over and place your hands on my desk".
"Yes sir". Keeping her feet where they were, she leaned forward, extended her arms and leaned forward until she almost lost her balance. She felt Hartmann's stick climb higher between her legs, lifting the hem of her skirt above her stocking tops. She heard his intake of breath as her best silk knickers came into view. Despite her curious situation, she felt strangely aroused by her position. She could feel the juices lubricating her innards, and when the stick stopped its movement, withdrew, and let the hem of her regulation skirt fall back, she felt the sharp pang of disappointment. Any such feeling was short-lived, however. Almost immediately she felt a cool waft of air as Hartmann lifted her skirt high over her back, leaving her exposed to his gaze. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him bend over and smooth the tops of her stockings with a gentle stroking motion of his hands. He stood up, moved beside her, placed one hand firmly on her bottom, leaned over mimicking her own stance, and whispered in her ear.
"Your knickers are wet. Did you know?"
"Yes Sir" she stuttered whilst maintaining the Military discipline she knew was expected of her. She was less sure when she felt his hand ingratiate itself into her pants, drawing them down around her knees. He stood up, moving away behind her, leaving her confused but still strangely excited. The stick returned! This time higher up her inside thigh. She shivered as it wormed its way into her slit, pausing when it teased her clit. A couple of gentle prods was all it took to have her on the verge of orgasm, the tension unbearable. Still it did not stop. A short pause, and on it went, pushing and prodding up her crack until it rested gently against the bud of her arsehole.
"I think you have been well trained, Corporal Glasnek. I look forward to taking full advantage." She felt the point of the stick twist lightly in her bottom as, with a slight push, she felt it ease past her entrance, penetrating to the point of discomfort. "You also have a nice arse, he muttered, did your husband use it?"
"Then I might also enjoy introducing you to the pleasures of Sodomy."
"Thank you, sir" she replied nervously, not sure how to respond to his disdain.
She had no time to worry about it. The rustling of his trousers as he unfastened his buttons was followed immediately by the soft PLOP as he withdrew his stick. She was ready for anything, but still the single thrust of his enormous penis into her vagina took her by surprise. She rocked forward on her hands, forced against the desk, painfully squashing her breasts against the cool woodwork. She thought, fleetingly, of the gentle wooing from her husband that had left her so unmoved, before being overwhelmed by the crashing orgasm that ripped through her body as he drove relentlessly into her. Her juices flowed. Copious quantities ran down the inside of her legs as he pounded on and on and on. She had never experienced such pleasure in all her young life. When his orgasm came, her own state of excitement was so high that she hardly noticed his dick twitching in her pussy. She felt him withdraw, and leaned, exhausted as he tidied himself up, oblivious to the gooey mess running down her legs.
"Attention!" The command snapped her from her reverie. She snapped upright, clipped her heels, and assumed her previous military bearing. Her skirt fell back over her bottom, her knickers fell to her feet.
"You have done well, Corporal! I am sure you will serve the Fuerher well. Report to me daily. You are dismissed."
Monika's chest swelled with pride as she stepped out of her knickers, spun on her heels, and marched briskly out of his office, eager to do whatever the domineering officer required in the name of the fatherland. Behind her, Hartmann picked up her discarded underwear and smiled to himself, pondering the times to come.
Colonel Jacob Grauhof sat smiling grimly to himself behind his new desk.
Nothing had seemed to be going right. Weeks of careful planning and persuasion had convinced the Editor of the local paper to support his programme for maintaining order, only for the damned RAF to kill him in a speculative raid on the local Police Station. Then Himmler's puppet Hartmann had turned up, making life difficult, and accusing him of being stupid to select the Police Station as his headquarters in the first place. Suddenly, there he was, sitting in the shabby lounge of a hurriedly appropriated Hotel, waiting to see the owner of the local paper, knowing that he had objected to Bernard's editorial stance. It could have been a difficult day.
A soft knock on the door announced the entry of the lovely Corporal Glasneck.
"The Owner of "Le Tribune" is here to see you sir."
Grauhof felt the disdain in her voice as she swivelled on her lovely ankles and swayed back to the doorway. He knew she was going to make him pay for his earlier clumsy attempt at seduction. Things were definitely not going well!
His mournful reverie was interrupted. A low swishing sound and the clicking of feminine heels caused him to look up into the frank confident gaze of one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen.
"Colonel Grauhof!, I am Madame Chambet, Owner of Le Tribune. I believe you wished to see me".
.... There is more of this story ...