Chapter 4

2012

She came in; a homeless girl overdosed. I found an ID on her and hid it. I got a copy of a birth certificate, and school records. I traced her parents, one was dead and the other in jail.

She was only 15. She was cremated as a Jane Doe, and I had a name at last.

I didn’t really want to live as a 15 year old, and anyway life was ok where I was. Good old Doug was giving it to me daily, and I’d made friends with my colleagues. Although working as a lab assistant was rather uninteresting, I liked my life in Pittsburg and was in no hurry to move on.

I was on thin ice though, the ID I was using was flimsy and my social security payments flagged a problem. I was blown (not in the pleasant way).

I’d been getting a decent wage and saving nearly all of it because I was living with Doug. I withdrew it in cash, and with what I had left from Eddie it totaled around $48,000.

A lot of money, yet not really. One year middle class income, or enough to buy one semi-luxury car, or a year of tuition at a good university.

Love is pain you know. People think its joy and light; it isn’t. I told Doug I had to go. He went a bit crazy on me, told me he loved me, asked me to marry him. I felt guilty about the pain I inflicted on him. He was a kind fool that I used for my own ends; I hope the pleasure and joy he shared with me balanced out the pain of it.

I got a bus east, had my hair changed to blond, got a bus south, and then went west. Louisville looked like a nice town; not too big, not too small. I found a room to rent, and wrote myself in at the nearby high school.

I still looked the same as I had when I left the institute a couple of years earlier. My face didn’t have a line on it, my tits were plump, my ass tight. My body felt fantastic, I was strong and had no weird pains. I’d used the ultrasound at the morgue; my uterus had no eggs, other than that I seemed to have the body of a teenager. I found no cysts or tumors. I would have liked a full body MRI to know for sure.

Anyway, to achieve a truly reliable new identity, I needed to start from an early point. So it was back to high school at age 92.

It was wonderful to be so anonymous. No one knew me here, I was safe and still free.

I looked 16, I had to pretend to be 16; it was frustrating. A lot of the school work was new to me, but in the areas I was interested, like biology, they had nothing to teach me.

Then there was my need for semen.

I really didn’t want to spend time with teenagers. They were babies to me, utterly boring. A few of the teachers were interesting, but they kept students at arm’s length. Reluctantly, I accepted a date from a 17 year old. It was terrible; I couldn’t bear his prattle, I only wanted to suck him off.

I did too; I took him back to my place and told him to strip. Once he stopped talking and I had his hard young cock in my mouth, he didn’t seem so bad. He blew after about 10 seconds.

I hadn’t had any for weeks, and I was barely able to function. As I swallowed the precious stuff, I felt a great relief. In reality it would take a little time before it took full effect; just knowing I’d got my dose made me feel better. There was just one problem; the boy stayed hard, and he wanted to screw me. I was still in a haze as I opened my legs and let him in.

Luke was a tall strong kid, his penis wasn’t large but he sure was hard. To my surprise, I found I was really enjoying it. He thrusted hard, grinning at me with the delight of youth. I grabbed his tight round ass in my hands and lifted my hips to meet his strokes, squeezing his penis with my vagina until I came.

“Come inside me.” I whispered, “I want you to.”

He didn’t. He just kept on fucking.

After a few minutes, I was coming again, I tickled his anus and was about to put my finger in, when he came for the second time. He stiffened and groaned as if in pain, I held him tightly against my naked body, and it was good.

I felt bad afterwards; like I always did when I’d used someone. Sex with schoolboys for a woman my age, that was difficult to justify.

During the war, I’d done it with teenagers, schoolboys (and one girl too). It’s not the physical part that I felt bad about; the kids needed to fuck, they were going to fuck, nothing wrong with fucking. The problem was their emotional vulnerabilities. Kids are easily used, and easily hurt.

He was like a puppy, following me around school all the time. If I used him for sex, his teenage brain would fixate on me completely. On the other hand, wasn’t that what all teenagers had to go through? Was it wrong to let him love me?

I was fundamentally lying. He was falling for a person who was a fiction. I decided I wouldn’t do it with him again; but after a couple of days I was craving semen, and Luke had plenty. I was a junkie, my mind made up convincing arguments to do things I knew I shouldn’t in order to get the shot I needed.

He was so beautiful, his shining eyes and his smooth skin, his stiff cock and gentle hands. All I had to do was slip his willing and delicious penis into my mouth for a few minutes, he’d eagerly give me what I needed. He beamed at me happily and stroked my head as he ejaculated hot sweet come into my young looking, very old mouth.

I could seduce adults easily enough. The city was full of men who wanted to fuck a hot teenage girl. The trouble was, they were dangerous; the sort of guy who I was likely to hook up with was likely to have a disease or a penchant for violence. The kid was safe, clean, obedient, and his balls were very productive. So I let the affair continue. I let him talk and talk, without saying much in return. Sometimes I couldn’t stand it and avoided him for a day or two, only to surrender again to my need.

I let him give it to me vaginally; he liked it best that way, and to be honest so did I. I got to come too, and the boy was soon quite good at it.

I spent my free time in the public library, reading medical journals and catching up on developments. All sorts of interesting things were being discovered while I was wasting precious time with school boys. No advances in longevity research though, nothing about the science my colleagues and I had developed.

Some of the things I learned at the high school were useful; computer science was changing all the time, and my higher math needed revising. Only having to learn all that whitewashed American history was tedious.

The school administrator kept demanding to meet a parent or guardian. She soon figured out there wasn’t one, and informed social services of an unsupervised minor.

I was put in a group home for orphans, which was very annoying. The constant supervision made it difficult to study things I wasn’t supposed to know, and it was impossible to be alone with Luke. My ID was 17 by then, I had a year to go before I’d be free.

There were 6 other kids there, the boys were all too young. The one girl ‘my age’ was violent and difficult. She tried to intimidate me and her effort made me laugh out loud; she wasn’t in my league. I grabbed her by the cunt and stared into her terrified eyes.

“Be careful.” I warned her, “I can be your ally here, or I can kill you.”

“Dike bitch!” she hissed, and I laughed in her face. We became quite good friends eventually.

About a week after I moved in there, a Senegalese boy named Johan was brought in. He was agitated, he told me he’d been separated from his parents at the southern border. I talked to him for a while and told him I’d help. He only spoke French. No one else there did of course.

The place was like a prison, we could only go out to go to school and back. I started to get confused, my mind was going hazy. I had to get some semen, I had to!

Johan was just 15, I didn’t feel right about it at all; one night the hunger was just too much for me and I crawled into his bed.

“Are you religious?” I asked him, “Do you believe sex is a sin?”

“No.” he whispered.

“Ok.” I said, and reached for his cock in the darkness. It was small, just 4 or 5 inches, and an inch thick. That thing about black men being big; some are, some aren’t. Anyway, that was not important for me. What I needed was the shot. It was stiff, hot, and I eased my eager vagina over it as I straddled the boy.

It felt incredibly good. The young black penis inside my needy body, and knowing that I’d soon get what I needed lifted my dark mood. It felt weird and obscene to do it with a child; but at the same time, it was fantastic. He was so smooth and fresh, so compliant and energetic.

And he was black, really black. I have a little fetish for that, the stark contrast. I guess it’s a sort of reverse racism, rebellion against my intensely racist nazi father. Whatever the root of it, I get extra turned on by black men. Or boys.

His face was so pretty; untouched by the horrors of the world beyond home and school. His teeth white and his eyes bright. Healthy, strong, and so very eager. His hands were soft and he touched me with a natural sensuousness as I rode him, my big firm tits bouncing against his young chest. I started to come after a minute, I lay down on him and held him tightly, feeling him stiffen as he ejaculated strongly inside of me as he grunted quietly.

“That’s good.” I whispered, “Very good! Was that your first time?”

“Yes.” He told me.

“It was beautiful.” I told him, and I kissed him softly, then went back to my own bed as my body metabolized the compounds and my brain began to work.

It felt so good to have my brain working again, that I decided not to hesitate again. From then on, young or old, married, religious, whatever; I would seduce whoever I needed to seduce, and get what I needed.

It’s not like I ever had any sexual morals anyway; if a man (or boy) chose to do it with me, that was their decision to make.

I wanted to go to medical school again. I needed top grades for that. I sure didn’t want to fall in love; that mind twisting state of bondage seemed to strike me after a few good bouts between the sheets. I’d endured it four or five times since becoming self aware again, and it really hurt. Surely, there was no danger of that sort of emotion with a 15 year old African boy I told myself.

I played the “good girl” and the house guardian gave me permission to go to an after school job in a care home for the elderly; I didn’t want to get into bed with any of them, but they were almost my age and I could talk to them. We liked the same music, laughed at the same jokes. The menial work didn’t bother me. And their old bodies didn’t either; I was wrinkled like that once, it was normal to me in a way that an actual young person wouldn’t understand.

And something very unlikely happened; an old demented Dutch man recognized me.

“SS capitain Gisella Poetz!” he shouted, “Nazi! Killer!”

I had been a Nazi killer, but he meant it the other way.

I sat down next to him, fascinated. The odds against this sort of encounter are astronomical, yet they happen.

“Sorry if my Frisian is bad, I haven’t spoken it in 60 years.” I said to him. “You’re right, I organized the massacre at Herendam in 1943. But I switched the lists and the collaborators were all shot instead of the resistance.”

He went silent, shocked to the bone. I don’t think he expected an answer, especially in his own language.

“Which were you, menheer? Collaborator or resistance?” I taunted him; because after all these years, I still feel strongly about that.

“Hey, you speak German?” my supervisor asked, “No one’s been able to talk to old Ruud since his stroke. He’s only been mumbling German ever since.”

“He’s not German, he’s Dutch.” I told her, “He’s just telling me how he collaborated with the Nazis in the war.”

I didn’t tell her we were actually speaking Frisian, a nearly forgotten regional language.

The old man sputtered and gasped in rage; I didn’t remember him exactly, but his surname rang a bell, I knew I was right.

“It doesn’t matter which side we were on, we were all civilians and it was a war crime!” he insisted.

And he was right. I’m actually still on a wanted list in the Netherlands for what I did. To be honest, I’ve always felt bad about it.

About a week later, he shot me. Pretty dumb considering I was the only other Frisian speaker he’d met in decades.

Seriously, he pulled a pistol out from under his blanket, pointed it at me, and fired. I twisted away and the bullet passed through my shoulder muscle.

Imagine, I’d gone through all of World War Two on active duty for the German side while spying for the allies, and the only injury I’d had was self-inflicted.

Anyway, the insurance of company that ran the place settled for enough to pay for medical school. That was good, because I didn’t want to risk applying for a student loan.

I looked at myself in a full length mirror; I hadn’t aged a day since the institute burned down 3 years earlier. My breasts were full, my skin tight, my ass smaller that it had been since 1935. I still didn’t menstruate though. Whatever Kim had done, it was still working.

Even though I’d jumped a year, I had another six months of high school to sit through.

Johan was fantastic; I sucked him or fucked him every night. I taught him not to come until I said so, and he stayed hard after he came too. I wanted to get a vacuum penis pump for him, so he could have a big cock one day; he was horrified by the idea. Despite once having told me he wasn’t religious, he said his body was as God made it.

Anyway, maybe he was right, because his small penis did it for me every time. All I had to do was look into his sweet dark eyes, stroke his beautiful black skin, kiss him, and if that cock was throbbing inside my vagina, I would come.

It was difficult to quantify exactly how my brain was working. I figured Johan could keep me at nearly full power if I kept him sexually stimulated as much as possible. Stroking his stiff little cock while he fondled me, naked in bed kissing for a half hour or more worked very well.

He loved me with great intensity, as only a teenager could. In school, we were a couple. His eyes followed me around all the time, and we made out together during breaks. I wanted to get his semen production up, he just liked to make out.

All right, I confess; I liked it too. Why though? Why would I, a 92 year old spy on the run, enjoy making out with a 15 year old African boy? He was 2 years behind me in school, and half a head shorted than I was.

I could tell people were fascinated; I was so white, he so black. They tried not to stare, to pretend we were just like the monoracial couples. In the locker room talking to the girls, I learned that they all assumed I liked Johan because of a big penis. Why else would a tall good looking white senior girl go with a penniless negro junior immigrant?

He was just so nice; his laugh, his bright smile, his crazy optimism, and his ever-stiff little black penis. When he bathed me in his love, my worries were forgotten.

Our guardian tried to keep us from sleeping together.

“Look, it’s going to happen.” I told her, “Just pretend you don’t know.”

“If you get pregnant, I could get in trouble.” She said angrily. I realized she was jealous; the fat old cow had little chance of the sort of passion Johan and I shared.

“Come on, no one expects you to be able to keep teenagers from fucking. You know me by now, I’m smart; I won’t get pregnant.”

I passed $100 over the table. She stared at it in shock. I still had cash, and money in the bank too.

“Every week.” I told her.

That worked wonders; I wished I’d thought of the bribe sooner.

Johan and I worked out where his family had come from, and phoned someone in his home village who reconnected him with his parents. They were in separate detention camps without their phones.

And I helped him learn English. With all the time we spent together, the great sex, and the interdependence, there was no way to prevent the development of that damn emotion I so much wanted to avoid.

A cousin of his father turned up to collect him after a few months. It was harder on him than it was for me. I was glad for it though, he was a good and clever boy. I was sure he’d be ok.

The pain would fade soon enough, and of course I needed a new source of semen; I wasn’t worried about that.

I thought about sucking off the old men in the care home where I worked; I decided it would be too much effort for too little stuff, and got back together with Luke. He was still boring, he was good in bed though.

1942; Europe was burning; the Americans were coming, and we all knew it was just a matter of time. I was weirdly content, I felt like my life had meaning, and even were I to be killed, it didn’t matter now. With the huge resources of the Americans on their side, I was confident that the allies would destroy the Nazis.

Of course if I could still help, that was great too. I didn’t expect it to take as long as it did, and that years of war were still ahead of us.

Our town was a crossroads for military supply convoys, because we had a space for parking and staging, plenty of water, a river port and train track; and there was no resistance activity in the area. Also, officers were always hosted by friendly local families. Very friendly. Mari had organized a dozen households to billet nazi officers and suck them for information. And whatever else was required of course.

Frans and the mayor partnered to build an officer’s club; always stocked with luxuries like real coffee, alcohol, fine food, and willing women. The place was a gold mine for cash and information. There was an airbase 35 kilometers away, and big shots would fly in just to eat a good meal and spend a night relaxing with a hot French girl or two at our club.

During the day, I worked in the SS office; in my black military uniform, I typed and filed records of the occupation as Frans roamed the countryside with his armored unit, looking for people to round up, and things to blow up.

After work, I’d change into civilian clothing, and spend my evenings at the new club, laughing and flirting with the nazi command, recommending the wine and the girls, and listening as the air and land army officers compared notes. SS men spilled their secrets, we had regular visits from a navy admiral even though we were far from the coast.

Our girls were gorgeous; we had our own hairdresser, a dressmaker, and a doctor. I made sure each of them knew how to please our customers in every way. We had older women as well, for the men who preferred experienced lovers. We even had a dwarf, she was a tiny thing and looked like a child. She was terribly popular and would have several customers every night.

The nazis felt safe in our club, and they talked, mostly at the tables over dinner.

While they were doing it with the wives and daughters of the town, they’d spill more than semen. Small things, little tidbits of information that often lead to useful intelligence when collated together. It was Mari doing this work though; I pretended not to notice, while helping out as much as possible. Sometimes there would be a snitch, and the information would come to my desk first. I made sure Mari knew who it was and they’d simply vanish. Mari made sure no one blew anything up in our province. That kept command happy; they seemed to believe the locals there just loved being fucked by foreign occupiers. There was money too; as a collaborating town, we were well taken care of and of course the club itself was a goldmine.

I was the queen of the whorehouse, the epitome of Aryan German womanhood, the provider of French food, wine, and pussy for the fighting men. They laughed at my jokes, told me their secrets, and I only went to bed with Generals and admirals.

At the peak, we had 34 prostitutes, 4 cooks, 6 maids, and a few young men for odd jobs. Money was pouring through, and Frans got quite rich. The whole province thrived actually, since all were considered nazi sympathizers. Local workshops got contracts, the farmers were well paid for their produce.

Letting the powerful old men have their way with me rarely yielded any actual intelligence. It was just to grease the wheels, keep command happy with our little operation.

For me; well, I was used to it. I’d become a prostitute as well I guess, even though I didn’t accept cash for it. The men paid in other ways, making sure we were well supplied and not bothered by gestapo. I got into bed with the nazi generals, I kissed them, sucked their cocks, and let them fuck me. As time passed, it became easier, normal even. I didn’t have to do it like the regular girls, several times a night, I was more like a few times each month. And there were only 20 or 30 different men in total during the 2 years we operated there.

In truth, I liked it. I enjoyed fucking them, fooling them; they were supposed to be so clever, sharp, German supermen. In reality they were just privileged old men who thought they could get away with faking it. Most of them could barely fuck, the older ones couldn’t get erect anymore but wanted everyone to know they’d been in my bed. They licked my vagina though, and I loved to run my fingers through thin white hair or over the livers potted naked scalp of a top commander as their tongue worked to please me. I smiled down in real pleasure, and often came for real as 60, 70, even 80 year old men kissed and licked my 22 year old vagina.

They rarely even asked who I was, what I thought, or questioned why a good looking upper class young German woman would go to bed with them. They were the celebrities of the day, rock stars of the war. They got pussy wherever they went, to them I was just another star-fucker.

Several generals who were still sexually potent made detours to get to the club for a night with me or a threesome with Mari and I. We were great together, we could raise the most tired penis.