Bring Out the GIMP (Girls in Merciless Peril)
Stories



SOFT FLESH FOR THE NAZIS' FANGED DOOM

By Esso

The narrator is a woman working for the Resistance as a spy in Gestapo HQ.


They call it "The Tailor's Dummy." It stands deeply imbedded in a block of concrete in a room which is known as "Salon Heinrich." It is a simple device. It is a thick wooden post, no more than eight inches in diameter and rising approximately four feet from the floor. From its top dangle slim cords. It, more than the Swastika or any other item, symbolizes all that was Nazi Germany.

It is no longer fashionable to talk about "Salon Heinrich," "The Tailor's Dummy," or the Prinz Albrechtstrasse Gestapo Headquarters in Berlin. Yet, fashionable or not, pleasant or not, the bloody account of the darkest era in history must be told and retold. Only in telling can there be hope for the future.

I remember the Gestapo and the sights and sounds of 13 Prinz Albrechtstrasse. I was part of them. I also remember the "Tailor's Dummy" well. I have good reason to. I was bound to it by those slim cords. Naked. For torture.

When the moment of betrayal comes, it arrives in a strange and terrible way. One of our informants is Lettie Holzer who has been placed in the Reich Ministry. I recognize her immediately when she is brought into Steickel's office.

Already they have handcuffed her wrists behind her back. Her dress is torn and wrinkled. She is barefooted. Her body shakes as if she had been stricken with the ague. They order her to sit upon a hard backed chair while Manfred Steickel paces up and down before her. He screams at her continually. His questions have no pattern. His technique is to reduce his prisoner to a state of shock.

Lettie says nothing except to proclaim her innocence. Sometimes she glances in my direction. She wets her lips. My own hand trembles. I evade her eyes. There is nothing I can do for her. We both know this is only the beginning of her ordeal. Finally Steickel puts his face only inches from hers. He backhands her across the mouth with such force that she is knocked from the chair. She falls heavily. Her skirt rides up around her hips. Lettie is an outstandingly beautiful girl. Lying in a huddled heap with her long slim legs exposed to where they disappear beneath her scant black panties, she arouses the sadist to a feverish pitch. He pushes the buzzer on his desk.

Two Gestapo men step into his office. "Salon Heinrich!" he orders. His jack boot jams into Lettie's side. She writhes and moans in pain. The Gestapo men grip her by her wrists and ankles, lifting her into the air so she hangs between them as they carry her toward Salon Heinrich. She knows what that means she is to be tortured for information, tortured until she talks.

Steickel turns to me. "Bring your notebook," he orders, "She will have much to say." I can tell Lettie has attracted his full attention. Already Steickel is savoring the things he can do to a young and beautiful woman. I have heard stories of his cruelty, but have never witnessed him at work. I try to keep my composure and not let my imagination picture the tortures he will use on Lettie.

There is nothing for me to do but follow the grisly cortege to the basement. One of the guards lowers a rope from the ceiling and attaches it to the manacles around Lettie's wrists. She is jerked high into the air. Her legs kick out spasmodically. The Gestapo men seize them, strapping them together at the ankles. A heavy weight is attached. Her jackknifed body strains downward. The moans bubble wetly from her lips.

Steickel picks up a studded whip. The lash whistles through the air. It swirls across her shoulders and arms. She heaves against the ropes. New agony is added to her straining muscles. The lash whistles again and again. The dress she wears hangs in tatters. Her skin is pink against the blackness of her bra and panties. Great streaks of blood appear on her skin. The clothing is literally being cut from her by the whip.

Lettie screams uncontrollably. The overhead rope twists with her fearful struggles. She is totally naked now, stripped bare by the whip. Steickel giggles. He orders the guards from the room. I move to follow them. His eyes rivet themselves to my flesh. He tells me to stay.

I feel the cyanide vial pressing against my own breast. It is the only hope to end her suffering. I listen to the sickening crack of the whip against Lettie's nudity. Her screams fill the torture chamber. I hear Steickel's curses and threats. Lettie raises her head and stares at me, her tear filled eyes pleading for help. There is nothing I can do.

Steickel pauses in the lashing. He walks around and around the suspended girl. He touches her, her buttocks, her breasts. He runs his hand down her abdomen to her pubic hair, then between her legs. I can't suppress a moan, which he is too engrossed to hear. Lettie's torture is going to get worse.

He begins the lashing of her front with her thighs, then her hips. He moves up her body slowly, waiting minutes between blows, letting his victim fully savor the pain, giving her time to anticipate the next. Her belly. Her breasts. With each lash Lettie shrieks like a crazed animal.

Steickel pulls her head up by her hair. He shouts a question at her. She moans and shakes her head no. It is the bravest thing I have ever seen. Despite her all consuming anguish she refuses to talk. I think Steickel is glad. He can continue torturing the naked beauty..

The lash falls across Lettie's nipples. I am close to fainting. The agony in her screams stabs through me like a knife. I almost scream with her. But if I did I would soon be hanging naked beside her.

My opportunity comes when a Gestapo man enters the dungeon and gives Steickel a message. Steickel says he will return in a moment. I am to stay where I am. Then, as he passes me, " I will break her shortly. Next we spread her legs and whip her cunt." He laughs and I am alone with Lettie.

I know what I have to do. My fingers are like ice as I reach inside my bra. For a moment I hesitate. If I am discovered because of my actions, I know Steickel will torture me without mercy. And I will not have the cyanide to escape my pain. Still, I cannot let this brave girl suffer any more.

I grip Lettie's jaw, raising her head a few inches. She sees the shining glass in my palm. Somehow she manages a smile. Her blood covered lips open. She bites down hard. The glass splinters. Her body tenses. Then it hangs limply from the rope.

Perhaps even then I realize I have sealed my own doom. I think perhaps Lettie's last smile will be all I will have to sustain me through my own ordeal of torture. But it is too late to do anything about it.

I hear Steickel's boots. He brushes past me. He slaps Lettie across the face. Her head lolls to the side. He lifts her head. Her glazed eyes stare vacantly back at him. Blood gushes from her tongue where the shards of glass have lacerated it.

Steickel whirls. His pupils are the merest pinpoints as they bore into me. "What happened?" he demands.

"A seizure? I don't know. Who can tell?"

He examines the tongue again. His gross mind filters the details. With a roar he is upon me. His weight crushes me to the floor. He squats above me, his face red and blotched. "When a prisoner dies easily in Salon Heinrich, that prisoner has been helped. You were alone with her!" he rasps. "Why her? Why this one in particular?"

I know there is no use in denying my participation. I twist, trying to dislodge the suffocating burden which pins me to the cement. "The prisoner was a woman," I try, "I had a momentary lapse. I allowed my emotions to come through."

His fingers tighten around my throat. "You expect me to believe that? You take me for if you think I will swallow that line."

Suddenly he is very calm. His strangle hold relaxes. His voice is scarcely audible. "There is a room here, one which you have never seen. It is for very special cases. You are going there now. You will be introduced to the Tailor's Dummy. It will teach you what interfering with Reich Security means.

He grips me by my blouse, jerking me to my feet. The buttons are pulled loose. He wrenches at my bra, dragging me out to the corridor. Now he is behind me, propelling me through a long corridor where locked steel doors muffle the noises which come from within. I can barely breathe from fear. I am going to be tortured.

Steickel twists my arm behind me. The tendons screech in protest. Nausea rips at my stomach. We pause before one of the steel doors. He slams me against it. The metal is cold against my sweating body. He shouts at the guard to unlock it.

At first the room seems no more terrifying than the other cells. It is completely bare except for a thick round stake which has been anchored to the floor.

Steickel's fiendish hands work at my blouse and skirt. I am helpless to fend off the savagery of his attack. His fists slam into my belly, grinding me to the floor. I kneel before him fighting to catch my breath. My senses are dulled. My knees scrape on the rough cement as he drags me to the stake. My arms are jerked upward. My back presses against the wood. I sense the searing pain of splinters digging into my flesh. He has the guard hold my arms with the wrists crossed while he lashes them tightly together. The thin leather cords dig into my flesh.

Steickel taunts me with obscenities. He seems to be waiting for something. He dawdles with my clothing, slowly removing what remains of my blouse and skirt. He feasts his eyes on my half-naked helplessness. He slowly removes my bra, fondling my breasts as he does. Tentatively he touches my panties, then seems to think better of stripping me completely. Why? I think. I have no answer and that scares me.

The ache begins in my knees and the front of my thighs. I have been bound so that my knees are an inch above the floor. The ache quickly becomes pain. I shift my position. By pressing my buttocks against the pole and moving my legs back I can relieve most of the pressure by getting most of my weight on my knee. He watches my pitiful maneuvers and laughs. A few minutes later even this slight comfort is denied me. Another girl is brought into the room. When she sees me bound to the pole, naked but for my brief panties, she starts a desperate struggle against the guards. They hold her tightly while Steickel denudes her down to her panties. She too is made to kneel before the pole so we are back to back. Her arms are tied by the leather thongs. Then her ankles are bound to mine. If either of us moves it puts an intolerable strain on the other. The half naked woman sobs and pleads. Steickel mocks her entreaties. He is busy examining the carrying case which has been handed to him by one of the Gestapo men.

"The prisoners will grow well accustomed to the embrace of the Tailor's Dummy," Manfred Steickel smirks. The other man, conscious that he is in the presence of a superior officer, remains silent.

Steickel turns to us. He studies our hopeless struggles against our lashings. "Here you will reckon with the full power of the Reich," he assures us. "Here you will remain until hell itself claims you. Here you will be kept alive and able to withstand more until every treacherous secret has been ripped from you. For you there will be no end to the pain. It will go on night and day forever." There can be no doubt, our torture is to begin now.

As if to punctuate his words, the hideous squealing begins behind him. I hear the thumping of small bodies against the sides of the carrying case. There is the scurrying sound of feet, many feet.

Then the case is opened and they move towards us in a tight circle. They are big and gray and their fangs are needle sharp. One of them clamps his jaws into Steickel's boot. The Nazi kicks out at the rodent. Its broken body slams against the wall. The others leap upon it. In a matter of seconds they rip and tear the fur and flesh from its still quivering skeleton.

The are far from sated. Their eyes glare at us. They form a tight semicircle before us. They move cautiously, slowly going on the attack. Steickel's ugliness fades away. I can see nothing but the ravenous rats. Suddenly the cell is plunged into complete darkness. My helpless companion shrieks in horror.

Stiff fur brushes against my knee. Involuntarily I jerk my leg. The other girl screams. The diabolical cruelty with which we have been bound becomes a part of our torture. Her almost naked body is pressed against the stake, pushing me up from my knees so my full weight hangs from the thin leather thongs that bind my wrists. She screams again. I feel my own leg jerked backward. The first rat has tasted her flesh.

There is a stinging burning sensation in my foot. A rat has sunk its teeth into my toe. I try to yank my foot free. I can only move it an inch or two, bound as it is to my companion. She screams again. Whether it is from the flailing of my leg or another rat bite, I don't know.

The smell of blood is in the air. The rats set up a fearful screeching. Their sound surrounds us completely. One of them crawls up my thigh. Its sharp claws rip the material of my panties. It crawls even higher, finally coming to rest on my shoulder. I shrink back from its stinking fur. I cannot see it, even though it is scant inches from my eyes. The instinct for self preservation is stronger than I realized.

Fighting back the nausea, I twist my head. My teeth clamp down on the soft, foul smelling body. The rat squeals and squirms in my grip. I feel it spine snap under the force of my jaws. I spit out the dead body. The other rats leap upon their fallen comrade.

My victory is brief. The other woman is pulling furiously at her bonds as the rats attack her, screaming for help. Every time she moves, it wrenches at the sinews of my tormented body. I feel the fangs of a rat sink into the sole of my bare foot. I am in agony. I become aware of sobs and whimpers. They are mine.

The rats move to the smell of blood. They are at my feet, fighting each other to get at me. The ones that can't get to my toes climb up my thighs, swarming over my crotch and belly. Their claws tear at my flesh through my panties drawing blood. I feel a muzzle against my belly, then the sharp pain as it sinks its teeth into me, tearing away fabric with my flesh.

I feel their frenzy. They are chewing at my mons through my panties. I am helpless. Streicker has left my final denuding to the rats. Their claws dig into my crotch looking for purchase as they feast. I feel the nasty feet on my labia, actually inside my vagina. I scream. I hear the other woman shriek "Oh my God! My pussy! My sex!" and I know she is suffering my worst fears.

Two rats scale my nude body, one up my side to sink its fangs in my armpit, the other bites into my breast. I completely lose control when I feel a furry head poke into my vagina. I hurl myself against my fetters, insensible to the pain of our bondage, to my partners screams and struggles, to anything but the assault of the rats.

But even in my panic I manage to fight with the only weapon I have my teeth. Twice more I break the backs of my assailants when they come to close to my face. Even while I am shrieking in pain and horror I know that Steickel will never break me, he will never hear me beg, he will never hear me promise. He tries. Believe me, he uses every device with which he has stocked his chambers. I remain bound to the tailor's dummy night and day. Other women come, are tied to the stake, go mad, die. Some nights I am left alone. They stick a needle in my arm to nourish and hydrate me intravenously. They want to be sure I don't die on them.

Three days later I am untied from the Tailor's Dummy and dragged into an adjoining chamber. I weep with relief. I think one more day bound to that post and I would have lost my mind. Minutes later I am lifted onto a heavy wooden table. I feel my arms and legs pulled out and my wrists and ankles strapped down, spread-eagling me tightly to the table. I do not fight them, I do not struggle. I don't have the strength, but even more than that, I am so thankful to be free of the Tailor's Dummy that my brain has not worked out yet that my torture is not over, that the rats are to be replaced by hot needles and pliers.

The nails are slowly torn from my toes, then my fingers. Steickel tears them out himself. He doesn't bother with the charade of interrogation. There are no questions. Between removing each of my toenails and fingernails, he waits for my screams to die down, then leans over and taunts me. He tells me how he could fuck me if he wanted to but would rather torture me, how much more beautiful my naked body is when it is writhing in pain. He tells me how he loves to hear my agonized shrieks and watch me struggle to pull my limbs free of the straps. As an interlude he whips my breasts and belly with a riding crop, before using a red-hot iron on my navel and armpits. Finally he tortures my beautiful breasts with hot needles, a dozen in each. I know because he counts them as he pierces my flesh. My nipples and areolas get special attention, and the last long needle is pressed through the center of my right nipple. My back arches off the table and my body vibrates with pain. I pass out, and am revived so he can repeat the operation on my other nipple.

How many times I faint during this torture session I have no idea. I also have no idea of how long it lasts, whether it is measured in hours or days. I barely feel myself lifted off the table and dragged to another room. I am squeezed into a little cage, not big enough to stand up or lie down in. I am kept there, squatting like a dog in a kennel. Alternately my naked body is allowed to freeze and then the heat is turned on until I must suffocate with it.

But the closest I come to breaking and begging for mercy is when I am dragged from my dog cage and brought to the room that started my ordeal the room where I helped Lettie die.

The first day he cuffs my hands behind my back and marches me into the room. A guard attaches the rope from a hoist to my manacles and I am lifted into the air. My shoulders are in agony and I cannot stifle the moans of pain. My ankles are strapped together and the weight attached. My body is jackknifed just as Lettie's had been before he started whipping her. The only difference is I am already naked.

Steickel stares at me stroking his whip and I wait for the lashing to begin. Then he pulls his chair and sits a few feet in front of me, content for the moment to simply watch me suffer the agony of strappado. Then without a word he turns and leaves me alone.

I hang like that for hours. It feels like hot pokers are being shoved into my shoulders. Finally he returns and has me lowered and dragged to my cage, my arms still shackled behind my back, my ankles still strapped together. I squat there naked and freezing, unable to still the sobs that rack my body.

The next day I am brought back to the room, hoisted and the weight again hung from my ankles. But this time he does not merely stare at me but uses the lash on my nudity with all the viciousness he can muster. The whip bites into my back, my buttocks, my thighs. Even my calves. He pauses for minutes between each lash, waiting for my body to stop swinging from the force of the last blow and for my screams to die down to pitiful whimpers.

He stops after an hour and has me dragged back to my tiny cubicle to weep there hopelessly, knowing he intends to do this to me everyday until my flesh has been torn from my naked body and my will broken like old crockery.

The next day is a repetition of the second, except he lets the lash kiss my belly and breasts and well as my back. I scream almost continuously. When I am brought back the fourth day he undoes the straps that have bound my ankles continuously since my ordeal began. He personally ties my ankles to rings set in the floor, spreading my thighs wide. He brings the whip up between my legs but with no force so it slaps gently against my sex. The whipping then proceeds as the day before except every so often he eases the lash between my straining legs, taunting me with the promise of what is to come. I want to beg for mercy but I am able to resist, only because I know it will please him and do no good. Finally, he steps behind me and swings the lash with all of his strength between my thighs. It cleaves the lips of my vagina and tears at my clitoris, the tip biting into my pubis. The pain and horror are so intense I cannot scream. It is the last lashing of the session.

Once again I am dragged to my cage and left to contemplate what awaits me at my next torture session. I spend the night shuddering, not only from the cold but from fear. I know I will not be able to bear another lashing.


She is taken from her prison from a German soldier who knows the war is lost, in return for her promise to tell the British he did not take part in the torture of prisoners. When they reach the British she double crosses him and tells them he was one of the bad guys.




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