Feature Writer: Athalia /
Feature Title: Deliver Us From Evil /
Copyright: © 2010 by Athalia /
Story Codes: MF, FF, Fb, NC, Rape, Mutilation, Snuff /
Synopsis: Evil mistress tortures and kills /

Deliver Us From Evil

The old nun sat in the library’s sitting room, watching some young priests in heated debate. Outside, the bells of the Vatican pealed with the announcement that three o’clock had arrived. No duties for them for another hour; they could continue their conversation for a while. She was over seventy, and she doubted if any of the priests had even reached half that age.

They were from all over Europe, so they conversed in a common language that none of them spoke as a native. That language was not Latin, but English. They all knew a bit of Latin, of course, but were far better trained in the latter tongue, and felt more comfortable with it. Another sign of the times, the old nun reflected sourly. Another sign that the world had changed, and not necessarily for the better.

“You don’t need to postulate a Devil to define evil,” the young Frenchman was saying. “Modern psychology doesn’t need devils. It can explain mental states through chemistry, and from a person’s history. If you want to help a member of your congregation, that’s where to start, not by sprinkling Holy Water over him!”

“But what about the hard-core criminal?” Replied the young German. “What about somebody who sins because he doesn’t know right from wrong? How do you cure that?”

“Well, you don’t cure him by casting devils from him. That went out with the Middle Ages. Science can treat him better than theology.”

“I don’t know. I sometimes believe that there are people who are naturally evil, who can’t be saved.”

“But have you ever actually met one? I’ve worked in the prisons for years, talked with hundreds of felons, and I’ve never seen anybody like that!”

“I have,” said the older nun. She spoke with a Slavic accent.

The others looked at her; they hadn’t even realized that she’d been listening to their conversation.

“What was that, Sister?”

“I have seen Evil incarnate.”

“When did you do that?”

“During the War.”

“Well, of course!” Chuckled the German. “It’s always ‘during the War’ with you old people! Don’t misunderstand me,” he added quickly, as if in apology. “I know it was hard on you and all … the horror of war and all that … but don’t you think your own perception was skewed by that?”

“No, I don’t,” the old nun replied stubbornly. “I am quite sure that I saw what might have been the Devil incarnate.”

The Frenchman smiled. “So what did he look like?”

“Not he. She. It was a woman.”

Another young priest, a Dane, spoke up. “That’s just the sort of misogyny that the Church doesn’t need more of!” he exploded.

“It was definitely in the shape of a woman. There was no doubt of that.”

“But women have been branded as servants of the Devil for centuries! Surely we are beyond that now. Go on, Henri. You were saying about prisons…”

“Nevertheless, I saw what I saw.” And with that, the nun looked away, as if to signal that she no longer wished to continue the conversation.

The young Frenchman sighed. She didn’t understand, he thought. She was too much of the Old Church, still wrapped in medieval ways of thinking, looking for angels and demons everywhere. Better to leave her be. Their old way will die out eventually, leaving a cleaner, more rational religion — a new Catholicism for the twenty-first century that had just begun.

The old nun sighed. They didn’t understand, they would never understand. They hadn’t seen what he’d seen. They pray the words “Deliver us from evil” but what do they know of evil? They had grown up in a world of security and charity, in the protective cocoon of civilization, and they could never understand a world where those things counted for nothing. He held her peace as the young ministers resumed their debate, and her mind drifted to a place she did not willingly go, not often. Back, back, over the years and miles, to a room in a basement where she had seen the Devil revealed…

xxxxx

The room is dark and hot, and smells of beer and sweat and cigarettes. It is a basement somewhere in Munich, but it could be anywhere in wartime Nazi Germany, any basement where the rules of civilization no longer apply.

The room is equally divided between males and females. The only thing they have in common was that they are all naked. The men are all tall, blue-eyed, fair-haired, and well-muscled. They are high-ranking members of the military and the SS. They are the elite of Master Race, and they know it. The men have been picked specifically for their heartlessness and sadism and cruelty, for they are responsible for disciplining the slaves in their charge. They lie on couches, smoking and chatting as they look at the stage where the spectacle would take place. Their penises are long and hard.

The females who accompany them are all young girls, slaves in training, with bare vulvas and small breasts just beginning to bulge from their chests. They are a variety of colors and races — mostly Jews, Gypsies, Russians, and Poles, with a few Arabs and Negroes thrown into the mix. They are the Slave Races, and everything in their environment reminds them of that fact. Each girl has had rings inserted into her labia, to which a brass chain is attached; the other end of the chain is fastened to the dog collar each one wears. Each girl has a blue tattoo on her arm, the number indicating which of the men she belongs to. She had been tattooed on the first day of her servitude, the same day her cunt lips had been pierced by the rings.

Each girl’s job tonight is to keep her master comfortable, whatever that takes. If he is thirsty, she will bring him drink. If he wishes to be fellated, she will suck him until he spurts his seed into her mouth. If he wants to beat her, she will accept the slaps and blows quietly, wherever the blows land. If he wants to rape her, or to offer her to any of the other men for that purpose, she will present her pussy or ass to that man and accept the cock without complaint.

Above all, she is to obey him as a dog would obey its master. To drive the point home, her master would often grab the chain as he gives her instructions, pulling on her cunt lips to remind her of her vulnerability. She never speaks unless she is spoken to. Most of the girls cannot speak German, so they are taught a limited German vocabulary and use those words only. If they were caught speaking with each other, they would be whipped savagely on their nipples until they bled; only one or two of these sessions are usually necessary to teach them discipline.

The only well-lit part of the room is the stage along one wall, an elevated platform with a sort of scaffold erected on it: two upright poles, seven feet high and about four feet apart, with a cross-beam at the top. At the base of the poles, and at the ends of the cross-beam, are iron rings, through each of which a rope has been passed. A small table stands nearby, with various objects on it … two whips, a dagger, and what looked like a piece of metal pipe with a harness of leather straps at one end. Covering the floor of the stage is a thick straw mat.

The men are talking idly with each other as they lie on their couches, their erections kept hard by their slave girls. The men have been instructed not to climax, and they are expected to obey that order as faithfully their slaves obeyed theirs. So they are content to let the girls keep them hard as they wait and smoke and talk.

As the clock strikes midnight, an older man comes in with a woman on his arm. Both are nude. The man, known only as the “Kommandant,” is the superior officer of the other men. His body looks like a weightlifter’s, all bunches of muscles without a gram of fat, and glistens with oil. His head is shaved, and heavy-lidded eyes regard the assembly with quiet authority. His erect penis, abnormally long and thick and straight, juts up toward the ceiling from a curly thatch of graying hair at his crotch; his low-hanging balls swing as he walks.

The woman he is with is similarly oiled. She is obviously no slave; she bears no tattoo, no labial rings, no collar, no air of submissiveness. She has curly blonde hair, startlingly green eyes, and a dancer’s body, with long firm legs. The slight sag in her breasts show her to be perhaps in her late thirties, but the breasts still project proudly, with dark brown nipples that stand out perhaps an inch from their aureola, as if she had recently been nursing.

Her crotch glistens with oil, her inner lips protrude, framed by neatly trimmed blonde hair on each side of her slit. She wears no jewelry at all. Her lipstick is a garish red. With one hand she strokes her sex, while the other hand fondles the Kommandant’s erection as he begins to speak.

“Gentlemen, I want to thank you for coming. We have a special show for you tonight. One of my slaves was caught trying to escape. As you know, that is a capital offense. We will carry out the penalty here, tonight.

“I wish now to introduce Hilda. She will help us carry out the execution. Please make sure your slaves are watching the procedure, as we wish to impress upon them the consequences of disobedience.”

The men suddenly pay more attention. They have heard of this woman, although they have never seen her before. The stories have been unbelievable, her cruelty legendary. Stories of bloody castrations, of lit dynamite sticks being thrust up cunts, of slow dismemberments, of crucifixions. They regard her with new interest, scarcely believing that this small trim woman could have indeed inspired those macabre stories. Tonight, they will find that all the tales might indeed be true, and that one more story will be added to the lore.

“Guards, bring forth the prisoner!”

Two men step from the shadows. They are both completely dressed in SS uniforms; their black boots gleam in the light. Between them is a young woman, blindfolded and dressed only in her underwear. She is weeping. Her full bosom strains the cream-colored brassiere as she breathes heavily in fear. Her panties are torn, but still conceal her mound from view. Her auburn hair is roughly clipped short, almost as short as a man’s. Her hands are tied behind her and her legs are hobbled by leg-irons.

The two men drag the girl to the stage and place her under the scaffold. They face her toward the audience and untie her hands, and then bind each wrist with one of the ropes that had been threaded through the rings on the cross-bar. Then they pull on the ropes, lifting her up by her arms until her feet leave the ground. She had not expected that, and she screams from the sudden pain in her shoulders. As she screams, the men tie the ropes off to cleats in the upright poles.

Hilda slaps the girl’s ass.

“Shut your mouth, bitch!” She snarls. “If you scream, you will just make matters worse!”

The girl quiets down. Her compliance tells the audience that she does not yet realize her fate, the ordeal she is about to undergo. The guards proceed to remove her leg-irons and tether each of her legs to one of the remaining ropes. They pull the ropes tight, pulling her legs apart. Then they untie the arm ropes from their cleats and lower the girl until her feet again touch the floor, and re-tie the ropes to the cleats.

The girl is now splayed out in an X between the uprights, her legs spread and her arms raised. The Kommandant dismisses the two soldiers, who leave the room to stand guard outside the door. Then he removes the blindfold from the girl’s eyes. She blinks at the light as the room slowly slips into focus … the couches, the naked men, the young naked girls staring at her, the Kommandant with his huge penis, the blonde woman with the green eyes and the red mouth, with something in her hand…

It is a whip. Hilda unlimbers it and begins to use it on the girl. Her target is the girl’s panties. As the whip bites into each side of the garment, it shreds a little bit of the cotton, until only the waistband and front panel are left. Of course, the whip bites flesh, too, and the wounds begin to bleed as the men applaud. As the last bit of the waistband breaks, the panties fall to the floor revealing a bare, crudely shaved cunt. Each of her outer labia has a recent scar covering torn flesh, as if a labial ring had been cruelly ripped away from it.

The men notice with approval that Hilda is stroking her own cunt with her free hand as she applies the whip to the girl’s crotch, re-opening the wounds. The girl begins screaming again, now in panic more than pain, as she realizes that she is doomed, that no amount of docility can help her any longer. But in the deep basement there is nobody to hear the screams but her torturers, their audience, and the frightened slave girls. Each man’s heartbeat quickens, each cock twitches in time to the heartbeat. The slave girls’ ministrations are no longer necessary, but they are told to stay there and give stimulation when asked to, and to continue watching Hilda’s performance.

Next comes the brassiere. Hilda’s expert whip-strokes sever the brassiere’s shoulder straps, then the fabric ribbon between the breasts. As it breaks, the garment falls and the breasts themselves tumble free, full and plump, with pink nipples on pale areolae the size of beer coasters. The white skin shines in the glare of the lights. Hilda drops the whip and begins slapping the girl’s breasts with both hands, setting each one swinging as the girl moans and writhes in agony.

The girl suddenly loses control over her bladder, and her piss streams from her crotch onto the floor mat. adding to her humiliation. The Kommandant observes this with a smile, and licks his lips. Hilda continues to pummel the girl’s breasts, snarling like an animal as she strikes, her own tits swinging, her nipples hardening. She puts the full force of her body into the blows. The skin on the girl’s breasts breaks, the blood trickles down her torso to join what was oozing from the cunt wounds.

Hilda grabs each nipple and pulls the bleeding breasts up with them, making them stretch and jiggle as she shakes them. Facings her audience, she says, “Look at these udders! Do you think they’d be good for drinking from? I want to taste her milk!” Hilda takes the girl’s right breast into both hands, lifting it, squeezing it. She takes a nipple from the bleeding breast into her mouth, and sucks hard.

And then she bites. The girl gasps, then shrieks in pain. Hilda has bitten clear through the nipple, severing it from the breast. She spits the nipple onto the floor. “Oh, that tastes so good! I wonder if the other one tastes as good!” As the blood wells from the wounded breast, Hilda bites off the other nipple. This one she chews up and swallows, to the amazement of the audience. Then she laps up the blood welling from the wounds. The men in the room are shocked into silence — they cannot believe their eyes. Their cocks are hard as steel, their breathing shallow and ragged. The young slave girls try to cover their eyes at the sight of the wretched victim, but their masters slap the hands away.

(Only the Kommandant is unsurprised. He had seen her do this before, and not only with nipples. Once, he had strangled a teen-age male slave for her pleasure. The Kommandant remembered how his hands had closed on the boy’s windpipe as his huge cock thrust into the boy’s asshole and he pumped his seed into the boy’s bowels.

While he climaxed, Hilda sucked the boy’s penis to hardness as he gasped for breath. Just as the boy ejaculated his own semen into her mouth, she bit off the cap of his penis, delighting in the sudden spurt of blood into her mouth. She continued to drink the blood as fast as it pumped from the mangled organ. As the boy died, and his bladder released its load of piss, she drank that up, too. It was then that the Kommandant began to wonder if she was truly human.)

At this point, Hilda collapses on the floor, slides under the tethered girl, and grabs the dropped whip. Thrusting the wooden handle into her crotch, she plunges it in and out of her cunt as she fingers her clitoris to a noisy orgasm. The men hoot and clap and the tethered girl stares at them dumbly, blood streaming from her torn breasts and trickling down her belly into the fold of her snatch before dripping onto the breasts of the blonde she-devil underneath her.

As Hilda writhes in ecstasy on the floor, the Kommandant comes up behind the tethered girl with an IV bag. He sticks the needle into a vein in her lower leg and tapes the tube in place. The IV solution, heavily laced with electrolytes, will serve two purposes. First, it will keep her from being dehydrated from loss of blood and sweat. Second, it gives him a convenient means to inject the girl with stimulants to keep her from passing out, and with anti-coagulants to keep the blood flowing. Both purposes will be necessary for the second stage of her torture. He hangs the IV bag on the rope cleat and walks over to the table.

Hilda gets up from the floor, breathing heavily. She no longer seems like a human being. Drops of blood bead on the oil of her breasts, and her green eyes blaze with passion. Her engorged clitoris juts from her cunt lips like a tiny penis. She is the very personification of sexual fury and cruelty. She pinches and pulls on her nipples as she watches the Kommandant slip what looks like a foot-long iron sleeve over his own erect penis, tying the device to his crotch with a harness that girdles his hips.

He kneels in front of the prisoner and thrusts three thick fingers into her cunt as he nuzzled her clit. She whimpers. Then he stands, removes his hand from her crotch and stares into her eyes.

Whispering, “Please, please…” over and over again, the girl looks for pity in his stare but sees only lust and domination.

With both his hands on her hips, he maneuvers the device under her crotch and, with a vicious upward thrust, impales her on his metal-covered erection. She gasps suddenly, her eyes widen with a new pain, and she screams and screams.

For the sleeve has a sharpened point at its end, and six razor-sharp knife-edges welded to its sides. As he thrusts, the six blades slice into her vagina while the point pierces her cervix and stabs into her womb. He withdraws, then thrusts again. Again, and again. The girl writhes in agony, dancing on her ropes like a marionette, as he penetrates her with powerful lunges.

The knife-edges cut into the silken flesh of her vagina, leaving long horrible lacerations inside her that bleed copiously. The girl strives to raise herself away from the pain, but the ropes on her legs tighten and she struggles in vain. Finally he stops his thrusts and withdraws the terrible dildo from her crotch. The blood gushes from her ruined vagina, running down her legs to soak into the straw mat on the floor. His balls dripping blood onto the mat, he takes off the bloody appliance, revealing his still hard penis, and busies himself with injecting various substances into the IV tube.

Then it is Hilda’s turn again. She picks up another item from the table. It is a three-edged dagger, triangular in cross-section. She draws the sharp point across the top of the girl’s left breast, leaving a bright trail of crimson as it cuts into the tit-flesh. Then she plunges the dagger viciously into the breast, through the raw wound where the nipple once was. Putting her mouth to the breast, she greedily drinks the blood as it gushes from the wound.

She repeats the operation with the girl’s right breast, leaving the blood from the left breast to stream down the girl’s belly and leg. Hilda releases the right breast from her blood-soaked mouth and gave the girl a hug, rubbing their bodies together in what, under more ordinary circumstances, might look like a passionate lover’s embrace. But Hilda only wants to smear her own breasts, belly and crotch with the girl’s flowing blood. She kisses the girl fiercely, smearing the girl’s blood and her own lipstick onto the girl’s lips.

Hilda then releases the girl from her embrace and faces the audience, her own torso red and gleaming, her mouth and face smeared with blood. “Now it’s your turn, gentlemen. Fuck the bitch well! Shoot your sperm into her worthless cunt, and take a drink from those boobs! The bitch is a gift from your Fatherland! Use her! Show no pity to this slave!”

Each man comes forward, and impales the bleeding girl with his own erection. There is no friction; her cunt is slippery from the flowing blood. He thrusts into her, again and again, lifting her off the ground with each thrust as she moans. He climaxes within seconds of entering her, so great is his need after the hours of stimulation.

After he ejaculates, he sucks some blood from the girl’s breasts, which Hilda has kept flowing by inserting the dagger into the breast again and again, opening a new wound each time. Hilda, her green eyes wide and shining, encourages each man to add his own personal touch to the torture … a bite on the neck, a slap to the face, a punch to the stomach. The man then returns to his seat, where the blood and sperm are licked off his cock, balls, chest and mouth by his slave.

The Kommandant has been busy switching out the IV bags to keep her hydrated, and applying enough stimulants to keep her awake, but by this time she is almost beyond stimulation. She can no longer scream, she can only regard each of her rapists groggily as he fucks the wreckage of her cunt and sucks her blood from her breasts. She is sliding into shock, despite the massive amounts of stimulants being pumped into her. Hilda notices this and, after the last man (who is the Kommandant himself) empties his balls into the victim, steps up to deliver the coup de grace.

She has another whip in her hand, this one a flagellum with wicked hooked balls at the end of leather thongs. She begins whipping the victim slowly and almost lovingly. First, she aims for the clitoral hood at the top of the girl’s slit, ripping the hood and clitoris away piece by piece. The girl’s suspended body jerks with each blow of the whip. Then Hilda shifts her aim upward, flogging every square inch of the girl’s torso but paying special attention to her breasts and belly. Gradually she picks up the pace, her strokes becoming more savage.

The beating lasts almost an hour. During that time, each man in the audience gets hard again at the sight of the nude hellion dancing the heat of her lust. He dreams of throwing her to the floor and fucking her, plunging his hard dick into her wet cunt, grasping and twisting the breasts that are in constant motion as she swings the whip. But he knows that he must settle for the fantasy, since Hilda is reputed to be immune to ordinary sexual lust. If this woman copulates (so the stories go), it is to kill, like the mantis that bites her mate’s head off as they couple. Instead, the man commands his slave to either suck him to another climax or let him slide his cock into her ass or her young cunt, while never permitting her eyes to drift from the tortured girl on the stage.

The sweat is pouring off Hilda’s naked body as she dances and swings the whip and sings in a high-pitched keening of lust and ecstasy. As the balls bite into the flesh, they tear it off, until the girl’s front is a mass of flayed flesh. One can see places where a pink rib is showing through where a breast had been, where entrails can be seen once skin and muscle have been ripped away.

The air is filled with the fine mist of the girl’s flesh and blood, and the straw mat is drenched with the girl’s blood and sweat and piss. Hilda is so transported by sadistic lust that she pisses as well, and the men see a pale amber stream spray from her crotch onto the victim’s legs as she swings the whip. Toward the end of that hour, Hilda notices to her disappointment that the wounds no longer bleed, that the body sags listlessly by the ropes. The girl’s heart has stopped. She is dead.

Hilda is trembling as she puts down the whip. She is breathing heavily, her chest heaving and her breasts flushed with sexual arousal. There is no doubt that she has climaxed again. Her profuse sweat has already washed most of the victim’s blood from her skin, leaving red streaks down her sides and her thighs. The once-blonde cunt hair is now rust-colored with drying blood and gore.

The red lipstick is smeared, the green eyes seem glazed and un-focused. All the men in the room stand up and clap thunderously at the performance, and she acknowledges their applause with a smile and a little curtsy. Then she gives the tethered girl’s body a last long hug and a lingering kiss on the mouth, slipping her fingers into the patch of drying gore between the corpse’s legs and fondling the wreckage of its cunt in a travesty of a lover’s caress. When she tires of this, she turns, her breasts and belly once more smeared with gore, and addresses the children. Her voice is shaky and slurred, as if she’d been drinking.

“Now you know what happens to you when you don’t obey your Masters! Remember what you saw today, and always behave!”

She then picks up the severed nipple from the floor and sticks it on the end of the dagger, like a piece of meat on a skewer. She calls each slave to come forward and press it to her mouth and kiss it.

“Kiss your sister goodbye, dear,” she murmurs. “She was so good, so buxom, so sweet, her screams were like music, weren’t they? Her blood like wine … Oh, you’re such a pretty little girl! What I could do to you, how I could make you sing…

None of the girls understands German well enough to know the exact words Hilda is saying as she presses the severed pap into mouth after mouth, but it doesn’t matter. They get the message perfectly. When that ritual is finished, Hilda removes the nipple from the dagger’s point and, returning to the stage, shoves it up the dead girl’s cunt.

As the men file out with their slaves, Hilda kisses each of them in turn. “Listen,” she says to the men. “If your girl seemed to be aroused by what she saw, let me know. I may buy her from you. Twice, three times what you paid! I’m always looking for that sort of girl.” The Kommandant overhears, and even that cruel man cannot suppress a shudder. What purpose would the girl serve to the woman? A victim? Or, God forbid, an apprentice? One Hilda is more than enough…

xxxxx

The old nun became aware of the clock chiming four. It was time for Mass, and the young people broke off their argument and trooped out of the room to their respective offices.

She got up slowly and scratched at her arm, at the faded blue tattoo that remained after more than half a century. The memories continued to flood her mind — the day when the Allied tanks rolled into the compound and found it deserted except for the starving young girls. She recalled the kind faces of the US Army doctors who fed her, healed her wounds, and removed the tokens of her servitude (leaving only the holes in her labia, pale scars of which she bore to this day).

She dimly remembered telling one of them about the green-eyed torturer and asking who she was, and being told later that there was no record of anybody named Hilda, or indeed any woman, ever visiting the camp that awful night. Of course, if her visit was secret, then the records would not show it, but such secrecy would have to have been ordered from the highest levels of the military, perhaps even the Fuehrer’s office itself…

Going down the stairs, she entered the chapel and sat in one of the long pews in the back, and began to pray. She did not pray in Latin, for this prayer was not part of the liturgy, but instead a private one. She prayed in Polish, her native tongue. She prayed to thank God, as she had thanked God daily for the last sixty years, for her deliverance from Evil.

THE END