From Blushes 8
From her vantage-point high up in the theatre, 16-year-old Margit Hoffman had a birds-eye view of the stage, a brilliant splash of light in the darkness in which the dancers, almost like puppets, moved as if in a dream. Swan Lake. It was one of her favourite ballets. When she was younger Margit had wanted to be a ballet dancer but now instead she was a Reich Girl and any girl would tell you that was better than anything. Even though once you were a Reich Girl there were some things you had to do, or accept, that were not very enjoyable. Things that other people, even your own family, could not be told about. In that category would probably be included Herr Blomberg’s hand which at this moment, as Margit stood looking over the edge of that exclusive box high in the theatre, was up the back of her skirt. Although of course a hand up your skirt was not desperately bad in itself. And at present the hand was only on Margit’s bottom, stroking and gently squeezing through her tight brief silk knickers.
With two other Reich Girls Margit had come to the theatre tonight to sell programmes for the weekend rally. Smiling sweetly in their smart uniform of white blouse and black skirt and tie, and as long as a gentleman bought one of the quite expensive souvenir programmes keep smiling and do not object if he also reached out to give you a little pinch. Those were the instructions, although naturally if the pinch was in too intimate a place you could object or at least say ‘Please don’t do that’.
But fortunately nasty pinches were rare from members of the audience who treated the Reich Girls with something approaching veneration. That was not always the case with the important citizens and party officials whom Reich Girls frequently had to entertain. And with them you were told by your instructors to do exactly as they wished, except only that you must not allow that one final thing, for a Reich Girl was supposed to remain a virgin. You must do as they wished because important men were under serious strain in the service of the Fatherland and a girl must accordingly do whatever she could to relieve that strain. That was why you had to allow Herr Blomberg to put his hand up your skirt and fondle your bottom if that was what he wanted.
Herr Blomberg had invited Margit to come to his box and see the performance when she had finished selling the programmes. The other two girls had also got invitations from other gentlemen and naturally they had all been thrilled that they would see the ballet. Herr Blomberg was clearly some kind of very important citizen in order to have this very exclusive box high up in the theatre. He was not old, perhaps 45, but a little fat in his white evening tie and tails. His wife was a stunning blonde, somewhat younger and tall as her husband, in a lovely pale blue silk gown. Also in the box were their two friends, Herr Meyer and his wife. Frau Meyer had very large breasts in a low-cut white gown.
Margit had been introduced to them all: Herr Blomberg was called Heinrich and his wife Ursula, and the Meyers were Felix and Mitzi. She was then told by Herr Blomberg that she could stand next to his chair. The front of the box was a convenient height for Margit to rest her arms on and she had looked down excitedly. And then almost at once Herr Blomberg’s hand had come up the back of her skirt.
Margit had on black high-heeled shoes and black silk stockings, which the Reich Girls frequently wore in the evening as opposed to the white knee-socks normally worn at day-time functions. Herr Blomberg’s hand had gone up to the tops of the silk stockings and then onto the bare upper thighs. He spent a little time stroking the backs of Margit’s thighs and also with his hand round the outside of her leg exploring the fastener of her suspender strap. Then the hand had gone up to Margit’s bottom, squeezing and groping the taut cheeks and also pushing his fingers in the cleft as far as her knickers would allow.
Margit certainly didn’t like all this but she knew she had to allow it. She only hoped it wouldn’t get any worse but then Herr Blomberg did start pushing his fingers in between her legs, which was the thing she hadn’t wanted. Fortunately, though, soon after he started this the interval came. An undoubted relief.
They all went down to the bar taking Margit with them. They were all quite friendly to her, including of course Herr Blomberg, and Margit was also introduced to some other people because when you were a Reich Girl lots of people wanted to talk to you. Margit could see there was also quite a lot of interest, especially from gentlemen, in the two ladies she was with, the tall and striking Ursula Blomberg and the darkly attractive Mitzi Meyer whose quite enormous breasts looked as if they might slip out of her low-cut gown at any moment. It was all very exciting with all these glittering people in the crowded bar and for the moment Margit quite forgot the problems she had been having with Herr Blomberg. Then as everyone milled around, all seeming to be talking at the same time, she suddenly found herself face to face with Herr Blomberg and separated from the others in their party. Smiling, he pushed his rather flabby face close to hers.
‘Liebe Fraulein: please go now to the ladies room and take your knickers off.’
Margit opened her mouth but no words came out. She blinked big blue eyes.
‘Did you hear me, liebchen?’ Herr Blomberg’s mouth was smiling but not his eyes.
‘Yes, Herr Blomberg. But…’
‘No but, mein liebe. I want you without your knickers when we’re back in the box. So go now and do it.’
The hand that wasn’t holding his drink gave her arm a sharp pinch. Margit felt her face flushing. She hesitated, then turned and began to push her way through the crowd of people. In the ladies she took off her knickers as she knew she had no choice. If she refused or made a scene she would be reported and would then be in disgrace with the Reich Girls hierarchy. So Margit took them off and screwed the knickers into a ball in her hand and when she got back to the box slipped them into the pocket of her jacket. The others returned. Herr Blomberg, with a friendly arm round Margit’s waist, indicated that she was to stand close to his side as before.
When the curtain went up Herr Blomberg’s hand went up too. Up the backs of Margit’s thighs to her now bare bottom. She gritted her teeth as the fingers crawled like spiders on her quivering flesh. Over the silky surface of the bottom-cheeks; inquisitively probing the cleft; and then delving in underneath. Margit gazed down at the stage but all her attention was concentrated on what was happening under her short skirt. The hand pushing at the inner slopes of her thighs made it clear that she was to part her legs. Feeling slightly sick she did so. Feet now about eight inches apart. That seemed to satisfy the hand. Margit stifled a gasp as it at once started to do what she had known it inevitably would.
Quite a few girls Margit knew said they liked having it done, but Margit Hoffman definitely did not. It was something that men did like to do, though, and she had feared from the beginning that this was what Herr Blomberg would finish up doing. And the trouble was that although Margit didn’t like it being done she knew that nonetheless after he had been doing it for a certain time she would start responding. An automatic response as her body inevitably became aroused by the busy fingers. And then Margit knew she would have trouble standing still, her hips and bottom would start writhing. And although it was dark in the box it wasn’t completely dark, especially once your eyes got used to it. And there on the other side of Herr Blomberg, within touching distance, was the striking Ursula Blomberg. What was she going to think, or do, if Margit started twitching about in a rather unmistakeable fashion?
Inevitably Margit did get aroused. She felt herself get all wet and sticky and then her hips moving against the hand between her legs. She tried to keep still but she couldn’t. She felt herself sweating. Frau Blomberg showed no sign of noticing, but that didn’t mean anything. Herr Blomberg kept on doing it throughout the whole of the act. Margit’s eyes remained on the stage but she saw virtually nothing.
At last the curtain descended. Everyone applauded including Herr Blomberg, who at the last moment had removed his hand. They all stood up with the evident intention of heading for the bar. In a hoarse whisper Herr Blomberg asked ‘Did you come, Fraulein?’ Margit whispered Yes, although she hadn’t. Men always liked to think they had made you come. They had all turned to the exit. Except for Frau Blomberg who was sitting down again.
‘I think I shall stay here,’ she said. ‘You others all go and have a drink. But our pretty Reich Girl can stay and keep me company.’
The others went off, Herr Blomberg possibly looking a bit doubtful. Margit was left alone with the beautiful Ursula Blomberg, and not feeling at all happy about it. Eyes as blue as Margit’s glittered. ‘Come here, Fraulein; come close. You are not afraid of me, I hope?’
The correct answer to that was Yes but Margit said ‘No, Frau Blomberg,’ and moved closer. ‘Now, a nice little chat,’ breathed the older woman. ‘I want to hear all about the Reich Girls.’ As she spoke her hand took a firm grip of the back of Margit’s knee.
The unhappy 16-year-old stood transfixed, dumb, while the hand moved up the backs of her legs, just like Herr Blomberg’s hand had done. ‘Come on, girl!’ spat out Ursula Blomberg, ‘Speak! Tell me all about your exciting adventures.’
Suddenly her hand had slid right up — and was on Margit’s bare bottom. Margit made a despairing gulping sound and then gave a yelp as fingers delivered a vicious pinch to the full flesh of one bottom-cheek. ‘Perhaps, Margit, you can start by telling me why you do not need to wear knickers when you go out in the evening.’
There was clearly no answer. ‘Face me!’ ordered Frau Blomberg. Margit turned. The hand under her skirt came round the front. Feminine fingers cupped her softly-fleeced pubic mound. And then slid in where Margit was still stickily wet. Gasping, Margit looked desperately away, praying for the return of the others. The hand delved deeper. Frau Blomberg’s voice when she spoke was suddenly soft and seductive. In a way even more frightening.
‘So we have a hot young Reich Girl, do we, Fraulein? And now we know why she was squirming her hot little bottom about so much. Much more interesting, I am sure, than watching the ballet.’
Margit started to try to say something, although she wasn’t quite sure what, but then the others reappeared. Frau Blomberg gave her husband a dazzling smile. ‘Ah Heinrich: Fraulein Margit and I have had such an interesting talk. And I think that as she is such an interesting young lady we must take her home with us after the performance. I am sure you will agree to that?’
At least Ursula Blomberg’s hand had come down out of Margit’s skirt. She started to protest that she was expected back but was cut short. Someone would be sent to tell her parents. Herr Blomberg looked perhaps a little startled at this development — he had intended to make a secret assignation with the pretty Reich Girl — but he smiled at his wife and said it was an excellent idea. The lights went out, the curtain went up. Margit was told by Ursula to stay where she was. She did — and shortly it was Ursula Blomberg’s hand back up her skirt.
Again there was no chance of concentrating on what was happening down there on the stage, for Frau Blomberg’s hand began to do very much what her husband’s had done. And again there was nothing Margit could do but let it happen. She had never had a woman do it before and in a way it was worse — although she soon had the same problem of trying to keep her hips and bottom from squirming and writhing. It seemed that the performance — and what was happening under her skirt — would never end.
When it did end there was a chauffeur-driven limousine to take them all, the Meyers as well, to a large palatial house on the edge of the city. In the Blomberg’s splendid drawing room everyone was noisily bright and merry, the two ladies dazzling in their beautiful dresses and jewellery. Margit tried to be bright and cheerful as well but it was not easy. Her knickers were still in her pocket and, more than that, she sensed that the glittering Ursula Blomberg had something unpleasant in store for her.
And sure enough Frau Blomberg shortly got to her feet to say, ‘Please excuse me but I must take our lovely Reich Girl for a moment. I have something for her.’
Outside Ursula Blomberg said simply, ‘Komm, Fraulein.’ She strode off along the plushly-carpeted hall to lead eventually into a kitchen, a big room with a large scrubbed table in the centre. Frau Blomberg closed the door and turned to Margit. ‘So, Fraulein, are you still without the knickers?’
Margit nodded. Frau Blomberg had gone straightaway to the cupboard. ‘Good. Because I shall want your knickers off.’ When she turned she had in her hand a thick three-foot-long cane. Margit’s heart missed a beat, and then another as the older woman sliced it through the air.
‘I need the knickers off, Fraulein, because I am going to warm that hot bottom for you. I think perhaps my husband would like another session with the hot Reich Girl but first of all I shall make her even hotter. Perhaps, liebchen, hotter than she’s ever been before! So please get over the table.’
‘No!’ gasped Margit. ‘Please, I didn’t…’
‘Good Reich Girls do not say no, Fraulein, surely!’ hissed Ursula, at the same time aiming a low horizontal slash with the heavy cane. It caught Margit a breath-stopping cut across both stockinged calves. She folded up, gasping, hugging the devastating pain in her legs, as Frau Blomberg went to the door. She called out, and an oldish man, a servant, appeared.
‘Broecker: hold this girl while I cane her. Hold her across the table.’
The man’s eyes lit up. ‘Of course, Frau Blomberg!’ Margit was dragged face-down over the table, the man standing at the other side and holding her out-stretched arms by the wrists. Her skirt was yanked up to expose the trim bottom and thighs, starkly white against the black of stockings and suspender belt. Frau Blomberg’s voice, harsh and gloating: ‘So, mein liebe, we will see what the Reich Girl can take. We will see how hot she likes it!’
And then the thick cane slashed squarely down across Margit’s taut buttocks. She let out an animal-like cry. It was the worst stroke of the cane she had ever had.
She thought she was going to die; she wanted to die. The pain was unbearable. The old man held her wrists in a vice-like grip keeping her stretched out over the table and the cane just kept coming down, on Margit’s bottom and upper thighs, each stroke fully as bad as that first mind-boggling cut. There was nothing she could do. Her bottom and legs jerked convulsively each time the cane landed and there was a wild shriek each time as well, but none of that helped. She felt she was going to faint.
Maybe she did faint. Margit didn’t know. The caning had now stopped and she wasn’t across the table anymore — she was lying in a heap on the floor. She was sobbing. And someone was now lifting her to her feet. A man. Margit stumbled against him because she couldn’t stand. It was. Herr Blomberg. She gave a sudden yelp as his hand slid onto her bare tortured bottom.
Blinking her eyes Margit saw she was still in the kitchen, but Frau Blomberg and the servant had left. It was just her and Herr Blomberg. He had both arms round her, with that one hand at her searing bottom, and he was saying sympathetic things. He was sorry about the caning; it had been a misunderstanding; and was she feeling all right? Margit was feeling dreadful. Could she please go home, she asked in a stuttery voice.
Herr Blomberg said, ‘Yes, shortly.’ He was leading her over to the sofa that was against the wall. His face was red and he was clearly excited. He sat down, taking Margit with him. Then he unfastened his trousers. He was obviously very excited. Breathless, he told her what he wanted her to do. Margit felt faint again. She had done it before and hated it, but right now she would do anything to leave and get back home. So she did what was wanted. Herr Blomberg stroked her blonde head and made greedily appreciative noises.
She felt pretty awful by the time it was over but at least she could now presumably leave this place and go home. Frau Blomberg had got what she wanted and so had her husband. Herr Blomberg, all buttoned up again, went out. Margit was left alone but after barely two minutes the door opened again. It was Frau Meyer, the lady with the impressive front. She locked the door behind her and then, smiling, big breasts swaying, came to sit with Margit on the sofa.
Herr Blomberg was seeing about the car, she said, he wouldn’t be long. She had heard about the caning Margit had had. All a mistake or something. She put her arm round the blonde girl and made sympathetic sounds, rather like Herr Blomberg had done. But at least Frau Meyer wasn’t after something, Margit thought. She suddenly realised she was crying again.
Suddenly also Frau Meyer was kissing her; kissing Margit’s wet eyes and her mouth. Between the kisses she was saying things. That everything was the fault of men and women would be better off without them. To a certain extent that was true for everything this evening had been Herr Blomberg’s fault.
Frau Meyer seemed to be getting very excited, like Herr Blomberg had. Her face was now flushed and those big breasts were heaving. She told Margit she was a very very lovely girl and they must be friends, just the two of them. Margit must come round to see her. Tomorrow? Then Frau Meyer reached back and did something to her dress. The top slid down and there were those enormous breasts, nude, jutting firmly out. The dark nipples were equally large and sticking out like big fat cherries.It was clear now that, just like Herr Blomberg, Frau Meyer did want something. She pulled Margit’s face towards the quivering breasts. Her voice was hoarse. ‘Kiss me, liebe Margit. Suck them. I love to have them sucked really hard.’