1. The Wolves of Berlin


    Date: 9/17/2015, Categories: Dark Fantasy, Coercion, Consensual Sex, Cruelty, Death, Exhibitionism, First Time, Horror, Lesbian, Monster, Murder, Oral Sex, Reluctance, Teen, Author: BlackRonin, Rating: 0, Source: sexstories.com

    to the Gestapo. I saved your life. So please: Let me go." Riquet didn’t plead. He merely asked. After a moment the policeman nodded. "Wait!" he said when Riquet had turned around. He took out a handkerchief and wiped the priest's bloody hands. "There. Now go." Riquet went. When he sat down to pray that night, he found the words wouldn’t come. He'd grown used to war, over the years, and he no longer feared for his own life. But tonight, for the first time, he feared for his soul. Tomorrow would be worse: he’d have to ask for help from the one person he'd hoped never to call on. It would be a dreadful burden to put on one so young. But those were the times they lived in: The old, the good, and the wise were all gone. Those who were left had to fight on as best they all could. *** June 2: 1,441 days under occupation. At first Bethanie thought it was a policeman at the door, which would have been bad enough. Then she realized that the uniform was not that of the Paris police but instead of the Militia and she almost grabbed the gun out of her laundry basket and shot him right there on the doorstep. Instead she swallowed her rage and said, as politely as she could, "Good morning. How can I help you?" "Official business. Let me in." She held the door open. The steamy air of the laundry poured out, only a little hotter than the morning outside. The Militia man removed his cap. He was young, full-cheeked, and mustached. His uniform did not fit him very well. The Militia: Vichy's ...
    answer to the Gestapo. The sight of a Frenchman wearing a traitor's uniform made Bethanie sick. And they even had the nerve to call themselves the “Free Guard." Pigs. She set the laundry basket on a counter and commenced sorting its contents. She knew precisely where the gun was, so that she never had to give herself away by looking at it. The Militia man peered around the workroom. "There are so few people here," he said. "All our men were sent off to work in the German factories." "Happy volunteers in our labor exchange program," the Militia man said. "Now we few girls must work twice as hard to replace the missing men. But at least the Germans all have freshly laundered clothes." She allowed just the right measure of scorn in her tone. As always, she was playing a part: a downtrodden but beaten young woman, someone who resented the status quo but would rebel no more openly than an icy barb or a muttered aside. It was fine if the Germans and the traitors thought her a malcontent as long as they didn’t also think her a saboteur and a spy. The Militia man said his name was Kerman. He did not bother to give rank or any other identification. He sat on an overturned basket and took a notepad and pencil from his breast pocket. "And you are?" he said. Automatically, Bethanie gave the fake name on her forged ID. Kerman looked at his notepad. "Claire Chevalier? That's strange. It says here that your name is Bethanie Chastel. You're 18 years old, born in Nantess, and your parents were ...
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