Two Songs For Emily


WARNING – Post contains fictional references to Rape and War Crimes during WWII 


She always assumed that when the time came a cigarette would be offered and a blindfold applied.  Instead she was dragged by her hair from the barn that served as her interrogator’s workshop; only one brown stocking remained, torn, puddled and stained around her ankle. Both shoes long cast into a cobwebbed corner of the barn. Her hair was matted, and her remaining clothes ripped and soiled.  She had been tied to a chair for almost two sunrises, today being her last.  When they finally cut her free, the pain of the blood rushing back to into her hands masked the feelings of the horrors they had inflicted upon her so far. She had not realised to the depths a human being will go once accountability has been given a free pass.  To have survived the last terrifying 48 hours would only have haunted her in later life. Death was a welcome relief, as sad as it sounds.

The tormentors wanted information but did not know what specifically. There was fishing, throwing their net wide in questioning, hoping for a bigger fish to be caught amongst all the small fry she slowly gave them. Each small false secret that spilled from her trembling lip landed on the floor so full of surprise it made the men dance and clap their hands. The first day was just a round of slapping, screaming and spittle fired questions.  Their techniques were crude and obviously used on men to some success, however, she was a woman and they were not prepared for her. Her crying and attempts to make a connection with one of the men started to pay dividends. He gave her water and when it spilled, he attempted to dry her chin. She was in! A glimpse of human empathy behind the uniform.  Eventually by nightfall on that first day she was left alone. Bruised, cold and deep in thought of not how she got here, but the days before. Those thoughts would see her through this, give her strength that she could survive; they had to if there was any chance of escape.

She was awoken by the sound of a vehicle arriving. Doors opening and closing, muffled conversations and finally the whistling. She froze, and as the sound of Lilli Marleen got closer she lost control of her bladder.


“There are two songs we will use for code. ‘Seule ce soir’ is for danger and Lili Marlene for okay.” Alain had drilled that into her brain.

She knew both songs well. Her instruction was to wait for Alain to enter the bar whistling either tune. If it was danger, she should stay and order a second drink. If okay, she was to leave with him and move to the next phase of the mission.  So far everything seemed straight forward, that was until, unbeknown to her, strong-handsome Alain was turned in by a collaborator.


Entering the barn sauntered a Gestapo officer, whistling the same tune that he had on his lips the night of her arrest.


He had walked into the dimly lit bar hoping to catch the eye of anyone who looked uncomfortable with his little tune. He ordered a drink, didn’t pay, and lent back on the bar to observe to clutch of scared little birds perched on chairs. When his eyes fell upon her, she had smiled, probably too quickly. He didn’t smile back.  She held his gaze for a moment and then just as she was about the lower her eyes, he started whistling that tune. She stared at her glass for safety and as the shrill tune became louder her grip on the glass grew stronger.

He sat down opposite her. She could smell his uniform and a distant odour of his cologne. Still he whistled. She took a deep breath and slowly looked up.  He stared right though her. She felt her stomach turn to water. Still he whistled. Time stood still and the air in the bar grew heavy. No one moved and no one spoke.  She had a sudden thought that someone might shoot this very scary man in the back so that she could run and be at home in the safety of her parent’s garden.

He stopped. “I am sure we are both equally tired of this tune?”

She nodded.

“It is okay my little bird, I know all about you. Alain and I had a long talk earlier.”

She noticed him finger his cuff and saw what most likely was dried blood.

“Come, let’s leave this place and take our conversation elsewhere.”

He was so polite it made want to throw up. She looked over his shoulder and towards the stairs.

“I wouldn’t bother. I would have to shoot you in the base of the spine. I’m told it’s very painful.”  He took her arm and drew her to her feet.  Her knees buckled but his strong grip kept her balanced.


By the time the tears arrived she was already strapped over the vaulting horse in an old school gymnasium.  Chairs has been arranged in circle around where she was positioned and over the course of an hour, more black uniforms arrived.  Drinks were being served and conversation flowed without even recognition that her knickers were round her ankles and her dress pulled high and tucked into the waist belt.  The cheeks of her bum and her soft mound were visible.

“Gentlemen! Gentlemen! Please take your seats……………..Thank you, thank you.  Tonight, I have a treat in store.  We have with us an English rose for your entertainment, or should I say an English spy!

The room rippled with laughter.

“This young lady has information I am sure, however, that is secondary to the aim of this evening.  I proud to present her to you in all her upper-class glory for your pleasure. So without further delay, may I have the first proud soldier to step up?”

She knew what was coming, there was at least 20 men in the room all eager to prove themselves. What she didn’t expect was the perversion.  How could men do that women?  Her cheeks were alighted from spanking even before the first cock entered her. Two men spanked a single cheek until it burned like fire. The heat was overpowering and when she felt the cold fat stomach push against her, it was almost relief. His cock was short and barely penetrated her; he banged into her with his great weight until finally coming on her legs. The second man was long and thin which hammered against her uterus. After a time of having cocks in her now sore and cum filled hole, attention went to her arse hole, and then her mouth. It was incessant, and for hours they kept it up.

It was strange really, but she didn’t care. This event was far more pleasant than the torture described in training. She almost cried when the instructor gave a vivid account of what to expect if captured.  Now, however, she was numb to her surroundings.  She had tried to imagine it was the sexy Marine Commandos that swam in the remote Loch nearby the SOE training school where she was billeted. It was pointless though; these were not young innocent men, they were murderous rapists, and therefore accepting her fate over torture allowed her to fade out.  It was only when she felt both her holes being filled did, she panic.  Her struggles only made the men cheer more loudly, and when finally they were done, they left.  She looked down at the ground and watched the snot and tears drip on to the floor. Cold cum seeped from her and ran down her legs and between her toes. She was spent, and despite being hardly able to breath, she fell asleep.

Having been roughly awoken and untied she was made to crawl to the big doors in the wall. Her knickers balled in one hand and the other used for balance she made it to the exit.  A truck waited with its engine running, blue exhaust fumes catching the light like poisonous rays of sunshine. They threw her in, and the engine sprung to life.  Within an hour she was tied to a chair in a barn.


And so, two days later the whistling demon arrived. He walked over to her and bent down to look in her eyes.

“Let me let you in to a little secret Emily. I have known since before we met in the bar that you know nothing of any importance.  You have been, how you say, ‘a war time distraction.’  But now the war for you is over.”


He turned and walked away, given a brief instruction to her guards.  She was dragged by her hair from the barn that served as her interrogator’s workshop; only one brown stocking remained, torn, puddled and stained around her ankle. Both shoes long cast into a cobwebbed corner of the barn. Her hair was matted and her remaining clothes ripped and soiled.

Kneeling in the dirt she tried to compose herself before death took her, but before the first thoughts came to her, she was dead.  Ravens in a nearby tree rose into the air as if shook from their roost making the Gestapo officer turn before getting into his car.  He smiled at the crumpled body lying in the courtyard.  Someone would miss her, far away from here, and yet he didn’t care. It was 1942 and no one was ever going to be in a position to make him accountable for his actions, especially the stupid British; he always liked the thought of an appartment in Mayfair……



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  1. One of those stories that makes you feel really uncomfortable for finding something oddly arousing in it. It is a discomfort that i enjoy and a sign of excellent writing


  2. Pingback: ELust #122 (contains my story and image) – Lascivious Lucy

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