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The Bellyrider From Weimar

I. The Baroness

Oder River, June 1945

The Russian officer closed the documents folder with some disgust.

“Baroness von Bulow? I am afraid, madam, that you sin doubly. Not only do you presume to use the old titles but also you are a German.”

“Not only German, sir, Prussian by marriage. I appreciate you using the old style wording,” she said in perfect Russian.

The woman was in her forties. She was haughty. Her cheekbones stood out, evidence of emaciation. The events of the last few months had given her a feral, look.

“What do you mean?”

The woman looked briefly around the room. They were alone except for the colonel’s aide.

“You said ‘madam’, as befits and officer and a gentleman, like someone raised in pre-revolutionary Russia,” she said in French.

The officer, a colonel of the guards, nodded and turned to his aide.

“Captain, please leave us alone for a moment.”

The colonel served himself a glass of vodka but did not offer the woman any. The woman noticed that he was missing one hand.

“Let us be frank…madam. You seek passage to the west, to the American sector.”

“The British will do. I have no liking for the French.”

“As I was saying, you seek this passage for you and a group of refugees that followed you from the area of Posen.”

“Yes, that is right. They belong to my husband’s estate.”

“In other words, they were peasants held as property in the land of a Junker.”

“My husband, before he returned to his regiment, instructed me to prepare the evacuation. He did not believe the assurances that came from the gauletiers that your army would be stopped. He knew the war was lost.”

The officer opened the folder again.

“Ah yes, your husband, a general in the Waffen SS. His division was destroyed at the Vistula. I heard he was captured and shot as a war criminal.”

She paled for a moment. It was the first news she had of her husband’s fate.

“My husband was inducted into the SS after July 20. And he was a convalescent, colonel, he could barely walk. I am sure you understand what that means. He really did not have to return to his division. Yet he did. I had to obey his instructions to the best of my ability. It was the least I could do.”

“You organized the evacuation of your estate. And you managed to make your way through our spearheads.”

“I started with 300 persons, civilians, mostly elderly, women, and children, colonel. Yes, we met your spearheads. The elderly and the children died quickly. I only can show20 survivors now, mostly men. Few women survived the mass rapes. I was fortunate to be one, colonel.”

The officer lit a cigarette and looked at her fixedly through narrowed eyes.

“You are Russian, madam.”

“Yes, colonel, I am Russian, originally from St. Petersburg. I left the Motherland after the Great War.”

“Leningrad,” he corrected her in a soft voice.

“Yes, Leningrad.”

“You are a White Russian exile and you married a Prussian nobleman.”

“It’s a long story colonel.”

“I should have you shot right away…madam…as a traitor and enemy of the people.”

The colonel gave a couple of puffs to his cigarette and took another drink from his glass. He muttered briefly and threw his cigarette on the floor and put it out with his boot. Then he pulled paper and wrote a quick note and stamped it. He pushed it in front of her with his one hand.

“Go on, whoever you really are. This gives you free passage for you and your group to the American lines. Do not stop! I don’t want to see you again, do you understand? Get out before I change my mind!”

*****

II. Marina

Berlin 1923

There were two nude women laid in a mat in a stage engaged in tribadism. The two were trying, somehow unsuccessfully, to perform to the frenzied rhythm of the Black Jazz orchestra playing. There was a desperate urgency in their coupling, as if they were seeking one last orgasm before dying. One was a blond German woman and the other one was a tall, dark woman with a bodysuit tattoo and Eurasian features. Truth is the audience barely paid them any attention. Spectacles like these were common at the “Grand Duke”, a cabaret preferred by the White Russian exile population. In a dark corner that gave a good view of the premises sat Turgenev, the owner. An oily man approached and sat across the table from Turgenev. His bodyguard, the massive ex guardsman Isidor, frowned at the intrusion. Turgenev waved to Isidor and the interloper did not have his throat cut.

“You have five minutes of my time, Popov,” warned Turgenev. “Use them wisely.”

“I found her, the one you asked me to find. She is barely 18, perhaps 19, Mikhail Fedorovich,” explained Popov.

“And she is beautiful I suppose. Have you had her?” asked Turgenev.

“Certainly! She is very stuck up, however.”

“Ah, another grand duchess that gives herself airs and eats from the gutters?”

“More or less, Mikhail Feodorovich. I don’t know if she was noble, though.”

“So? She is probably a daughter of the commercial bourgeoisie that gives her the airs of a lady in waiting to the Tsarina herself! Popov, there are probably fifty true grand duchesses on the alley next to this establishment, some of them quite beautiful creatures. They all ran away from our dear Mother Russia with only their clothes on their backs. And if they are not so hungry as to bite off my dick and eat it they all will willingly give me a blowjob and swallow my semen just for the nourishment. So, what is so special about this girl?”

“Well, for one, she has a large cunt, a pretty deep one. I put my hand inside her and she did not even flinch. Well, only a bit.”

“Go on.”

“She has survived, I grant her that. It was not the first time she fucked in exchange for a piece of bread.”

“You got her cheap, Popov.”

“Alas, I am not a rich man, Mikhail Feodorovich, and times are tough. That was all I could offer her. And she did take it.”

The music had stopped. The main spectacle was about to start.

“You have only one more minute, Popov.”

“She has lovely, long, legs, very strong.”

“Ah, ballerina training! That is good. I am a ballet aficionado myself. Go on.”

“We talked. I was thinking of pimping her. With some nice rags she could fetch a good price in some circles. Anyways, I thought of your establishment. I showed her the sketches Marina had made, you know which ones. She was interested. I queried her. She is willing to try.”

“And you say she has a big cunt?”

“Yes, a pretty good sized one. You would not guess on such a girl. She is mostly legs. Not much in tits. A nice ass, though.”

The two naked women on the stage had now produced a thick steel rod about six feet long and inserted one end into each other’s cunt. They lay on the mat furiously trying to push it deeper into each other clutching it with their cunts and thrusting with their hips. The orchestra had stopped playing. The lights were focused on their nude sweaty bodies. This time they had gotten the attention of the audience which watched the spectacle fascinated, issuing only occasional gasps. The only other sound was that of the two women grunting and cursing as they squirmed frenziedly on the mat.

“Is she healthy?” asked Turgenev somewhat skeptically watching the obscene spectacle.

“I noticed no chancres and no tubercular coughing, Mikhail Feodorovich. She is, of course, mostly bones. She could use some fattening.”

“Well, if Marina survives her bout tonight she could train her.”

“Marina never loses, Mikhail Feodorovich.”

“I always make a point of betting against her. And I tell her I do. It’s a perverse pleasure of mine.”

Suddenly the blond girl screamed. The tall dark tattooed woman apparently had a tighter, stronger, grip on the rod and drove it deeper and mercilessly into her opponent. The German girl was now howling and squirming with pain. The tall dark tattooed woman disengaged from the pole and stood up triumphant. She had driven at least two feet of the pole into the other girl’s gut. Its tip probably nested in her chest, behind her breasts. The audience applauded and cheered.

“Marina has won, again,” announced Popov.

“Well, I lose again,” admitted Turgenev laughing. “Damn! Marina ought to be happy.”

The blond woman had fainted or was dead. There was blood pooling under her. A couple of attendants picked her up still without removing the rod driven inside her and placed her in a tarpaulin. The lights dimmed as she was roughly handled and rolled her into the tarpaulin and hauled away leaving a trail of blood and body fluids. Only her bare feet and the other end of the rod could be seen. Another attendant spread sawdust on the stage to absorb the blood.

“That’s five girls she has impaled this winter,” noted Turgenev. “She is costing me a fortune.”

“You will win one of these days, Mikhail Feodorovich. No one survives for long the impalement contests.”

“Marina has. Her cunt is amazing. She could let herself be impaled if she wanted.”

Meanwhile the tall dark tattooed woman basked in the admiration of the crowd and held a bouquet of roses a fan had provided. She strode through the audience shamelessly displaying her nude tattooed body, letting the crowd caress and poke it. Her cunt was cavernous and the labia were thick and engorged and she could will them to open wide