BDSM Library - Casablanca, An Alternate Version

Casablanca, An Alternate Version

Part 1

It had been some months since the woman known to the other members of the Villa as Yvette Delaune had engaged in an adventure at the Villa di Dolore. And once again during those months of absence the need to live out at least a small part of her wonderfully developed fantasy life grew strong in her. Regrettably she lived more than four hundred miles from the Villa, so the opportunities to engage in such activities were limited. On the other hand, since her visits were so few they were very special and she felt no guilt about arranging for, as she thought of it, the full treatment. It was for her a special treat like an occasional visit to a fancy spa would be to her friends, none of whom had the faintest clue as to what she was up to.

As usual, she floated the usual cover story to parents, softball team and the friend who was dropping by to feed and pet the cat. She was flying out for one of her occasional visits to an old college friend. She kept it low key, not making a big deal out of it and fortunately no one ever wondered why the friend never came to visit or asked for details of her trips.

Yvette took Friday off from work and caught a flight timed to arrive at dusk. It helped the transition from reality to fantasy to make the final leg of the journey in darkness. A driver from the Villa was dutifully present at the gate holding a sign neatly lettered "Ms. Delaune". Though they knew each other by sight, from previous visits, he greeted her with the expected phrase and she made the correct response. It was a procedure followed religiously to prevent the slightest possibility of someone else named Delaune being collected by accident and causing an embarrassing situation.

The driver led her to baggage claim where he gathered her single bag, then to the car to begin the two hour drive to the country. At the Villa she checked into a single room and settled in for a solitary evening, a common and recommended procedure for those embarking on a scene that requires putting one's mind in a different era. She ordered a simple French bistro style dinner with a good wine to be sent up and settled back to read one of her favorite espionage novels.

Yvette had a slightly different take on such books, and movies as well, than most of her friends. Where the average person wondered how the heroine was going to escape from the threat of death or torture, Yvette wondered what would happen if she didn't escape. In the movie "The English Patient" she picked up on a minor character, one many might have forgotten about a minute after her two brief appearances. David Caravaggio's girlfriend, the one the Germans forced to identify him. She'd obviously been tortured, forced to cooperate, to betray her boyfriend. Long after the movie was over Yvette wondered just what they'd done to her. She formed some fairly elaborate late night, under the covers fantasies with herself in the starring role of Caravaggio's girlfriend in the hands of the cruel Germans. It was quite stimulating imagining herself helpless at the hands of the brutal German interrogators. What would they do to make her talk, she wondered.

The seeds of her new adventure had been planted one night when she played a video of "Casablanca" for the umpteenth time. She was particularly fond of tales of World War II and the French Resistance and anything related to it. As she watched the movie she couldn't help wondering what would have happened if the Gestapo had hauled in Ilsa, Ingrid Bergman's character, and tried to force her to tell them what Victor Laslo was up to. It seemed quite obvious to her. Here's this woman traveling with a known Resistance worker. Not only that, she was known to have consorted with that disreputable American, Rick Blaine. If Rick wasn't a prime suspect for being an enemy agent, who was? It was inconceivable that it wouldn't occur to the Gestapo to bring her in and try to make her talk.

So she had called the Planners at the Villa, explained the premise of her fantasy and made arrangements for a visit. The Planners were very familiar with Yvette's particular requirements. Plans were quickly finalized.

The early morning was spent with a very light breakfast, then the necessary preparations. She showered and shaved, legs, underarms, her pubic area. Then she dressed in the clothing the prop department had provided, silk panties, bra, stockings with garter belt, a light cotton sun dress that buttoned all the way down the front. A light, wide brimmed hat suitable for touring the Moroccan city of Casablanca. A stylish leather handbag and sensible shoes completed the outfit. All very '40's in style. Then she waited. There came a light knock on the door. The Handler announced himself. She rose and let him in.

"Ready?" the Handler asked.

Yvette nodded. The Handler gently strapped a leather collar around her neck and attached a short leash. He led her from the apartment, down several hallways and then down the central stairway to the main lobby. There he stopped her.

A handful of other guests and staff, seeing a scene about to start, paused to unobtrusively watch.

"Your scene is about to begin," The Handler whispered in her ear. "Do you wish to continue?"

She nodded assent.

"Very well," the Handler continued. "Remember your safe word, and the secret the Gestapo wish to wring out of you, is the phrase 'Play it again, Sam'. Repeat it after me, please."

"Play it again, Sam," Yvette said, suppressing a smile and a giggle.

"Very good. Now, from this moment you are not Yvette, you are Ilsa. You are in Morocco, controlled by the Vichy government of France. But the Gestapo is here, too, and they really call the shots. The French are merely puppets. And the Gestapo have come to arrest you. They are about to put you in their car and drive you to their headquarters where you will be interrogated."

Yvette heard footsteps on the marble floor of the lobby as the Handler removed the collar. She turned to see two men approaching. One was large and rather burly looking, in German uniform, the dreaded black uniform of the SS. The other man was smaller, dressed in the khaki uniform and kepi of the French colonial police. He had a dapper little mustache. They stepped smartly, almost as if marching. The one in the French uniform stopped directly in front of her, the German off to one side.

"Pardon, mademoiselle," the French officer said. "But our German colleagues would like to have a word with you at their offices. Please come along with us."

The German cleared his throat, ostentatiously. The Frenchman gave his best Gallic shrug.

"But of course, we must search you before we depart."

The German rudely grabbed Ilsa's purse. He rummaged around in it. He brought out a small pistol, a Mauser Hsc. He held it up for the Frenchman to see.

"But of course you have a permit for this?" he asked, apologetically. "Casablanca is a dangerous city these days." That was directed at the German, who responded with a frown.

Ilsa shook her head in the negative. She wasn't certain what the prop people had put in her purse, but she was fairly certain a pistol permit was not in there. A small crowd had begun to assemble, members and guests of the Villa and a few employees, watching the scene develop.

The German handed the pistol and handbag to the Frenchman and nodded him out of the way. The he took position in front of Ilsa.

His strong hands gripped her arms and raised them to shoulder level. Then he quickly frisked her, spending a little more time than necessary around her chest and her inner thighs. Then her arms were lowered and her wrists gathered together behind her and handcuffs snapped onto them. There was a brief pause while he stepped back in front of her. He grasped the lapels of her dress and pulled. In a series of sharp jerks the buttons holding her dress closed were ripped off and the dress fell open, revealing her under things to the world. The German's fingers worked their way into the cups of her bra, then pulled the cups down. Yvette's breasts were small, nearly perfect little hemispheres, what once were referred to as champagne breasts in the days when champagne was served in wide, shallow glasses. The elastic of the bra, pushing up from beneath, made them stand out more than they normally would have.

The German then stepped to one side of her while the Frenchman moved to the other. A strong hand grasped each of her upper arms and she was walked, thus partially exposed, out the front door of the Villa and down the stone steps.

At the foot of the steps a black vintage Renault waited. The French officer opened the door to the back seat and slid in place. The German then helped Ilsa in before sliding in beside her and closing the door. As the vehicle started to move the German picked up a black cloth sack and slipped it over Ilsa's head.

Deprived of sight, Ilsa could only guess at where they were taking her. She felt the car accelerate, turn, decelerate several times. There were a number of long stretches with no apparent turns. She wondered if they'd left the grounds of the Villa and she was being paraded, breasts exposed, through the neighboring countryside. She felt the car slow again, felt the turning forces as it made a right hand turn.

She heard the car wheels grinding their way over a gravel drive, felt the vehicle slow to a stop. The door to her right opened. She felt slightly cooler air flow over her exposed skin.

Then she was being pulled from the car and helped to her feet. The strong hands maintained a firm grip on her right arm as they paused. Then a hand grasped her left arm and she was being walked forward.

"Careful of the steps," a voice said quietly. She felt tentatively with her feet, finding each step. Then they were walking her briskly again. The change in tone of their footsteps told her they had entered a building, walking on carpet. Hushed comments, other footsteps told her they were passing other people. No doubt they were looking at her, leering at her as she was paraded half naked past them.

They made several turns. Then they made a sharp right turn and suddenly she was halted. Her escorts stopped so suddenly she almost pitched forwards.

Then the hands were released. She heard footsteps retreating, a door closing. She was left standing, the hood over her head, wrists manacled behind her back. Her ears strained to hear sounds, hints of where she might be, and if she was alone. Several times she thought she heard something, the rustle of clothing, the scuff of a shoe against linoleum. But she couldn't be sure.

Then she heard footsteps behind her. She hadn't heard the door again, so someone must have been in the room with her. The hood was whisked away. She blinked at the light and looked around her. She was in a fairly nondescript office. The furniture, she noted, was all wood, wood desks and filing cabinets, as they might have been in the '40's. And she was not alone.

The two men who had brought her were gone. In their place was an older, slightly paunchy, slightly graying man in a '40's style civilian suit. Standing off to one side was a thin, tall, older, very severe looking woman in a simple black skirt and jacket that might have been some sort of uniform. A younger man, early twenties she guessed, in the black uniform of the SS, stood well off to the other side. He was blonde and quite handsome, Ilsa thought.

Well, Ilsa," the older man said, with just the slightest trace of a German accent. "It's so nice to finally meet you. I've heard so much about you. From our agents and informers of course. Now, why don't we make this easy on everyone and you tell us everything you know about what Victor Laslo is up to. And while you're about it, you can also tell us about your friend Rick Blaine and his little friends in that laughable excuse for an American spy network."

He waited, an expectant look on his face. Ilsa tried to imagine what kind of expression a defiant Ingrid Bergman would put on and tried to duplicate it.

"No?" the man asked. He brought one hand up under his chin, bringing the other arm across his body to support the elbow. He looked at Ilsa, pensively, then made a small motion to the others.

Immediately the younger man stepped behind Ilsa and grabbed her upper arms. The woman knelt down to one side, to make it hard for Ilsa to kick at her Ilsa realized, and first removed Ilsa's shoes, then her stockings. The sun dress was slid back down Ilsa's arms as far as the handcuffs allowed. The bra was unhooked and pulled up over her head so it, too could be slid back to join the dress. One side of the handcuffs was unlocked, the man and woman working together to keep control of both Ilsa's arms as the dress and bra were slipped off that arm. The handcuff was snapped back in place before the procedure was repeated with the other arm.

Garter belt and panties came next and Ilsa was standing completely naked but for the handcuffs. But there was more humiliation coming. The woman forced her to open her mouth so she could check it for hidden things, microfilm or cyanide capsules. Her ears and nose were given an uncomfortably close inspection, her hair combed out. The search moved downward. Underarms inspected, legs spread. She was bent over forwards for a body cavity search, which disgusted her even more than she expected it would.

At last she was standing upright again before the older man, who'd been watching the proceedings with barely concealed amusement.

"One more time I will ask," he said quietly. "Will you cooperate and spare us the necessity of making your life a misery?"

Ilsa remained silent and tried to look defiant, which was difficult after having had gloved fingers intruding into her most private places.

"Very well," the man said, coming very close to her face. "You realize, Ilsa, we have ways of making you talk."

Ilsa almost cracked up at the cliche, but managed with some difficulty to keep a straight face. The man was a good actor. He showed no trace of humor, but stared her straight in the eye. He stood there for nearly a minute. Ilsa found it very unnerving. Then he stepped back and turned to his assistants.

"Very well. Take her to the meditation room, where she may ponder her decision," the man said.

"Yavowl, Mein Herr," the severe looking woman said, clicking her heels. She stepped behind Ilsa and slipped the hood over her head again. Then Ilsa was turned around. She heard the door open as hands again grasped her arms at the biceps. They led her out into the hallway again, only this time she was completely naked, even the sparse cover of her pubic hair, which she'd shaved that morning, gone.

They moved briskly along the hallway, turning every now and then, Ilsa's bare feet padding along at a slightly quicker pace than the slapping leather of her escorts' boots. Again Ilsa had the sensation of people watching her, of her being paraded naked before strangers. She thought she heard voices, muffled laughter.

They turned and descended a flight of stairs. Then a second flight. This second flight was bare metal and at the base the floor, became bare, slightly rough concrete. One more turn, the sound of a door opening, metal by the sound of it, and they entered a room. The door closed with a metallic ring.

To be continued....

Copyright 2005 by von Hentzau. Permission is granted to copy for personal use only providing all disclaimers and copyright notices are retained. This work may not be reproduced or distributed in any form in any media without permission of the author.

Casablanca, An Alternate Version

Part II

She was walked forward a few steps then turned and walked forward a few more steps. The handcuffs were removed and her arms were being raised and stretched out in front of her. She felt her hands encounter a rough surface. Brick, she thought. Without being told to she spread her fingers and placed her palms against the brick wall. She felt cuffs, leather by the feel, being strapped around her wrists. When her escorts' hands were removed she tested her bonds. The cuffs were fastened to the wall by no more than one or two links of chain.

Now her escorts' attention turned to Ilsa's legs. Each ankle was grasped by a pair of hands. She was forced to take several short steps backwards, then move her feet outward until they were somewhat more than shoulder width apart. Cuffs were strapped around her ankles. Ilsa was left in a standing, spread position, leaning against the wall.

There was a small noise behind her, the sound of something being moved. Then she felt a slight rush of air between her legs. It stopped. Momentarily it brushed by her again. An oscillating fan, she thought. How clever of them. It was obviously not for her comfort, because it was already a bit too cool in this basement room for her comfort. The intermittent flow of air between her legs was a reminder of how exposed and vulnerable she was.

She heard the scuffling of footsteps on the concrete floor behind her. Then there was a click and a flash of light that was just visible through the open bottom of the hood. Someone was taking pictures. The sound of a camera being wound filtered through the hood and then another click-flash. And another sound, not heard much anymore, the crinkly sound of a flash bulb. Whoever was taking the pictures was using an old-fashioned flash camera. They took several more shots, then there was silence again.

The first blow came as surprise, with only the lightest of whirring sounds to alert her. It caught her on the buttocks, raking across the top of each fleshy mound. She yelped, more from surprise than from pain. It wasn't a particularly hard blow, more of a quick swipe. She braced herself for the next blow.

And she waited. And she waited. And waited some more. The anticipated whizzing sound followed by the sting did not come. She started to relax.

And then it came. Without warning. Ilsa jerked forward as something bit into her right at the sensitive fold where left buttock met upper thigh. She deduced immediately what their plan was. They would play on her nerves, keeping her in a state of anticipation. Instead of a straightforward flogging they would deliver randomly timed blows, so that she could never anticipate and prepare for them.

And a devilish plan it was. Ilsa, in her usual persona as Yvette Delaune, Captured Resistance Fighter and Spy, had been flogged before, sometimes rather severely. But this nasty little variation frazzled her more than those earlier ordeals.

She tried to distract herself by counting between strokes, setting her mind to trying to establish a pattern. But there was no pattern. A stroke would land on one buttock of the other, or on her shoulder blades, the small of the back. Sometimes on upper thigh or calf. Occasionally straight up between her legs. And they seemed to be using different implements, riding crops and leather straps interspersed with perhaps a rattan cane and some sort of particularly vicious little whip with a painful bite to it. Oddly enough, the variety of implements helped her endure the punishment. She played a little game inside her head, guessing what had been used for each stroke and keeping count.

But even the little tricks she'd learned to increased her endurance began to lose their effectiveness as what seemed to be hours dragged by. Ilsa began to fear that she would soon receive that final stroke that would prove too much for her. She would be extremely embarrassed to have to end the scene so soon, but it was looming as a definite possibility.

Then Ilsa heard the sounds of footsteps, someone entering the room, followed by quiet words. Her ankles were unfastened, then her wrists, and she was helped to stand upright. She nearly collapsed but hands caught her under the arms and supported her. As soon as she had her feet her wrists were taken behind her back and tied.

Hands grasped her upper arms and she was being walked again. Back through the door she had entered by she thought. Her bare feet padded along cold concrete, then up a flight of stairs, the metal steps even colder and the non-slip pattern of the surface hard on her soles. Then through another door and down a hallway. Again she had the feeling she was being paraded naked before strangers.

They paused briefly. Ilsa heard the faint sound of a door opening, then they entered. After the chill of the basement the room was comfortably warm. She felt herself being forced to sit, on a hard wooden chair she thought. Her wrists were untied and her arms taken behind the straight back of the chair. Her wrists were strapped into leather cuffs. Then her legs were spread so that her ankles could be strapped into leather cuffs fastened to the chair legs. Leather straps were then tied around her legs below the knee and also fastened to the chair legs, keeping her legs apart. Not a good sign, she thought.

The hood was removed. Ilsa blimked at the light, then looked around the room. It was the same room where she had been stripped and inspected. The same older man was standing, looking at her.

"My apologies, fraulein," he said, trying to sound avuncular. "I was so excited to meet you that I entirely forgot my manners and failed to introduce myself. I am Major Strasser." He used the German pronunciation of the 'J' so it came out as 'mai-yor'.

"You see, Ilsa, we've been watching you for a long time. We know you're intimate with Victor Laslo. We know Victor works for the so-called Resistance. We also know that you were once close friends with Rick Blaine, who is now posing as a small time restaurant and casino owner here in Casablanca. A flimsy cover for one who is so obviously an American agent, don't you agree?

"And the three of you together here now. How convenient. How sweet. Just like old times, eh?"

Major Strasser paused and strokedhis chin, eyes boring into Ilsa

"Tell me what Mr.Rick is cooking up in his restaurant, Ilsa," he said, his voice commanding, full of threat.

Ilsa looked up at him, trying her best to put on an innocent, confused face, trying to look like Ingrid Bergman, playing Ilsa, would look in this situation. Major Strasser looked intently at her for a few long moments, then turned and took a few steps away. He turned again to look at her, his face now changed, pleasant again.

"But tell me, Fraulein Ilsa, do you like hard boiled eggs?" Major Strasser asked. "I'm quite fond of them myself. In fact, I have one just about ready."

He walked across the room. Ilsa followed him with her eyes, wondering what he was up to.

A sideboard stood against the wall to Ilsa's left. A hotplate sat on the sideboard, a small saucepan on top it. Major Strasser went to the sideboard. He picked up a pair of tongs and fished around for a moment, then withdrew an egg. Picking up a tea towel from the sideboard he transferred the egg to the towel. He put the tongs down and touched the egg with a tentative finger.

"Yes, I believe this one is quite ready," he said brightly. "Amazing how hot they get. And how long they hold their heat."

He returned to Ilsa, stopping directly in front of her.

"Well, Ilsa, since you don't feel inclined to engage in conversation perhaps you'd like to join me in a hard boiled egg. Eh?"

He held the egg up, cradled in the tea towel, for her to see.

"So, Ilsa, one more time. What can you tell us about Victor Laslo and your friend Rick?"

"Nothing," Ilsa said quietly, hoping her apprehension at what the Major was about to do didn't show in her voice. "I can tell you nothing."

"Very well, Ilsa," Major Strasser said. "As the French say, bon appetit."

Ilsa suddenly realized what the Major was up to. She remembered reading once that a torture the infamous Black and Tans practiced on Irish rebels was to place a hot hard boiled egg under an armpit. But it wasn't Ilsa's armpit the Major was going for. Her pulse quickened as he reached for her crotch.

Deftly the Major slipped the egg between Ilsa's thighs, pushing it back in so that it pressed against her labia. Ilsa whined and struggled to push upwards against her bonds to escape the heat.

"Franz," the Major said to the man in the SS uniform, "I don't think she's fully enjoying her treat. Why don't you help her."

"Certainly, Herr Major," Franz said.

He picked up a pillow and stuffed it between the small of Ilsa's back and the back of the chair. This forced her belly forward and, with her legs bound in place, forced her to rotate her hips so that her pussy was more fully in contact with the egg. Tears began streaming down Ilsa's face as she wiggled and squirmed in a futile effort to escape the heat.

When the Major decided that the egg had cooled down enough that it was no longer having the desired effect he signaled to Franz, who withdrew the offending object. Major Strasser placed a hand under Ilsa's chin and lifted up her tear stained face. With his other hand he first fondled her nipples, then reached between her legs and gently stroked her cleft.

"Talk to me, Ilsa," he said softly. "You have such a beautiful body. It would be a shame if we did a permanent injury to it. And you know we will if we have to, don't you?"

To emphasize his point his fingers found her clit and seized it between thumb and forefinger. He squeezed lightly, gently stimulating her. Then he began to squeeze harder and harder.

"Save yourself unnecessary pain, Ilsa. Talk to me."

Gradually he reduced the pressure on her clitoris, then in sharp contrast to his previous action he began to gently stroke her sex. Almost involuntarily Ilsa began to respond.

"Ilsa, Ilsa," Major Strasser said with a sigh. "What can I do to change your mind, eh?" He paused for a few long moments. "Perhaps..."

He raised his left hand and snapped his fingers. The young SS man was immediately there, placing an object in the Major's hand. The Major held it up for Ilsa to look at. It was of highly polished metal, composed of two curving arms each about four inches long. At one end they were joined by a hinge. The opposite ends were formed into flat jaws, their bearing surfaces lightly checkered. A tightening screw was set a third of the way back from the jaws.

"Excellent workmanship, don't you think?" Major Strasser said brightly. "A small specialist machine shop in Dusseldorf makes them for us. There is nothing like a good German craftsman for fine metalwork, nein?"

He switched the device to his right hand. With his left he reached out and seized Ilsa's left nipple between thumb and forefinger. He kneaded it gently at first, then harder. He stretched it out, once, twice, then a third time. He stretched it once more and slipped the jaws of the clamp over the tender pink flesh. He squeezed them together with just enough finger pressure to prevent her nipple from escaping then followed up by slowly tightening the screw. The tiny hatch marks on the inside of the clamp started feeling much larger as they dug into her flesh.

Major Strasser was watching Ilsa's face as he tightened the clamp even farther. Ilsa realized he was watching for her reaction and tried to maintain a poker face, though the clamp was starting to bring more tears to her eyes. She wondered just how flat he intended to crush her nipple.

The Major finally stopped turning the screw. When he had slipped the clamp on he had come down from his right, Ilsa's left, so that now the end of the clamp was pointed at the one o'clock position as he looked at it. He was supporting it with a fingertip. The clamp was of rather heavy construction.

"Talk to me, Ilsa," he commanded.

She stared past him. His mouth formed a tight, wicked smile as he released the end of the clamp, which fell with a twisting motion. Ilsa yelped at the sudden pain, but then quickly recovered and resumed her silent, impassive facade.

"Well, as they say in the theater, encore."

The Major held out his hand and the SS man gave him a second clamp. He repeated the procedure on Ilsa's right nipple. This time the clamp was set pointing up at the eleven o'clock position. Again, once it was almost unbearably tight he allowed it to drop and twist. Ilsa bore the pain better, being prepared for it, but tears were trickling down her face again.

"Not very pleasant, is it?" Major Strasser asked.

He waited for a reply but Ilsa only looked past him, focusing on a stain on the wall behind him. In response Major Strasser place a finger below the end of each clamp and began to rotate them back up until he reach the point where Ilsa's nipple were no longer being twisted. But then he continued, using the clamps as little levers to twist her nipples in the opposite direction.

"You can at least have the courtesy to answer my simple question, can't you Ilsa?" he continued twisting. "Not very pleasant, is it?" he asked again.

"No," Ilsa finally said, trying not to turn it into a sob.

Major Strasser returned the clamps to their original positions.

"Good," he said with a smile. "Now we are communicating. So, once again, Ilsa, what do you have to tell us about Rick? And Victor Laslo as well? What is the connection between them? We know Victor wants something from Rick. What is it?"

He waited expectantly, but Ilsa remained silent. He let the clamps drop again, gave them an added further twist. But Ilsa was prepared for it this time and took the pain stoically. He gave a shrug of his shoulders and began releasing pressure on one clamp. Ilsa fidgeted and bit her lips as the pins and needles sensation of blood returning to the tortured nipple struck her.

Major Strasser waited for the pain to subside, then released the second nipple. He handed the clamps to the SS-man, then stepped back and put a hand under his chin. He stared at Ilsa for a long time before he spoke again.

"Very well, Ilsa," Major Strasser said, a trace of sadness in his voice. "You give me no choice. In a short time you will realize that so far I have been very lenient with you. Up until now."

To be continued.......

Casablanca, An Alternate Version

Part III

"Very well, Ilsa," Major Strasser said, a trace of sadness in his voice. "You give me no choice. In a short time you will realize that so far I have been very lenient with you. Up until now at least. Now you will learn how insistent on having our way we Germans can be."

He turned to the severe looking woman.

"Frau Drexler, please be so good as to take Ilsa into the next room and see if you can reason with her."

"Certainly, Herr Major," Frau Drexler replied. The tone of her voice very nearly said "it will be my pleasure."

The SS man bent down beside the chair and released Ilsa's bonds. He helped her to her feet. Frau Drexler stepped in front of her. She was a good bit taller than the petite Ilsa and placed a hand beneath Ilsa's chin. She raised Ilsa's face upwards so that she could look into her eyes.

"Now, liebchen, we are going to spend some quality time together, aren't we?" she asked. "Let's go to my playroom."

She turned on her heel a strode across the room to a door opposite the one Ilsa had entered through. She opened it and the SS man, taking Ilsa's arm, led her through it.

Frau Drexler's playroom was a starkly bare place, with dingy walls and almost no furniture beyond a table laden with various implements. What looked like a folding cot leaned against one wall, next to a straight backed wooden chair. Ilsa didn't look too closely at them. Her attention was attracted by a pair of leather cuffs hanging from either end of a two foot long metal bar. The bar itself hung on a chain in the center of the room.

The SS man firmly maneuvered Ilsa under the dangling cuffs. He raised first one arm, then the other and strapped the cuffs around them. Ilsa noticed they were cuffs designed for suspension. That gave her a clue as to where her tormentors were going. And she wasn't wrong, for as soon as the second cuff had been double checked the SS-man stepped over to one wall of the room where a hand cranked winch had been mounted. He turned the crank slowly, letting Ilsa feel the strain as her arms first straightened out above her and then began to bear more and more of her weight. He stopped when she was up on the balls of her feet.

Frau Drexler stepped up in front of her.

"Well, Ilsa," Frau Drexler said in a condescending voice, "you must realize that it is my duty to convince you to tell Major Strasser what he wants to know. You must also understand that I enjoy carrying out my duty. In fact, I enjoy it so much that I hope you maintain your silence for a very long time. Franz!"

The SS-man took two long strides and was beside Frau Drexler. He handed her something. Frau Drexler held it before Ilsa's eyes, a simple length of thin nylon cord with a loop tied in one end. She slipped the free end of the cord through the loop, then slipped the tiny noose over one of Ilsa's nipples and cinched it down tightly. Fritz handed her another piece of cord and she did the same to the other nipple. She finished by draping the loose ends of the cord over Ilsa's shoulders.

Fritz now moved behind Ilsa. He picked up the loose ends of the cords and began pulling them backwards, pulling up on Ilsa's nipples, stretching them and the skin of her breasts below them. At a signal from Frau Drexler he tied the cords together behind Ilsa's neck.

Frau Drexler approached, holding a slender bamboo skewer. She ran a fingernail along the now stretched out undersides of Ilsa's breasts.

"Yes," she murmured, "that should be just right."

She prodded the sensitive flesh a few times with the tip of the skewer. Then she grasped the skewer in her left fist and pulled the tip back with her right forefinger. She aimed it at a spot just below Ilsa's right nipple and released the tip. It snapped forward and struck with such an intense sting that Ilsa was forced to cry out.

"Surprising, isn't it?" Frau Drexler asked, though she undoubtedly was not expecting an answer. "Such a small stick. Such a nasty bite. Who'd suspect it? And they say we Germans lack a sense of subtlety."

Frau Drexler repositioned the skewer and gave Ilsa's other breast a similar stinging rap. Back and forth she went, taking her time, striking a different spot each time she released the end of the skewer. After about a dozen strikes Ilsa noticed something. Franz, still positioned behind her, was gently stroking her buttocks. It was quite pleasant, a bit exciting even. Combined with the torture Frau Drexler was applying to her breasts it caused a strange reaction to start. She could feel her nipples starting to react, to grow and harden, despite the attentions of Frau Drexler. And between her legs things were happening too. She hoped she wouldn't start dripping on the floor.

Frau Drexler was noticing things too. She gave each nipple several particularly hard parting shots, then pocketed the skewer. She took a few steps back and assumed a thoughtful position, one fist under her chin, the elbow of that arm resting on the other fist. She looked at Ilsa for a few long moments before she spoke.

"Now, liebchen," Frau Drexler said, "we are going to show you a clever little trick we learned from our comrades in Spain."

She went to the table, picked up an item and returned to stand in front of Ilsa. She held up a rope loop which had been threaded through a polished wooden handle. Ilsa wasn't sure what it was to be used for, but it looked strangely ominous. Frau Drexler handed the device to Frtiz who stepped behind her. She felt Fritz slipping the loop over her head.

"They're going to strangle me!" Ilsa thought in growing panic. Ilsa had a considerable menu of kinks she enjoyed, but asphyxiation wasn't on it.

But Fritz only placed the rope against her forehead. Then he pulled back on it. Ilsa wasn't sure what was going to happen until she felt the rope tightening around her head and then it was clear. Fritz was using the handle to twist the rope, compressing her skull. She recalled reading about it in a book on torture once. It was described as incredibly painful and the book was right. The pressure quickly grew to such a level that Ilsa was afraid her eyes would pop out of her head.

On a signal from Frau Drexler Fritz stopped. He unwound the rope and removed it.

"Excruciating, isn't it?" Frau Drexler said with a trace of a sneer. "But we've come up with an even better variation particularly suited to someone like you. A woman. Fritz, prepare her."

Fritz went to the table and picked up what appeared to be a very wide leather belt. When he spread it out Ilsa could see it was rather oddly shaped, the sides being flared and the buckle offset to one side. Where the buckle would normally be expected to be placed, in front, a metal ring was fastened. Another metal ring was fastened at the center of the back. When Fritz had strapped the belt around her Ilsa understood the odd shape. The flare of the leather matched the flare of her hips.

With the belt in place Fritz returned to the table and returned with a length of 3/8 inch nylon rope and another polished wooden handle. The handle had a hole drilled through its center. Fritz fed one end of the rope through the metal ring at the front of the belt. Then he stepped behind her and she felt his hand reaching between her legs to grasp the rope, pulling it up between her legs and working it into the slit of her sex, making sure that one strand of the doubled up rope went on either side if her clit and inner lips.

Then there was some fumbling behind as, she suspected, he fitted the rope through the hole in the wooden handle. This suspicion was verified when she felt the wood slide down to rest on the upper curve of her buttocks. Then there was some more fumbling as she assumed he was tying off the rope to the metal ring at her back.

Frau Drexler stepped close to inspect the arrangement. She stroked Ilsa's sex, tracing the lines of the rope that intruded into it.

"Now, Ilsa," she said, "after our initial demonstration I'm sure you know what we are going to do. I give you a chance to avoid it. Are you ready to tell Major Strasser what he wants to know?"

Frau Drexler continued her stroking. If she had intended to arouse Ilsa it was working.

"Franz, our little friend needs more convincing," Frau Drexler said. "I think another demonstration is in order."

Ilsa felt the rope start to tighten up, start to dig into her cleft. The ropes running on either side of her clitoris were particularly nasty, squeezing the tender flesh trapped between them as well as digging in. But it had a peculiar effect. It hurt, true, but the rhythmic increase and decrease in pressure on her sensitive parts was also exciting her even more. And Franz seemed quite experienced in using the device. He tightened it up, letting the ropes dig in, then released pressure only to tighten up again, a little harder each time. And each time Ilsa felt herself edging closer and closer that point where the pain and the pleasure began to mingle, to become indistinguishable. But before she'd quite reached it Franz stopped and began removing the equipment. Ilsa realized with a bit of a blush that she was actually sorry.

But then, she realized, Frau Drexler and Franz were far from finished with her. She half hung from the bar, waiting to see what was next and tried to conceal her growing excitement.

"Franz," Frau Drexler said, "I think our guest is getting a bit tired. Perhaps she'd like to sit for a while, nein?"

"Yavowl, Frau Drexler," Franz replied a with a heel click.

Franz crossed the room and returned dragging the heavy wooden chair which he placed in front of Ilsa. It had a tall straight back and sturdy arms. Ilsa noticed that the back of the chair was open from about where the small of an occupant's back would be and that the seat had a semi-circular cutout where the occupant's butt would be.

With the chair in place Franz first stepped in front of Ilsa and undid the small nooses that still pulled her nipples upwards. Ilsa felt a momentary stinging pain as circulation returned to each of the brown nubs. Then Franz went to the winch and began to lower Ilsa, slowly in case her legs buckled under her. And it was good that he since she'd been up almost on her toes so long that she found herself quite unsteady.

When he was sure that she was stable he undid the cuffs and then guided her to the chair. For the moment Ilsa wasn't concerned about what was next on the agenda. She was just happy to be sitting, even if her butt was hanging out over nothing, nicely exposed.

Franz busied himself with the many straps. With Germanic efficiency he quickly had Ilsa firmly fastened at ankle and wrist, knee and elbow. More straps ran across her thighs and under her armpits, pulling her shoulders back against the solid back of the chair. When he stood up and resumed his position behind her she tested the bonds. She was completely immobile.

"Well, Isla," Frau Drexler said with a bit of a sneer. "I'm sure you'll be more comfortable sitting down. But we still have work to do. As you've no doubt noticed, Major Strasser really wants you to tell us everything you know. And we always try to make Major Strasser happy, because he can be very difficult when he is not happy. Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you?"

"Yes," Ilsa said, putting on her most innocent expression. The stimulation to her pussy in the previous torment had brought Ilsa to that peculiar state of excitement, almost like a second wind, that was such an important part of these scenes. She had no doubt now that she would see it through. More than ever Yvette had become immersed in the role of Ilsa.

"And are you now ready to tell the Major what he wants to know, liebchen?" Drexler asked.

"No," Ilsa said defiantly.

Almost immediately she felt heat, then pain. Franz had touched her right butt cheek with something hot. She yelp and tried to turn to see what it was but her bonds kept her from turning her head far enough. Helpfully Franz held up his instrument, a light bulb on the end of an extension cord.

"Forty watts," he said. Then he lowered it out of sight again.

Frau Drexler reached out and turned Ilsa's face towards her, roughly.

"Once again I ask you, Liebchen. Will you talk to major Strasser?"

"No."

Again the hot glass of the bulb touched her, this time on the left. It was a brief touch, but it stung nastily. There was a pause. Then Frau Drexler placed both of her hands on Ilsa's breasts. She began to knead them softly.

"Such a lovely body," she said. "This is all so silly, isn't it? A lovely young body made for pleasure, yet you force us to hurt it."

Again the bulb touched Ilsa's vulnerable bottom. She yipped and strained against her bonds. Frau Drexler acted as if nothing had happened. She continued to fondle Ilsa's breasts. Again and again the hot bulb tormented her bottom while Drexler pleasured her upper half.

There was a pause. Frau Drexler gently grasped both of Ilsa's nipples, squeezing lightly. Ilsa felt Franz spread his fingers along the inner curve of one butt cheek pulling the flesh aside. She wailed as the hot glass briefly touched her anus while Frau Drexler dug her nails into her nipples.

And then they let her rest, though still bound to the chair.

After a while Major Strasser entered the room.

"Are you making any progress with our guest?" he asked brightly.

"Nein," Frau Drexler replied, "She is being very stubborn."

"Perhaps, then, it's time to put her to bed," Strasser said.

Drexler and Franz both went over to the side of the room. They returned carrying a folded up metal army cot. They unfolded the legs and set the cot down on the floor. There was no mattress for it, only the bare metal springs. Leather cuffs had been attached at each corner of the angle iron frame. The bonds that held Ilsa to the chair were released and she was helped to her feet. But her freedom was brief as she was firmly guided towards the bed frame and forced to lie on the bare springs. In short order she was strapped in place, wrists and ankles fastened at each corner, stretching and spreading her . The fit was so perfect she thought they must have taken her measurements in advance.

Major Strasser came to stand beside her and inspect the arrangements. He fondled her breasts, then moved one hand down to her spread legs to find and squeeze her clit.

"So, Ilsa," he said quietly, "do I really have to ask you again? Talk to me."

He emphasized the order by giving her a hard squeeze. She responded with a vigorous shake of her head.

"You give me no choice then," he said. His hand had returned to her breast where he briefly rolled her right nipple between thumb and forefinger.

"Frau Drexler, prepare the apparatus if you please."

He stepped back as Frau Drexler rolled a cart, like a restaurant dessert cart, up alongside the bedframe. On the upper tray was a black box with a dial and switches on top and a number of wires attached. On the lower tray was a large battery.

Frau Drexler spent a few moments arranging things on the tray. The wires were organized as pairs of black and red, each ending in an alligator clip. Then she started applying them. A red and black wire was clipped to either side of each nipple. The final pair of wires Frau Drexler draped over Ilsa's thigh. She then began stroking Ilsa's pussy and gently tugging on her outer lips. He picked up one of the alligators clips and fastened it to one labia. The small metal teeth dug in painfully. The matching clip was applied to the opposite labia. Frau Drexler gave each wire a light pull to check that they were firmly in place. She turned to Major Strasser.

"The subject is ready, Herr Major," she said as she stepped away from the bedframe.

"Very good, Frau Drexler," the Major said, positioning himself next to the cart. "Now, Ilsa, I know you're a very smart woman. Therefore you most certainly understand what we are about to do. Talk to me. Save yourself the anguish."

"No," Ilsa replied in a small voice.

A needle stabbed through her crotch as Major Strasser flicked a switch on the box. Reflexively Ilsa tried to close her legs, tried to pull away from the source of the pain, but there was no escaping it.

"That was a very mild setting, Ilsa," the Major said in his best kind uncle voice. "We can make it much worse if you insist on being stubborn."

As if to emphasize the point he sent a shock to each breast in sequence. Ilsa jerked and twisted and moaned with each shock. But the moans were taking on a different quality, something not lost on Major Strasser. He placed a hand on Ilsa's mound, fingers intruding into her cleft. He stroked her gently.

"Tell us everything you know, Ilsa," he said softly. "You can't resist, you know. You might as well give in."

"No," she said softly, eyes closed, breath coming faster and faster. And then, just for effect and because Yvette Delaune had a penchant for the melodramatic, like her favorite '40's movies, with all the breath she could gather she cried out "Viva la France!"

Her reward was a series of nasty shocks to breasts and pussy, one following quickly after another. She cried out and arched her body. But her eyes were closed and her mind was slipping rapidly into a different place. In her mind she was looking down on Ilsa/Yvette, stripped naked and fastened to a bedframe, being tortured cruelly.

Major Strasser's hand had resumed its position on her mound, the fingers massaging away more firmly now. It withdrew and another series of shocks tormented her. Tormented yet also pushed her closer to the tipping point. The probing fingers returned, lighter than before, slipping between the punishing electrical clips, caressing the sensitive erect nubbin and feeling for the hidden, secret spot inside her vagina. Ilsa was twisting and straining against her bonds ferociously even though the electric shocks had stopped.

Suddenly the hand withdrew and that part of Ilsa's mind that still remained detached and rational new what was coming but she didn't care, was past caring. The hot needle pain the jabbed through her crotch was felt for only a second before it was replaced by a stronger, much stronger sensation, and that sensation was only the first in a tumbling cascade the made her moan and whimper and made her body shudder violently.

As the wave of sensation slowly subside she felt hands unfastening the straps at her wrists and ankles. Distantly she heard Major Strasser's voice.

"Frau Drexler, let the records show," it seemed to be saying, "That the subject, one Ilsa Lund Laslo, died during interrogation."

Poor Ilsa, Yvette thought sleepily. Faithful to the end. She heard music begin to play, very faintly as if in the distance. She recognized it after a few moments, the theme music from the movie "Casablanca."

The End (At least until the next time)

Casablanca, An Alternate Version

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