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The Dominafuhrer
Miss Spiteful's War

The New Recruit
Enslaved In Skirts
Ingrid and Fate
Walter's Enigma
The Italian Job
The High-Heeled Contessa
Rolling With Pain
The Spy Who Never Was
Ingrid's First Date
For The Love Of Willi
Dressing For Work
The Colonel And The Nurse
Anya's Curse
Future Imperfect
Reinhardt The Rampant
The Bomb Under The Bed
Hungarian Rhapsody
Against The Clock
General Josephine
The Bomb Plot
Gunfight At The OKH
Up Against The Wall
City Under Fire
The End Of The Unit
The Toad Triumphs
Kill Miss Spiteful
Heil Himmler!
Mistress Storm
Miss Spiteful's Revenge
Last Exit From Berlin
The Name Of The Goddess

The Dominafuhrer 1952
Miss Spiteful's Gold

Give My Regards To Bremen

The Stories of Yvonne Sinclair

Alice And Anna
On The Beach
The Bisley Boy
Silk Stockings On A Ladder
A Merry Ferry Christmas
Stella and Fanny

The Sacred Feminine

The Sacred Feminine

The Story Of T

Arrival At The Institute


An Introduction

VO Stories

Miss Malcahy's Detention
Nine and a Half Hours

The Weight Loss

I Sign A Contract

The Convict

The Convict


A Caning By Miss Spiteful
Always On The Bare
A Visit To Greenwich
At My Lady's Pleasure
Ball Shackle Story
I Met Claire In A Coffee Shop
Judicial Bastinado
Kevin's Poem
Long Weekend
Long Weekend Conclusion
My Visit
Robin's Electrical Torture
Shoeshine Boy
Slave To The Cane
The Basement
The Colony
The Escape Artist
The Huntress Caning
The Language School
The Worm's View
Webb Encounters

The Bossy Bank Women

A Judicial Punishment

The Valkyrie

Episode 1


The Vision
The Agreement
First Blood



The Dominafuhrer - MISS SPITEFUL'S WAR

Episode 3 - Ingrid And Fate

September 1942

“Spiteful!” My Mistress snapped her name into the telephone receiver. Her blood spattered and sweat beaded, naked breasts were inches from my face as I sat typing at her desk. Her pink nipples rising and falling as her chest heaved after her recent exertions. We had just finished an intensive three-day interrogation of a Russian NKVD Officer, captured in the advance on Stalingrad, with Miss Spiteful doing all the hard work herself. I had just sat and taken down his rambling confessions in my notebook which I was now transcribing and translating into German as I typed up the last of my shorthand notes.

It had been a very strange and revealing experience. The Officer had once been one of Laventry Beria’s bodyguards and had also worked in the Kremlin. To the Gestapo’s amazement, he had been willing to tell all that he knew but only if he was tortured by Miss Spiteful in our supposedly secret unit. He had been quickly passed on to us in Berlin but, as she did not speak Russian, I was needed to interpret for both of them. For three days, my Mistress had beat him with whips, canes, paddles and truncheons, crushed his fingers, toes and testicles, burnt him with red hot pokers, shocked him with electrics and buggered him with a variety of plugs and probes, with and without studs. Every time she paused, he had begged her to do something even more painful as he had so much guilt to atone for. Of course, I had to pass all this on in German to Miss Spiteful and her questions to the prisoner had to be translated into Russian.

On the first day, he had told us that the Russians knew all about our unit, including the real and professional names of the mistresses. It was the first time that I had ever seen Miss Spiteful shaken. When asked how they knew, he replied that the Soviets had many sources in the Reich and other members of the Axis. He had not seen the actual reports but had heard them discussed in his presence. A lot of what he told us was not of any actual military value but we were given an astonishing insight into the inner workings of the Kremlin.

Today, many years later, I now know a lot more about the Nazi regime and the horrors that were inflicted on the peoples of Germany and Europe. I had seen the concentration camps at Dachau and Sachsenhausen. I had seen my SS comrades shoot down unarmed prisoners and civilians and I was serving in a Gestapo interrogation unit. But, I firmly believed then that what we were doing was right if we were to save Germany and the world from the evils of Bolshevism. And, the more that I heard of our prisoner’s confessions, the more convinced I became. We learnt about the mass purges when innocent people, who had fallen foul of Stalin or Beria, were arrested, tortured and executed or sent to the Gulags, with or without a sham trial. Beria had clawed his way to the top of the NKVD and was as brutal, ruthless and scheming as any of the Nazis that I was to meet in the six years that I spent in uniform.

Our prisoner described how he and his comrades would snatch a number of pretty young girls from the streets of Moscow and take them back to Beria’s quarters. There, they would all be stripped and forced to kneel in a circle with their heads together.

Beria would then walk around the circle, selecting one or more to be subjected to his

vile attentions that night. If his choices survived, they would be bundled back onto the street the next day, with the threat to execute them and their families if they complained.

We listened to these and more stories about the Soviet leadership and the elimination of their enemies and rivals, real and imagined, as Miss Spiteful continued to inflict further torture, urged on by her own victim. Some of things that he told us were just gossip or rumours but everything was written down and, at the end of each day, typed up and circulated around the intelligence agencies. They would do their own analysis and, if they cared to, use the information as background in planning the war on the Eastern Front.

Finally, we had finished with him. Even he had had to admit that torture would not produce any more information, although the ghosts of his victims were still with him. All that remained with us now were pools of blood and human waste on the floor and two bloody trails where he had been dragged to the door.

“Walter!” Miss Spiteful exclaimed, her finely shaped eyebrows arching in surprise. “How nice to hear from you. Have you got the real King of England for me this time?” She chuckled into the telephone. “Don’t worry, this line is secure. When I found out last year that the dummkopfs upstairs were tapping my telephone, I invited them down to my dungeon to see me at work. I told them afterwards that if anyone listened into my conversations again, they would be the ones being tortured. I’ve had no trouble since.”

I raised my eyebrows. I had a good idea who she was talking to, but she never ceased to surprise me with the things that she said, the people that she knew and the things that she had done.

“Yes.” She answered to a question. “We have just finished. The final report is just being typed now. We will get nothing more out of him.” She looked at her clock. “When? In half an hour? Very well, we will wait for you.”

She put the receiver down, looking very thoughtful. “That was Walter Schellenberg.” She said, confirming my guess. He had been one of Miss Spiteful’s sponsors in getting her appointed to the head of this unit and I believed that their acquaintance went back some years. As head of the Reich Political Intelligence Service, he was one of our regular ‘customers’ as Miss Spiteful called them, but I had never met him. “He is on the way over to see me. That is unusual.” She frowned and turned to me. “Finish the typing. You can clean all this up later.” She indicated the gory mess on the floor. One of my duties was to clean up the dungeons but I did get to wear a French Maid’s outfit as I did so.

“Listen to me.” Her eyes narrowed. “While he is here, say nothing. Not even if he asks you a question. Walter is a friend but he is loyal only to himself. I need him to know only what I tell him. Do you understand?” I nodded and kept picking at the keys of my typewriter.

“I’m going to have a shower and change back into my uniform.” She sighed and started for the dressing room door before turning back. “What was the last thing our prisoner said when I told him that there was nothing more I could do to him? You never translated it.”

I flipped my notebook to the last page that I had used and frowned at my shorthand. I had to think a bit before answering. “It is actually a Russian saying. The closest that I can give you is ‘You cannot escape your fate’”. Miss Spiteful shrugged one of her creamy, bare shoulders.

“Then it was nothing important, but I can tell you that it is not a Russian saying. It comes from the confessions of Saint Augustine.”

She went off for her shower and I carried on working but I felt my eyes start to water. Just like the wretched Russian, in his cell down the corridor, unable to escape his haunting memories, I knew all about fate. It was fate that had lifted me from internal security duties in Poland in nineteen forty and sent me into Holland and Belgium with an SS combat division. Fate had taken me to a post in Divisional Headquarters, because I knew French and English, just before my previous unit had been destroyed by a British counter attack. It was fate that a shell from a Russian Tank outside Leningrad had missed me by inches, decapitated the Russian prisoner that I was about to interrogate and then smashed into the nearby group of vehicles, killing many of the men that I had been talking to, only moments before. I woke up, covered in blood and mud but, apart from being temporarily deaf and witless, relatively unscathed. On discharge from hospital, fate had sent me back to Berlin on leave where, seeking my usual escape from the horrors of war with my own kind, I had dressed as a female and visited the Transvestite Bar on the night that the Polizie had raided it. Courts-martialled, disgraced, reduced to the ranks and sentenced to a Punishment Battalion on the Eastern front, fate had brought my file to the attention of Miss Spiteful when she was looking for a Transvestite with language skills for her unit.

I pondered on all this on that first night as I sat on the bed in the little room that had been allocated to me in Gestapo Headquarters. Alongside me was my new wig, my SS Female Auxiliary Uniform and underwear, including a padded brassiere, and I wondered if I had made the right decision, even if the alternative was a Concentration Camp. In the event, I slept, got up the next morning, shaved my face and body, showered and dressed as Ingrid without any regrets. Although, when Miss Spiteful applied a hot branding iron to my pubic area a couple of hours later, I did have some second thoughts.

That had followed a curious ceremony in the candle-lit dungeon when I had knelt naked before Miss Spiteful, who had been dressed in her tight black corset, black stockings and thigh length boots. She had invoked some unnamed female deity to witness her acceptance of me as her slave and locked a stiff leather collar around my throat. I was directed to step in to a harness that belted around my waist, with an artificial penis on the strap between my legs that I had to insert up my rectum. Miss Spiteful then whipped me until my buttocks were red raw and I had a throbbing erection. With one hand, she then wiped her wet mons vagina and held her palm out for me to ejaculate over. When I had licked up the sticky mixture, she declared that I was now in bondage to her and, putting on a leather apron, she bent me back over a wooden form and burnt the SS brand onto my body.

Over the next six months, I learnt my trade and my blonde hair grew until I no longer needed a wig. Miss Spiteful schooled me in make up, hair styling, deportment and speaking until my mistress conceded that I could be seen in public without being recognised as a man. The most satisfactory improvement was the one that was least visible, my breasts. Induced by hormone injections, they swelled slowly, until the wonderful day when I could throw away the pads and fill the cups of my brassiere with my own flesh. I was so excited and happy that, by the time that I had rolled my nylon stockings up my legs and fastened them to my suspenders, my erection had grown to an enormous size. I lay back on my bed and masturbated frantically until I ejaculated in a long shuddering orgasm.

As a Dominatrix’s maid, I learnt to beat; torture and abuse prisoners, both physically and sexually, while wearing an assortment of costumes or uniforms. At first, I was worried about some of the things that I saw and had to do, but I soon found that I was getting sexually aroused during the interrogations and enjoying my participation. Since, as a good Nazi, I believed that they were all enemies of the Reich and deserving of all they got, I rarely bothered myself with sympathy for their plight or concern about their ultimate fate.

Miss Spiteful insisted that I learnt shorthand and typing so that, as well as being the resident Transvestite, French Maid and Cleaner, I could also be the Unit’s Secretary. Sitting in a classroom of men and women who did not know my true identity was, at first, an ordeal and I kept my head down and my mouth closed. I worried whether they realised that I wore a wig, had I shaved properly, was I walking and sitting as a woman would and were my hands too big? My confidence grew as I realised that the others were treating me as a female, everyone called me Ingrid and nobody objected when I used the WC marked ‘Damen’. I cultivated a husky whisper and, on Miss Spiteful’s advice, just tried to act normally as a nervous and furtive person is more likely to attract attention than a calm and casual one.

After the wig and then the padded brassiere had been dispensed with I was allowed to venture outside Gestapo Headquarters on errands and shopping trips. Once I got over the feeling that everyone was looking at me, I was much happier. Then, two months ago, Miss Spiteful told me that my probation was over, handed me a Gestapo brass warrant, confirmed my promotion to Obersturmfuhrer and said that I could now find my own accommodation outside.

A male First Lieutenant's pay is better than a female Oberhelferin’s and I realised that it was one of the reasons that Miss Spiteful insisted that we all held male SS ranks. With the extra money, I was able to rent a little room near Tempelhof Airfield. I soon found out that night flying by the Luftwaffe was the reason that I could afford it and it meant a journey by Tram or S-Bahn into work but, it was my own. The first that I had had since I left my now blitzed home in Hamburg to join the SS, three years before. I could buy clothes for myself to wear off duty and I could cook for myself on a little gas ring but, in my little world, I still felt very lonely. I lacked the confidence to seek out male or female relationships, my Mistresses treated me as a servant and the two SS Guards, Freidrich and Willi deferred to me as they would any officer. The people that I met in Gestapo Headquarters or in the other offices that I visited took me for what I appeared to be but I wondered if I would ever really be happy in my new life.

To continue this story, click Walter's Enigma

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