Miss Spiteful's War
The Dominafuhrer 1952
Miss Spiteful's Gold
Give My Regards To Bremen
Storm Takes A Bow
Two Long Winters
Bonnie Ingrid Of The Argylls
A Soldier's Wife For Me
What Became Of The Lively Ladies?
Castanelli Meets The Order
Kelly From Calgary
Three On The Bed
Solace For Solitaire
The Early Morning Tease Maid
The Chevvy With The Fritz On Top
J Edgar Hoovering
Signals From The Past
Gold In The Grave
Morning In Manhattan
Six Hatch A Plan
Back To Berlin
Two Little Girls From School Are We
Spoiling Miss Spiteful
The Taming Of The Slave
Kaffee At KaDeWe
Sugar's Stroll In The Park
The Checkpoint Chorus
The GDR People's Silvery Moon
Into The Tomb
The Festival Is Over
The Stasi At Night
Old Photographs Never Lie
A Fair Exchange For Freedom
The Night Porter
Surgery En Suite
A Stiffie For Sapphire
The Torturous Twins
A Stilletto Up The Back
News From The East
We're Going To Wedding
Down In The Dungeon
Nappies, Knots and Needles
Walkies With Alfred
Black Marcius For Miss Spiteful
The Return Of The Dominant 7
Grab Your Knickers And Run
Vive La France
Showdown With Seraph
The Stories of Yvonne Sinclair
The Sacred Feminine
The Story Of T
The Weight Loss
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
Long Weekend Conclusion
Robin's Electrical Torture
Slave To The Cane
The Escape Artist
The Huntress Caning
The Language School
The Worm's View
The Bossy Bank Women
The Dominafuhrer series continues after the women and Ingrid escape from Berlin after the war. Ingrid makes her way to Bremen, where she meets up with a contact of Miss Spiteful's. Now, in 1952, Miss Spiteful calls a reunion of the Dommes to steal Nazi gold.
Episode 1 - Give My Regards To Bremen
Heinrich Himmler and Laventry Beria were arguing over me again as I was chained, naked, to the dungeon wall.
“This person betrayed me, the Nazi Party and the Fatherland.” Himmler took off his glasses, breathed on the lenses and then polished them. “Of course she belongs to me.”
Beria thumped the table. “No! This is my dungeon! She is in my chains. She tortured the men and women of Mother Russia. Besides, you are dead.”
“And you soon will be.” Himmler replied as the telephone rang. “Is that for you?”
“No. It’s for her.”
I struggled against the fetters on my wrists to reach for the telephone but the chain was too short and the bell kept on ringing.
“McNair!” My husband growled into the telephone receiver as I finally woke from my dream and opened my eyes. Despite the cool Scottish night, I was bathed in sweat and my thin night-dress had ridden up and was stuck to my breasts. When I tried to move, I found that I was still sticky between the tops of my legs from our lovemaking.
At last, I found the bedside light and switched it on, banishing the dark from our bedroom. David was sitting on the edge of the bed with his naked back to me as he struggled with his conversation.
“Who? I don’t understand you. Who are you calling?”
The exit wound on his shoulder from the North Korean bullet was still a vivid purple but the shrapnel scars further down had started to fade to a light brown. I still had horrific memories of the first time that I had been allowed to see him in Stanley Hospital when he had been evacuated to Hong Kong. Pale, unconscious and lying on his side because of his wounds, I feared that, for the third time, war and fate was taking the man that I loved from me. But David was strong, had recovered and had come home to myself and my only rival for his love, the British Army.
He stood up and threw the receiver onto the bed beside me.
“It’s for you. Some wumman with a strange accent. Sounds like she is calling from the moon.” He scratched the black hairs on his chest and then flipped his penis up and down.
“I’m going for a pee,” he announced and padded off towards the bathroom.
I picked up the telephone and whispered huskily into the mouthpiece. “Hello?”
“Ingrid!” A voice from my past boomed in my ear. “It’s Miss Spiteful!” More than seven years rolled back and I could see in my mind the face that I had loved and worshipped so much.
“How are you?” she asked. “Your David has such a sweet Scottish accent and he looked so handsome in your wedding photographs."
I was going to ask her how she had seen the photographs but my eye caught the bedside clock.
“Why are you calling now? It’s two o’clock in the morning.”
“No!” Miss Spiteful exclaimed in wonder. “But it’s only nine in the evening in New York. I’ve just finished dinner. But never mind that, Ingrid. I need you to fly over here at once. All the Girls are coming as well. We need to talk. It’s important.”
“But I can’t!” I gasped. “We’re not long back from Hong Kong and still unpacking. The house is in a mess and,” I hesitated. “We just couldn’t afford it.”
“Unsinn!” She switched to our native German. “It’s all arranged and paid for. In the morning, you will take your passport to the American Consulate in Edinburgh. A visa is waiting for you and the next day you will go to Prestwick Airport. There will be a ticket in your name at the Pan American desk for the first through flight from Frankfurt. Just turn up with your suitcase and make sure that you pack your sisterhood uniform. You have still got it, haven’t you? It will be such fun for us all to be together again.”
At last she stopped speaking and I was able to respond.
“I’ll have to talk to David but I’d love to come. Please give me your telephone number and I’ll call you back tomorrow.”
As I scribbled on a notepad, David came back into the room and sat on the bed beside me. He ran his fingers up and down the inside of my thighs and then tickled my testicles, making me catch my breath.
“What did you say, Ingrid?” Miss Spiteful enquired. “I didn’t hear that. Never mind, I’d better ring off now but first I need to ask you something. Have any strangers bothered you recently? Have you been followed or anything like that?”
I frowned in puzzlement but answered in the negative and, promising to call back, replaced the receiver on the cradle.
“What was that all about?” David asked, cupping my penis in his hands and pulling back the foreskin. “You were jabbering away in your heathen tongue at the end.”
I explained as best as I could that I had been invited to New York to meet up with some old friends from Germany and the problems that I foresaw in accepting.
“Are these the women that you were in prison with?” He asked, probing my prostate with the fingers of one hand and tracing the raised scar of my SS brand with the other. “I’ll never forgive those Nazi bastards for what they did to you.”
I drew a sharp breath as I decided how much to admit to David about my past without lying.
“Yes, we were all in the same dungeon.”
David laughed. “Ingrid, sometimes you choose the strangest words. You mean cell don’t you?”
I know what I meant; I said to myself but smiled back.
“Well, I don’t see why you can’t go if it’s all paid for.” David leant forward, licking my exposed glans until I shuddered with pleasure. He stopped and looked up. “I’ll probably get on better with the unpacking if you’re not here.”
I slapped the top of his head in mock anger and then yelped as he gently bit the top of my phallus.
“I’ll miss you of course. None of the other officers’ wives have the little extras that you do. Go for a couple of weeks if you want. It’ll take me that long to get round all their boring vaginas. Just keep in touch and be back for Balaclava day on October Twenty Fifth.”
I was going to smack him again but he closed his mouth over the top of my shaft and gently scratched his finger up the underside as he sucked. Electric tingles ran up and down my spine and my back arched as they became unbearable. I ejaculated sooner than I intended and David greedily swallowed my semen but all I could think about was; if we haven’t been in touch for seven years and David and I have only been in this house for several weeks, how on earth did she get our telephone number?
1945 - 1947
Seven Years. So much had happened since but I recalled it all quite clearly, starting with the two weeks that it took me to walk from Schwerin to Bremen. I remember every footsore kilometre, every hedge, wood and ruin that I had slept, washed and shaved in and every scrap of food that I bought, begged, found, fought for or stole.
I had headed for Lubeck first and then Hamburg but did not go into the latter, not from fear of being recognised in my home town but more from my apprehension of not recognising what was left of the city after the Allied bombers and armies had finished with it.
There had been further checkpoints on the way but the British Army were not interested in young Polish girls and I had no further problems. Halina Jablowski however, had reached the end of her usefulness and, grateful as I was for her identity, it was time to let her go.
I sat down by the River Weser and, as I ate the last of my food and smoked my remaining cigarettes, tore up her documents and cast them into the water. I then opened the final packet that Miss Spiteful had provided and studied my next identity. I found that I would be Ingrid again, that Schaeffer would be my surname and I came from Hanover. The documents were all genuine, apart from my photograph being imposed on them just as Halina’s had been, and I wondered how Miss Spiteful had managed to assemble them with so much background material as well. The age and description were close and I even had a birth certificate and a Police record. Apparently Ingrid had been arrested, tortured and imprisoned for anti-Nazi activities, which would help explain my brand and any other marks on my body. I committed all the details to memory and then looked at the last item, a blue envelope with a name and address written on it in Miss Spiteful’s handwriting with ‘Go here’ written across one corner.
I checked the street map of Bremen that I had brought with me from Berlin, picked up my suitcase and set off down the road for the final kilometres.
I was puzzled by the fact that, instead of British Army vehicles, the traffic passing me on the road was nearly all American but the mystery was solved when I came to a large painted notice board. It advised me, in English, French, Russian and German, that I was entering the American Occupation Zone of Bremen and Bremerhaven. That seemed an excellent omen. I was hoping to find Americans and had obviously come to the right place.
But, within a couple of hours, I thought that fortune had deserted me again. The address that I was seeking was near the Hauptbahnhof and no longer existed. Apart from the odd gable standing up like a broken tooth, the whole street had been flattened. I should not have been surprised. Sixty per cent of the buildings in Bremen had been destroyed by Allied bombs before the British Second Army had fought their way across it. Rubble gangs of men and women were working there but it would have been useless asking any of them for information. I knew what I must do. Every tree-stump or piece of street furniture had scraps of paper pinned, nailed or stuck to them with forwarding addresses for the survivors. I finally found the one that I was searching for on a luggage label tied round an upright length of broken piping.
Fraulien Van Hassel (Sugar) had left a new address which, by looking on my city map, I located off the Faulenstrasse, on the northern edge of the Alstadt, Bremen’s Old Town.
Once again I moved on, passing working parties of German Prisoners of War, who seemed very cheerful. They knew that their war was over, they had survived, they were not in the hands of the Russians and, eventually, they would be allowed to go home. The civilians were also getting on with their lives. I saw some shops and cafes open, no trams as yet but the streets had been cleared and men were working on the overhead cables or repairing the rails in the road. The Americans were everywhere, in their trucks and jeeps, walking on the streets, directing traffic or putting up their signs. Everything was in initials, totally incomprehensible to any German and, probably, many of the Americans as well.
I found that I had been redirected to a small café in a street of relatively undamaged houses and shops. Some had boarded up windows and holes in the roofs but the café seemed untouched although it was in darkness and the window blinds were down.
I pushed at the door and, as it opened, a little bell tinkled.
“I’m closed!” A voice called out from the gloom behind the bar. I put my suitcase down and tried to spot the owner of the voice.
“Closed I said and closed I meant,” the voice called out again. I was too drained to reply and slumped down into one of the chairs.
A match rasped and a light glowed on the counter, which grew brighter as the wick on a lantern was turned up. The light rose in the air and came towards me where it was held in front of my face for some moments before being set down on the table beside me.
“Are you deaf?” I was asked and I peered up at my interrogator. I saw the outline of a tall woman, with dark hair tied back, walk past me to raise the window blind. Sunshine flooded in as she came back to sit at the table with me.
I was speechless as I realised that her skin was the colour of golden syrup, her features only faintly negroid with a long fine nose and big sensual lips. Beneath large, high eyelids and finely arched eyebrows, the left hand one of her deep black almond eyes flickered strangely as she gave me a long searching look. She seemed to be in her early thirties.
“Sugar?” I queried.
“Depends on who is asking,” was the cautious reply.
I reached into my handbag and handed over the blue envelope addressed to her. She raised a thin eyebrow when she saw the handwriting and then opened the letter. She leant forward so that she could read the pages of blue notepaper in the pool of light cast by the lantern, turning back to read some again, before dropping them on the table.
“How’s your Latin?” She had a deep, but musical voice and her German was softly accented.
“I learnt some at school” I replied, puzzled at the question. Sugar picked up the letter and, from the last page, quoted a line in that language.
“In my sign, you shall know her.” I translated back.
“So show me,” Sugar demanded and I had to think for a minute before I realised what she wanted to see. I stood up, opened my coat, lifted my skirt and petticoat and pulled down the front of my knickers to expose my SS brand, now covered with short pubic hair, and my male genitals.
“Yes, you’re Ingrid.” Sugar said and waved for me to cover up and sit down again. “How is the German Bitch? She passed through about a year ago and asked if I could give you a place to hide out when it all went wrong.”
Sugar stood up, went to the bar and came back with a half full bottle of brandy and two glasses. She poured us a drink each and pulled out a pack of American cigarettes from a pocket in her frock. When she saw the look on my face she silently handed me one and struck a match for us both to light up.
“The trouble is,” she looked around the bar. “I have nothing left but the roof, the walls and the furniture. I salvaged some clothes when I was bombed out of my old house but everything I had went to buy this place when, a few weeks ago, I could have just walked in and taken it over for nothing. Once the English and the Americans had finished looting my stock I had no food, no beer, no wine, no spirits, no coffee and no money. The water is back on but, even when the Americans get the electricity connected up again, there’s no coal for the power station. There’s supposed be some coming over from England but they can’t unload the ships until the docks at Bremerhaven have been cleared. And, even when we get coal, all the gas holders have more holes in them than a lace curtain.”
“What are the Americans doing here,” I asked. “I thought that the British were going to occupy all this part of Germany.”
Sugar refilled my glass, which I hadn’t even noticed that I had drained.
“The Yanks wanted their own ports for their troops and supply ships so that they wouldn’t have to rely on the British. They were given Bremen and Bremerhaven. I don’t mind so long as it’s not the Ivans. Was Berlin bad?”
“I was raped twice,” I said, omitting the assault by Von Kreps.
“Did Spiteful, Sapphire and the others get away all right?”
I told her as much as knew of their plans but the brandy and exhaustion took their toll and my head sagged forward as my eyes closed. Sugar lifted my chin with one of her big brown hands and looked at my face.
“How long have you been on the road, Honey?”
“I left Berlin the night Germany surrendered.” I sighed.
“Mein Gott!” she whistled. “That was nearly four weeks ago. I bet that you haven’t had a decent meal since then either.”
I shook my head wearily. Sugar gave me another American cigarette and looked ruefully at the nearly empty packet.
“The domination business is flat at the moment and the café will not pay if I have nothing to sell the customers. The only place to get supplies is on the Black Market and for that you need lots of money. The Americans have opened something for their troops called a PX and I’m told that it’s like Aladdin’s cave inside, provided that you know a Yank that you can pay to get the goodies out for you. If we could buy some stock I know that both businesses will support the two of us, if you don’t mind being a maid and a waitress.”
I smiled and opened up my handbag again. First of all I placed on the table the wad of Reichmarks that remained from my own savings and the funds that Miss Spiteful had given me. Sugar raised her eyebrows and, when I tipped the eight bright little diamonds out of their brown leather bag, she took my hand and shook it.
“Honey, you have just become a partner.”
To continue reading this story, click Storm Takes A Bow