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From: Bradley Stoke <bradley_stoke@hushmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Clung Together (FF) (Bradley Stoke)
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{ASSM} Clung Together (FF) (Bradley Stoke)

Title: Clung Together
Author: Bradley Stoke
Keywords: FF
Short Summary: Many years and many trials unite Rebekkah and Ilse.


[This story has been previously published on Ruthie's Club
(www.ruthiesclub.com) where it was edited by Ruthie and
illustrated by Besito.]



Story: Clung Together (4,498 words)

Many years and many trials unite Rebekkah and Ilse from
the last days of the Third Reich to the fall of the Berlin
Wall. But in all those years, a dark shadow has clung to
them just as they have clung together for comfort and love.


For More : http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Bradley_Stoke/www



	Clung Together
        ==============


The rags Rebekkah wore barely covered her modesty. It
was impossible for them to cover both breasts. As she
struggled along the muddy track, the rotting shoes on her
feet let in the moisture from the earth while each step
exposed her bare crotch to the chill of the late March wind.
But Rebekkah had long ago lost all sense of propriety or
dignity. And if her mind ever rose above consideration of
her current misery would anyone see her as the pretty
teenage girl she knew herself to be? So bruised and battered
was her skin, so filthy her bare legs and, with her stomach
caved in from malnutrition, she was no better than the brute
animal her captors treated her.

She was surrounded by other women in as much misery as
she, all of them condemned to march across the German
countryside while the Soviet forces chased from behind, but
not rapidly enough to bring the deliverance that was all the
hope Rebekkah allowed herself. Despite the futility of these
last few days of Jewish persecution by the murderous Nazi
regime, the Police Battalion was determined to keep order
of their charges, systematically denying them food and
lashing out beatings on the slightest pretence.

A plane roared overhead and all heads raised to the sky: a
column of the ill-fed and ill-treated, female flesh bared and
exposed, hair still soaked from an earlier downpour when
the Jewish women prisoners were denied any shelter whilst
their guards moaned about their fear of Soviet retribution.
The plane was almost certainly a Soviet one, but the
likelihood was that rather than effect their escape, it would
just add to their misery. Fortunately, the plane roared away,
no doubt taking its payload to the cowering Germans in the
towns.

But there was no pause in the march, despite the fears
shared with the police guards. A few women who had
halted in their steps were brutally beaten to force them back
on their weary way. Rebekkah nodded sympathetically at
the middle-aged woman clutching the hand of her nearly
naked daughter who huddled beside her, but the woman's
blank eyes registered no acknowledgment.

The column marched on in a landscape that seemed almost
peaceful under the clouded sky, but offered Rebekkah no
comfort at all. The only thing she wanted was rest, blessed
respite from the kilometres of aimless procession past
deserted untilled fields and abandoned livestock. If she had
the opportunity, she doubted she had the strength or energy
to run away. And if she should, the likelihood was that she
too would be shot by pursuing guards and her corpse left
unburied by the roadside.

And then, as she knew it would eventually, the weariness
and misery overwhelmed her. She stumbled and fell onto
the ground. Her knee caught on a loose stone and added
another spasm of agony to the constant pain that wracked
her battered body. She fell onto her palms, her arms unable
to bear her weight. And this despite having very little
weight to support after all these months of starvation.

"Bitch Jew!" were the words that greeted her from Ilse, the
police guard who came to her attention. "Get on your shitty
feet, you cunt!"

"Sorry! Sorry! I'm so tired!" Rebekkah wailed, gazing up at
the young woman towering above her.

Ilse was a slender woman who clearly wasn't as
comfortable adorned in her police uniform as she would
have been in the clothes of the school student she would
still wear if the war hadn't worsened so dramatically. Her
blonde hair was stuffed under her hat and although by no
means starving, like the other police she no longer looked
nearly as well nourished as she might normally. A streak of
dirt smudged her face and a lock of hair fell over her high
cheek.

"Don't fucking talk back, bitch!" Ilse ordered. "On your
fucking feet!"

Although Rebekkah was complying as best she could, she
was sufficiently slow for Ilse to strike her again and again
with her police baton, adding more bruises to the many
scars, scratches and swelling red and blue marks on
Rebekkah's mottled skin, each unnecessary blow felt that
more acutely on a frame ill-equipped to withstand them and
not at all inured by familiarity to the ringing pain that
shuddered through her body.

In another time and from another perspective, Rebekkah
would know that Ilse's cruelty did not come from the
pleasure of meting out punishment. Like all the German
guards, whether Nazi or simply functionaries in the Nazi
cause, Ilse had come to see this as normal and natural
behaviour. She would never have inflicted such treatment
on Rebekkah in the days when she relied on her deceptively
non-Semitic looks to pretend she was of Aryan birth. That
was before an anonymous informer had betrayed her.

But the benefit of sympathetic hindsight at the last relics of
the Nazi regime trembling before the unstoppable onslaught
of the Slavic foe was not accessible to her at this time.

Rebekkah hated Ilse, as she hated all Germans. And if she
had the opportunity to return to Ilse the punishment that
was mercilessly met on her battered head and shoulders,
she would have gladly done so. And not only in reparation
for her own wretchedness, but for that of all Jews. And
most especially for her parents and family whom she was
more and more certain she would never see again.

Rebekkah staggered on, the pain from the nascent swelling
on her cheek a fresh distraction from the sick emptiness of
her stomach and the bleeding scratch on her knee. And
behind her, Ilse tucked away the baton, ready to be used on
one or other of the many Jewish prisoners should the
excuse arise.

It was in very different circumstances that Rebekkah next
met Ilse, by which stage her stomach had recovered
somewhat thanks to the beneficence of the Americans
whose food aid the Soviet troops distributed. She was still
sporting a prominent discolouration on her cheek as a result
of Ilse's brutality. But on this occasion, two weeks later, it
was Ilse, not Rebekkah, who was most in need of attention.

Like everyone else in the chaotic days as the war remained
unresolved, Rebekkah was scavenging for food and shelter
in the bombed and desolate towns, no longer troubled by
any mould on abandoned bread and already insensitive to
any sympathy for the domestic fowl she killed to sate her
appetite. She had slept on the straw of a deserted barn
along with other refugees, only a few of them Jewish and
most being Germans that the Red Army tanks had
overtaken on their rush to Berlin.

She heard Ilse's sobs from the hallway of the ruined house
she had wandered into long before she knew who they
belonged to. Curious, she cautiously mounted the stairs on
the ragged carpet past the detritus that was almost certainly
the result of the vandalism of Soviet or even German
soldiers. The house was no longer a welcome place, but
one of shadows and redolent of despair.

The door was open to the bedroom where Ilse lay naked on
the bare stained mattress on the metal bed frame. The
morning sun shone through the grimy lace curtains onto her
pale shoulder. At first Rebekkah had no idea who it was
collapsed in this state of piteous despair. Although she had
seen the desperation of so many people in the last few
months, as her health improved she had gradually regained
her sense of compassion. And even though this naked
figure was so obviously a German, her accent apparent in
every bitter curse, Rebekkah had rediscovered pity from
having seen the fear and desolation of the German refugees,
now almost pathetic in their chorus that it wasn't them but
others who had supported the Nazi regime and its
persecution of the Jews.

Ilse lay huddled in a foetal crouch on the mattress, her
hands squeezed between her thighs and protecting her
crotch. Her face was pushing against the ragged fabric of
the mattress, her hair partly obscuring her eyes. Rebekkah
placed a hand on the girl's shoulder, and shivered slightly
from the first glimmer of recognition, but not yet sure
exactly where and when they might have met before.

"Are you alright?"

Ilse looked up at Rebekkah, clearly startled, but with a
blank emptiness behind her stare. Her pale blue eyes were
red and raw and the streaks on her cheeks bore the memory
of the salt she'd squeezed out of them with her tears. She
nodded.

"What happened to you?" Rebekkah asked.

Ilse was still unable to speak. She nodded her head towards
her crotch and grimaced. Then she dropped her head down
again. "Fucking! Fuck! Shit!" she moaned.

It was then that Rebekkah at last remembered who this girl
was. The voice, slightly husky, with a distinct Berlin accent
was exactly the same one who called her a bitch and a cunt
less than a fortnight before. At this moment, Rebekkah
made a decision that was to haunt her for the rest of her
life, the consequences of which she had no inkling at this
stage. Although she could so easily abandon Ilse, perhaps
satisfied that the vengeful retribution she had harboured had
indeed come to be, she chose instead to stay by Ilse's side.

It was a long time until Ilse recovered her composure
sufficiently for Rebekkah to learn just what had happened
to her. And her account came out falteringly and in
disconnected sentences. Even at the end of the day when
the two of them nestled together under the thin tablecloth
that Rebekkah made into makeshift bedclothes, it wasn't
clear whether Ilse had yet managed to recognise just who
her saviour and new companion was. But there were
glances and long puzzled stares that told Rebekkah that Ilse
had at least identified that there was some link that bound
the two together.

Ilse had scattered like the other police guards when the
Russian tanks stormed towards the wretched column of
prisoners, knowing that in her uniform she was the obvious
target for Soviet bullets. And while Rebekkah and the
others greeted their saviours with as much of their
weakened energy remaining to them, Ilse ran off, losing all
sight of her companions.

Eventually, after days of wandering and scavenging, having
exchanged her uniform for a stolen dress, she was
staggering down the street of this small town, so weak from
hunger and depressed from the total destruction of the
German motherland that she didn't notice the approach of a
group of Soviet soldiers, exactly how many she was never
able to establish.

She was easy prey to them. She was forcibly dragged up
the stairs of the nearest house, her dress torn from her
before they had even kicked open the front door. And here
on the mattress, the bedsprings resonating still in her
memory as one after the other, or maybe more than one at
the same time, the soldiers raped her. And she a girl who
was betrothed and had held fast to her virginity even in
these despairing last days of the Reich that lasted only
twelve of its promised thousand years.

And it didn't stop at just the one violation. It continued for
what seemed like, and very probably was, hours of
penetration and the accompanying slaps to subdue her
struggles. Taking her virginity not only from the front, the
blood of her virtue coated on her inner thighs, but forcing
her to undergo indignities she had never imagined were
possible. Her anus was sore and bleeding. Her mouth had
been as roughly violated as her crotch. And it went on,
another soldier ready to replace one when the other had
finished.

There had been a pause in the ordeal. In fact, there had
been more than one, but these occasions were mere respites
in which Ilse wept and swore unable to understand a single
word her captors said either to her or to each other. But
then, from a signal that Ilse was unable to recognise, the
brutal assault would resume. And continue with, if
anything, less respect than before as one by one the
Russians lost what few inhibitions had restrained them in
their previous violations.

Rebekkah comforted Ilse as best she could. She found
clothes to cover her and after a day or so Ilse had
recovered sufficiently to accompany Rebekkah on her
foraging. But her recovery was slow and halting. She
would burst into tears at the smallest excuse and she carried
about her a look of someone so traumatised that even death
would be a kind of welcome relief. Her eyes reflected a
darkness and vacuity that her high cheekbones merely
accentuated.

In retrospect it seemed obvious that the two girls should
become lovers. They nestled close each night, clung
together in their shared misery, enjoying the comfort and
warmth from the other's body. Rebekkah was certain that
Ilse now recognised her as the Jewish prisoner she had once
beaten so cruelly. It was evident from Ilse's guilty apologies
for her crimes during the Nazi regime and her evasiveness
regarding her activities prior to her abandonment of her
position in the police battalion. But the truth of their earlier
ties was not discussed at all. It was just something that both
girls knew full well, but was not to be mentioned.

Rebekkah wasn't sure, as Ilse was also later unable to
specify, exactly when the cuddles and consoling hugs
became the first kiss or the first truly passionate embrace.
But both recalled with a clarity that remained with them
forever as the only memory of those dreadful days that they
would choose to cherish that moment when the kisses and
embraces became something much more passionate, wholly
abandoned and altogether unambiguously the act of
physical love.

The memory that remained distinct was not just their
mutual application of tongues and fingers to those parts
never willingly surrendered before, Rebekkah having
retained her virginity more from the Germans' racist disgust
than from any act of kindness, but those moments of
tenderness when their perspiration-soaked bodies separated
and the two naked girls could reflect on just what it was
that they had just enjoyed. And also discovered not the
feeling of disgust and shame that Rebekkah might have
imagined before that time, but an appetite for yet more that
had a greater urgency than any she had ever felt before.

The delight and joy that her appetite was reciprocated made
Rebekkah smile. This was the first smile on her face for
over a year and one that became a fixture for all the night
and for most of the following days.

Ilse's vagina, the surrounding pubic hairs, so soft and silky,
the smell of her juices strengthening and later souring, the
perfect folds of her labia were not as pristine now,
Rebekkah reflected, so many years later, as her tongue and
fingers probed, her mousey brown hair now much shorter
and no longer able to brush on Ilse's thighs. But the coarser
bush of hair, the sourer smell of Ilse's stimulated vagina, the
ragged edges to her vulva, might now belong to a woman
as menopausal as she, but it was the same Ilse.

And a woman who, despite the many intervening years, was
still very much the love of her life.

Ilse gasped as Rebekkah pushed three bunched fingers into
the open hole, less elastic but more loose. Her head pushed
back and her greying hair, kept long and now untied, fell
onto the pillow as she gave vent to the guttural cries of
passion that Rebekkah knew so well. Her voice huskier
than it was possible to imagine it could become was
deepened and coarsened by a cigarette and whiskey habit
that had only slightly lessened over the years.

And then Rebekkah pulled herself forward, over the rising
hump of Ilse's stomach, no longer taut and flat, and let her
tongue encircle the nipples on a bosom that had never been
especially large, but was now spared the sagging from
which Rebekkah's slightly larger breasts suffered. The
nipples were long and hard, and Ilse gasped in short urgent
intervals as Rebekkah gently nibbled at the areola.

It was indeed a miracle that the two lovers remained
together. It had been a love tested so many times. By Ilse's
many infidelities. By Rebekkah's several guilty
indiscretions. And most of all, by Rebekkah's doomed and
wholly unsuccessful marriage to the Communist Party
officer at the state bank where she had worked at the time.
It was a marriage to a man many years older than Rebekkah
was then, but many years younger than Rebekkah was now.
Her marriage had not wholly failed, as it had resulted in
Katrina, her daughter.

If Rebekkah turned her head, she might even be able to see
Katrina on the television screen. She knew that her
daughter was somewhere amidst the jubilant crowd in
Berlin celebrating the destruction of the Wall that had so
long divided the East from the rest of Germany.

But the excitement of this day, so long hoped for but
almost too soon when it arrived, had become an excitement
that engulfed Rebekkah and Ilse in passion, soon taking
their gaze from the screen where East and West were
joining hands over the rubble of this visible evidence of
Communist paranoia, and focused their exhilaration on each
other.

Rebekkah hoped that she could catch a glimpse of Katrina,
as did Ilse who had become strangely much more a father
than a second mother to her daughter. Perhaps it was the
shared love for the growing girl that had brought Ilse back
from the arms of her many lovers. All of whom had been
women, and often ones she'd picked up in the Berlin bars
when they lived in the capital city. Although Rebekkah's
indiscretions, and of course her marriage itself, betrayed a
lack of total commitment to her sex, Ilse was so
traumatised by her experiences at the hand of the Soviet
soldiers that the mere thought of a man touching her body
repulsed her in a strangely frightening way. Even an
innocent hand on her shoulder or a peck on the cheek
would cause Ilse to shudder and her body to become rigid.
Real hostility flashed from her pale blue eyes that only the
most insensitive man could fail to notice.

Rebekkah pulled her body further up Ilse's so that their
stomachs pressed against each other and their crotches
ground together. She ran a finger tenderly over Ilse's red
lipsticked lips and studied her lover's face. She loved every
one of the lines that coarsened her face, the slight sag of
jowl over her mouth, the furrows on her brow, and the sags
under her eyes that contrasted with her high cheekbones.
She kissed Ilse tenderly on the lips and then responding
from the bright flash of desire in Ilse's eyes her mouth
locked itself in place, tongue doing battle with tongue,
imagining she could taste the gold of Ilse's upper incisor.

It was impossible to say whether Ilse would always have
preferred women so exclusively over men. In a country that
sometimes treated the love they felt so strongly towards
each other as a medical condition, there was no shortage of
unsympathetic explanations, but Ilse was sure that their
love was one they felt more for each other as lovers than
for each other's sex.

But now the passion was rising and the two of them
responded to the grunts and sighs of the other to bring each
other upwards and forever toward the climax that came less
readily now, but was accompanied with a sparser
expression of vaginal release and that they expressed
towards each other with rather less frequency than in those
early days of Soviet occupation when there was no excuse
too slight for the two of them to abandon discretion and
clothing for their conjoined lust.

And then, later, the sweat damp on their skin, Ilse's hair
plastered to her cheek and long ragged neck, the two of
them collapsed, their bodies still entwined, and returned
their gaze to the destruction of the wall on their spluttering
East German manufactured television.

The drama of the event they watched from the West
German channel was interspersed by frequent interviews
with dignitaries, politicians and celebrities from both sides
of the forty-five year old divide. So accustomed had
Rebekkah become to watching West German television that
it was actually those people from the East with whom she
was least familiar.

"So, it's happened! At last! One Germany. One fatherland.
United!" exclaimed Ilse with genuine passion and emotion,
a huge grin on her face.

Rebekkah nodded, hoping to catch a glimpse of Katrina,
perhaps amongst those bashing down the wall or amongst
those gathered in the evening shadows. She knew Katrina
was there. Her excited phone call from the capital where
she worked had left her mother in no doubt as to her intent.

"At long last, after all these years of Honeker and the DDR,
the business is finished!" Ilse exclaimed.

Not quite all, reflected Rebekkah. Despite the closeness of
their love and their many nights of passion. Despite the long
pillow chats and the tearful confessions of guilt about the
women she had seduced or let herself be seduced by.
Despite a love the two had tried to rescue from Ilse's
infidelity by a failed night of making love together with a
third woman, a lover from whom Ilse was reluctant to be
parted. Despite all their many ups and downs, trials and
tribulations, and their shared parenthood. Despite all this
there was still one issue wholly unresolved.

"You know, Ilse, there is a matter we haven't discussed."

"There is?"

"Yes."

"And what's that, Becky?" asked Ilse, perhaps quietly aware
what Rebekkah was alluding to.

"The time we first met."

"In that house? After I'd been... after that awful... when..."

"No. Not that. The first time."

"What time? What do you mean?"

There was real fear in Ilse's eyes. She looked towards
Rebekkah, not really at her, perhaps even through her.
Colour appeared to be draining from her already pale face.

"You know exactly what I mean. It wasn't there we first
met. It was earlier."

"I don't understand. What are you saying?" asked Ilse, with
a distinct tremble in her voice.

"On the forced march. The death march. You know what
I'm talking about. You and your baton. I know it was you
who beat me then. And I know that you know it was me
you beat."

"You can't! You mustn't! It's not true!" said Ilse, with
genuine panic.

"It is true. It is the most true thing there is."

There was a silence between them, but not a silence in the
room, as the cheers and cries of excitement continued to
stream from the television set and the commentators
described the exultation around them, unable to disguise the
very real one they also felt.

"Yes. I know. It is true," said Ilse at last, in a soft and
tremulous voice.

And then, like a dam that had suddenly been broken, her
eyes flooded with tears, her face cracked into fragments of
misery, and her mouth contorted into ugly rubbery
trembling. And from deep inside her came huge sobs,
welling up and exploding, her chest and her bare breasts
shaking with convulsions with each guttural explosion of
misery.

"It was me! I know it was! I did it! How can you ever
forgive me?"

Then, desperately, she clung to Rebekkah's waist, arms
clasped about her hips and her face, damp now from the
unstoppable torrent of tears, on Rebekkah's sagging bosom,
her body shuddering with each sob.

"Please forgive me. Please. Please! Please say you forgive
me! Please!"

Rebekkah was silent. She placed a hand steadily on Ilse's
head, not stroking her hair but just keeping it in place.
Could she forgive Ilse?

The memories of those months of humiliation flooded back.
The times she was forced to strip naked. The times she had
been spat on and beaten. The times she had witnessed the
most appalling brutalities. The woman beaten to death,
although she was so weak from hunger she would have
soon died anyway. The woman shot in the back as she ran
desperately across the fields, followed by a bullet shot to
the skull. The bloody mess that was where her face had
once been. The constant cruel taunts. The systematic denial
of food that was permitted for the Slavs and Poles in the
same company.

But somehow, although not especially the worst in kind,
there being many beatings and many humiliations worse
than that, the worst memory that haunted Rebekkah after
all these decades was the beating she'd received from Ilse.

Rebekkah looked down at her trembling lover.

What was Ilse saying?

"I know I did wrong. I know what I did was wrong. So
very wrong! It was then. We were taught that the Jews...
that people like you... that you were less than human... that
you deserved to die... I was so very very wrong!"

"That's an excuse, Ilse," Rebekkah said firmly. "No one
forced you to beat me that day. And I'm sure, in fact I
know because I saw, that I wasn't the only one you beat
and tormented. I wasn't the only one you called a bitch or a
cunt."

"Cunt? I called you that? Bitch?"

"You did!"

 "Oh, Becky! I'm so sorry!"

For a moment, Rebekkah viewed this as her time of
triumph. She could now abandon Ilse as she could so easily
have done so many years before. Leave her Teutonic lover
to rue her viciousness. But Rebekkah knew that the reason
she remembered that moment so very vividly, and why, of
all the torments she'd suffered, the one she received from
Ilse was the one that hurt the most intensely, was precisely
because of the intensity of the love she felt for Ilse and the
passion they had shared so often and so equally intensely
over the many years. Perhaps they had clung together so
tightly because of the strength of this unspoken guilt that
Ilse had carried with her, but there was also the true love
Rebekkah knew Ilse felt for her. A love that had always had
her returning to her first love whatever the desire and lust
she expressed towards and experienced from other women.

She stroked Ilse's hair, slowly but firmly. Ilse was quiet
now, her sobs fewer, but fresh tears were still seeping free
and leaving a trail on Rebekkah's bare breasts.

"Do you forgive me?" asked Ilse again, looking up, her face
as miserable as that day they met in the abandoned house
when the object of her misery had been violent and
prolonged.

Could Rebekkah ever say anything else?

"Yes, Ilse. I forgive you."




For More : http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Bradley_Stoke/www

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