From feldspar@netcom.com Wed Mar 12 23:48:51 1997
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From: feldspar@netcom.com (Antaeus Feldspar)
Subject: ASS: Collaborator (rape, oral, anal, MMM+F, FF, somewhat ws/scat)
Message-ID: <feldsparE6ytDF.DwB@netcom.com>
Organization: Netcom
Date: Thu, 13 Mar 1997 04:48:51 GMT
Lines: 214
Sender: feldspar@netcom9.netcom.com

        This story contains adult subject matter, which may be offensive
to some or illegal within certain jurisdictions.  Reading further places
legal and ethical responsibility with the reader.
        This story is a work of fantasy, and none of the acts or attitudes
described within it are necessarily endorsed or tolerated.  Those who
cannot separate fantasy from reality are mad; those who conclude that
fantasy must therefore be banned are probably not doing well either.

	See the end of the post for information regarding redistribution.

	The Collaborator

	by

	the bashful pervert

	She was led into the clearing with her expensive Paris dress 
already torn off below the waist, exposing her pale, shapely legs in 
their silk stockings and the lacy panties beneath.  Neither of the two 
hard-faced men who held the chains of her manacles spoke, or slowed when 
she cried out, as she stumbled blindfolded over some obstacle in her 
path, or brushed up against some thorned bush which tore her stockings.
	She was led to the clearing, and the men who had towed her in her 
chains like an animal yanked them downward, forcing her to fall to her 
knees.  She screamed, and begged them to act like true and gallant 
Frenchmen, at which some hollow voice made a hacking laugh, and then fell 
silent.  There was a clicking sound.
	Simone knew there was a crowd around her.  She could tell by the 
cigarette smoke that made her cough, by the rustle, the bitter whisper of 
one to another.  There were men and women, all around her, watching her 
as she knelt, wrists chained before her.  And she was terribly afraid she 
knew why.
	"Let's have it out in the open," said a rough voice then, and the 
blindfold was whipped away.  Dusk had fallen, but the moon was out for 
her to see every pair of eyes in the village, staring at her with 
undisguised hatred.  The short length of the chains, fastened to the base 
of the marble bench, forced her to kneel, but now her legs shook and she 
could almost not stay kneeling.
	"Simone du Papillon," said Raymond, his voice pronouncing the 
name as he had spoken of the Boche, of the Germans.  "Collaborator."
	"No!" she shrieked.  "No, you must understand, it was not my 
fault, I never collaborated!"  The Paris dress was already torn, and what 
was torn didn't count, but everyone could see the stockings and the 
panties, also gifts from Helmut.  She tried to make them understand.  "I 
did only what I had to!  I would have suffered otherwise!"
	Raymond's spit hit her just on her cheek, and her shock stopped 
the words in her throat.  "Had to, tramp?  Everyone else in this village 
DID suffer, you filthy little Nazi's slut."  There had been an approving 
murmur from the gathered crowd when the gooey spit, tasting of his harsh 
cigarettes, had hit her cheek; now there was another approval as the 
knife she knew he carried _snicked_ open, and the Paris dress with its 
lovely rosettes was slit up the back.  It fell to the ground, and she 
flushed as her generous breasts swayed under her.
	"Please!  I'm innocent!"  she screamed.  "I demand a trial!"  In 
her mind, she knew that if she could only make them understand, that if 
they could only see how much nicer it was to receive Helmut's presents -- 
and some other things from him -- they would understand that she COULDN'T 
have done other than she did.  But the same hollow voice -- she now knew 
it was old Rostand, the grizzled grandfather who ran the bakery -- 
laughed again.  Raymond sat down on the bench, with her face between his 
legs, and pulled her head roughly up level with the crotch of his 
harsh-fabric trousers when she tried to bow her head.
	"You had your trial, slut," he hissed at her.  "Every time you 
walked through the village streets on the arm of your Gestapo lover, you 
tried and convicted yourself."  He loosened the belt that held up his 
rough laborer's trousers, and they slid downwards, exposing a cock as red 
as a rooster's comb and swollen with veins.  "Now everyone in this 
village who has suffered from your crime will get a piece of your 
punishment."
	She mewled in fear.  Surely this couldn't be happening!  Surely 
he could not expect her, a lady, a lady of refinement, to allow in her 
mouth his rough peasant --
	He gagged her with it, and the gathered crowd murmured 
approvingly.  She tried to scream, but his rough dirty cockhead was 
filling the back of her throat.  "Try to bite, little pisette," he 
whispered to her, "and I'll find another use for this knife than just 
removing your clothes."  Her throat tightened with panic, choking her 
again on the throbbing head of his phallus.  Tentatively, she pulled her 
head back only enough so that she could breathe around his manhood, and 
let her delicate tongue sweep along the underside of his prick.  That was 
what she had always done with Helmut when she was afraid he might be 
angry at her.  Raymond stiffened in her mouth, and laughed, softly.  "I 
knew you would still be a collaborator, you dirty whore."
	He raised his voice.  "Come, everyone!  There's enough of her for 
all!  Take what you want from the slut, she's taken enough from us!"  The 
circle of villagers moved closer, and there were men -- and women -- who 
came to her, touching her, pawing her.  Someone grabbed the silken 
middle-strip of her panties and yanked them down.  She tightened her legs 
to stop the theft, and got a vicious smack from a bare hand across her 
ass and pussy that shocked her into opening her legs, letting the garment 
be stolen.
	Pasquette, the pig farmer, put his dirty hands on her right tit, 
roughly pinching and twisting the nipple, and squeezing it between both 
hands as if he milked it.  Her eyes flooded with tears.  These dirty 
peasants!  Yes, she had sucked Helmut's manly rod, and swallowed his hot 
salt juices; she had enjoyed his rough attentions to her breasts, letting 
him squeeze and suck; she had even spread her legs for him and let him 
fuck her pussy with his hard violent strokes.  But Helmut had kept his 
body clean, had been fanatical about scrubbing off every last bit of 
dirt!  Whereas the cock she could feel pushing its clumsy way inside her 
cunt, she could almost feel it covered with mud and filth as the owner 
grabbed her hips and forced it in to the hilt.
	Raymond had gripped the edge of the marble bench with one hand 
and the hair at the back of her head with the other; instead of making 
her suck at his cock he was thrusting his pecker violently into her 
mouth, shoving it deeper in rhythmic thrusts that gagged her and made the 
tears roll down her cheeks.  "Slut!" he cried.  "Whore!  Cunt!  Trollop!  
Bitch!  Take my cum in your throat, you Nazi's whore!"  With that he 
began to spurt, the salty seed flooding her mouth.  "Swallow it!  Every 
drop!" he ordered.  Her sore, abused throat struggled to obey.  He pulled 
his rod from between her lips and slapped each of her cheeks roughly with 
it, smearing them with saliva and cum.  "Now clean it off."  Simone had 
no choice but to extend her tongue and lick the drops of thick liquid 
from the still semi-rigid tool.
	Raymond slid from the bench, and another sat down in his place.  
Simone was distracted by pain and shame as the oaf at her back finally 
loosed his come in her tunnel, a tunnel nearly bruised from his clumsy 
thrusts.  When she could blink away the tears, she saw Jeanne-Marie 
sitting in front of her face.  Her heart leapt.  "Jeanne-Marie!" she 
cried gratefully.  Her good friend Jeanne-Marie, with whom she had gone 
to school, was the only other woman of refinement in the village, who 
could understand that such peasants had no right to abuse her.  "Save me, 
Jeanne-Marie!  You have to explain to them!"
	But Jeanne-Marie looked nothing like her friend, now.  "Explain 
what?" Jeanne-Marie asked coldly.  She brought her hand from behind her 
back, showing the lacy sheer panties that Simone had been robbed of.  
"Explain nothing.  Because of your treachery, my husband who went to the 
front will never be returning."  She pulled up the hem of the dark skirt 
she wore, showing a bush of dark curls.  "So until I have another 
husband, you will do for me what he loved to do."
	Simone tried to turn her head away, but a pair of hands caught 
her head and forced her to stare at Jeanne-Marie's furred snatch.  
"Jeanne-Marie!" she screeched.  "You cannot be one of those, those....  
damnee femmes!"
	Jeanne-Marie slapped her face, hard.  Whoever was holding her 
head in place for it gave a low, nasty chuckle.  "No, I am not the kind 
of woman whose dreams are filled with the tongues of women.  But you are 
not a woman, filthy Simone.  You are a traitor and a slut -- lower than 
any woman could ever be."  Simone stared at the dark masses of curls, and 
recoiled from the smell that emerged from there.  She realized that 
Jeanne-Marie must not have washed at her bidet for days...  as many days 
as this torture for her had been in the planning.
	The meaty pecker that plundered her snatch now throbbed and 
sprayed in climax, and Jeanne-Marie stifled Simone's cries with her cunt, 
pressed so hard against Simone's face that she had little choice but to 
lick the hot and musky-wet pussy lips presented to her, and nuzzle the 
erect clit with her nose.  Jeanne-Marie's twat muffled her cries when 
some man lifted her entire lower body off the ground with one strong arm 
and with the other smacked her ass cheeks hard and without stopping for 
at least five minutes.
	The night's shaming continued.  Simone grew too exhausted anymore 
to open her eyes, and guess which pecker or slit or bottom was being 
pushed against her mouth; she had long ago lost count of how many men of 
the village could now say they had left their white trails of sperm deep 
inside her cunt, smeared across her thighs, or decorating her tits.  At 
least one young teenager, for all the young men had attended the 
gathering, had settled for hosing her with a great stream of piss when he 
couldn't attain sufficient stiffness to fuck her opened cunt.  And 
throughout the whole affair, there were occassional bright flashes of 
light, blinding in their intensity; she heard the voice of Royeau the 
mayor laughing as he described how the pictures would be the village's 
expression of gratitude to all the poor soldiers recovering from the war 
in hospitals at the front.
	Finally, it seemed as if the night might be over, as there were 
no more cocks being thrust in her mouth or pushed between her struggling 
thighs, no more hands grabbing at her breasts or roughly squeezing her 
mound.  She trembled, and no longer had the strength to stay on her 
knees, but lay crumpled with the ground against her cheek.  She had only 
one blessing for which to thank a God who had failed to rescue her from 
this:  no one had attempted to penetrate her tight bottom.  Helmut had 
been too horrified by uncleanliness to ever think of it, but in the days 
when she had had a husband, he had once forced himself on her petite 
rosette with his hard cock and sodomized her for an hour, ignoring her 
screams.
	But now the night was quiet enough that above the hushed whispers 
of the crowd, she could hear the tapping of Rostand's cane.  Rostand was 
an old grandfather, though his first and only grandson had died at St. 
Lo; surely he could not have a erection sturdy enough to penetrate her 
with?  He could not even stand straight, nor walk without his cane, a 
staff of unvarnished wood that was thicker around than her forearm.
	She could hear Rostand speaking, but the words were not clear.  
Two village men came to help Rostand in whatever it was he planned; they 
hauled her to her knees again, though they had to support her in that 
position.  She remained with her cheek resting on the hard dirt, eyes 
tightly closed against the mud her fallen tears were making.
	Her ass cheeks were abruptly spread painfully wide, and an 
ungentle hand slapped her tight opening with a wad of some sort of oil or 
grease.  She moaned weakly as the hand spread the grease, coating her 
asshole thoroughly, and let out a shriek as it pushed the grease into her 
bottom with two thick fingers.  When her husband had buggered her, she 
had ached for days after; her only relief was that Rostand, an old man, 
would have a smaller and weaker cock.
	She screamed as she felt the head of the cane nestle at the 
entrance to her greased bunghole.

	THE END

STANDARD DISCLAIMERS
        This story is NOT in the public domain.  However, the author has
given permission for it to be redistributed by electronic means as long
as the following conditions are observed:
        - You may NOT redistribute it for profit;
        - You may NOT credit it to any individual except the original author;
        - You may NOT redistribute it in any modified form.  Note that
'modified' includes appending 'continuations' to the story; such a
practice is expressly forbidden.  Reviewing a story that plagiarizes the
original in this fashion, or in any other form known to be modified, is
also expressly forbidden.
        - You take reasonable responsibility for seeing that it is only
redistributed in venues that are appropriate to its adult content.

-- 
! -jc IS feldspar@netcom.com                               !
! "'Asa Nisi Masa!'  How strange!  But what does it mean?" !

