DISCLAIMERS AND AUTHOR'S NOTES:

	The following story is a work of fiction, entirely copyrighted by
the author.  It may not be reproduced except under the conditions to be
found at the end of the story.
	The content of this story is sexual in nature.  It may be illegal to
read depending on your age and your geographical location; proceeding
past this warning places responsibility with you.  The description of
certain acts in a work of fiction is in no way meant to be interpreted
as approval of these acts in reality.
	The content of this story also involves some "extreme" elements that
may offend some readers.  Those readers are advised to take extra
caution before reading further.

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	COLLABORATOR
	by Antaeus Feldspar

	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

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	This story is not in the public domain.
	The rights to redistribute this story by electronic or other 
means for non-profit purposes is freely granted, as long as it is 
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	Distribution of this story for profit is expressly prohibited.
	The practice of altering this story, including but not limited to 
appending 'continuations,' is expressly prohibited.

    

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