He had brought a bottle of schnapps,
“Madam, would you like a little of this as well?”
“Oh yes, but just a little.”
He loved this part of the seduction, when the woman’s first volley had come to naught. He thought about what her next tack would be. Even while thinking this, Eva started,
“Oh, beer with schnapps always makes me so lightheaded.” (The oldest retort in the play book, Bormann thought.)
Bormann said nothing.
The alcohol was starting to work its effects, as she asked, “Martin, you remember Berlin in the ‘20s?”
Bormann said he did, not that he did, but this was clearly a lead-in to more.
“Hoffie is such as bad man, you know he took me and Sally, his other assistant, to some nightclubs. Do you know the Pink Diamond?”
Bormann said he did, another fib.
“Hoffie took us there; it’s a nightclub, you know? And Sally was such a randy little minx—she always embarrassed me, she was so forward.” (The ubiquitous I-am-pure-but-she-is-a-slut play.)
“Well, we were all there one Saturday evening—it was hot like today, but it was pouring rain so everyone in the club came in drenched, and before long it was like a Swedish sauna—so hot and steamy. And there was a stage and on the stage there were three women from the East, you know Slavs, and beside them was a huge Negro man with massive muscles—he was very tall and he was very black, black like ebony, and under the lights you could see how much he was sweating, but that is not what most people were looking at.”
She paused for effect and for more beer and schnapps.
Bormann knew what was next and could fathom what she was leading to, but like an actor who had practiced his lines a thousand times, he replied.
“Oh” (short answers showing no interest at all teased these vixens more than anything.)
“Down there he was so big.” (Obligatory giggle.)
“You were looking?”
“It was impossible to miss—it was so big—more like one from a horse than from a man. And Sally said to Hoffie, ‘God, think of that thing inside you’—Hoffie just giggled, and now I know why he giggled. Actually I was getting tingles all over looking at it, and he did it to all three girls on the stage, one after the other, you know from behind and you could see it going into them and each of the girls cried out in some Eastern tongue as it must have been so extremely painful.”
She looked at Bormann. Bormann could see her eyes looked like she had a touch of fever.
“Actually, I got the tingles then,” she laughed.
“I have to tell you, Martin, that I even get tingles now all over again just telling you about it.”
Bormann waited for the next question—it was just like checkers at the pig farm.
“I’ve heard you have done that, too; is that true?”
Quickly, she added, “I mean with proper German girls, not impure Slav whores, but three or four at once, is that true, Bormann?”
This was the part of the ritualistic Morris Dance that Bormann really enjoyed—making his minx-of-the-day “tingle.”
Coyness was always the best counter.
“What do you mean, Miss Braun?”
With the alcohol, the months of neglect, and her imminent period, there was now no stopping her, she raced on and on.
“Oh Martin, for God’s sake call me Eva. I am Eva to him. I can be Eva to you. Today, I can be Eva to you. Well, I have heard that you, that you sometimes have three or four girls from the village and from other places at your house at the same time. Do you ever do that? Tell me all about what you do with these women. Are they sluts or nice ladies. Are they all German? Are any married? Do they like it? What is it that they do for you? What is your secret?”
Just as suddenly as she had started, she paused.
“Do you mind me asking you, Martin?” she said, overcome with nervousness.
“Would that excite you, Eva, if that was the case? Should I tell you?”
“God, yes, I need to hear, I need to hear. Tell me, please. Please.”
“Certainly. I will tell you. But just tell you—it has to stop at that, Eva; my boss, the Chief, trusts me and I would be betraying his trust.”
“My husband tells me he trusts you more than any man alive, that you are a good man, an honest man, and that I can get from you anything I need. When he says anything, he truly means anything I need at all, and today I am very tense after my exercise, and remember it is just the two of us alone in this huge empty house. So can you help me today, Martin, I mean, with what I need today? To be relaxed today. Can you remove my tension? My tension is terrible today.”
Bormann said he could. He stood and moved to the back of the chair. Without hesitating, he pinched her shoulder muscles very hard. He got the usual “that feels wonderful.” He was looking down at her small breasts as he squeezed her shoulders.
“Eva, now you know today has to be a dream; it is just for today and never again, and I will destroy you if you mention this to anyone.”
As expected, this threat excited Eva rather than frightened her.
“So here is what I do. I do get girls at my house up the hill when the boss is in Berlin, and I relax with them. Actually, for me it is more like work. First, have the girls up to my house while my wife is at the baths at Baden or somewhere else.”
Eva’s eyes opened a little at this announcement that Bormann’s wife helped out from time to time.
As if ordering a load of potatoes from a local farmer, Bormann went on.
“I play some gramophone records, we have some beer and schnapps, it is normally early on a Saturday afternoon when it is quiet and slow here in the mountains. I relax the girls. Some of these country girls are extremely shy while others are very eager—women all vary, some are bashful, but all are very excited to be with a powerful man of the Reich; the young mothers are the most randy, must be Nature telling them to breed more. Then I slowly play with each of them in turn, with them fully dressed at first, touching them, teasing them. Then, very slowly, I slide my hand up their dresses. They are all so wet, so excited at this slow teasing. You see, I like to tease them, very, very slowly—what’s the rush, we have all Saturday and Saturday evening? Only twice have I been forced to ask one to leave.”
“To leave?”
“Well, even with the two of them still clothed, I could smell them on my fingers—it was like opening a can of Norwegian sardines. But, this is so rare as German womanhood is so pure—not like the animalistic Slavs. Only two German women in over 300 have I ever told to leave. All the others were so wet and clean and so, well, ‘panting’ I suppose is the best way to describe it. And they are always so wet. Must be the mountain air. And with all these pure, German women, the teasing is the best part, don’t you think?”
With this Bormann lightly rubbed Eva’s arms, and she reacted by taking the cold beer glass and brazenly rolling it over her nipples. She was drunk and very, very randy. Her pink top was now wet and when she put the beer glass down, she opened her already uncrossed legs. When she did this Bormann could clearly see his goal for the first time.
“Go on. Please tell me what you do next—what do you do next?” she said, lightly panting.
“Then I take them to the big bedroom—you’ve been to my place. Well, it is the big bedroom that overlooks this house and all the way down the mountain. I like to do it from behind and with their dresses on, just hitched up. I think doing it to a woman with her clothes on is the most exciting way. I do one, then the next, then the next one, in turn.”
Now Eva was panting heavily, “You do it in each of them?”
“No, no, no—that never works. Do that and you have lots of dissatisfied customers. No, the trick is to hold back, otherwise a man gets soft right away. And the German schnapps helps keep a man very hard. No, you have to wait. So I entertain each one for a few minutes, I like the girl to complete so I can feel her clamping on me. But not too much, you want to her to want more for t
he next lap. You have to be very careful because if the girl completes too much then it is too exciting for the man, and it’s easy for the man to complete too early if you are not careful. It’s extremely exciting to see all these girls lined up on all fours on the bed—four in a row, dresses hitched up over their bodies.”
“You have a real system, and these girls are virgins?”
“No, no, no—never virgins. Virgins have the obvious benefit of being tight, but they have no idea of what to do, and it is too much trouble to teach them. And virgins are often nervous. No, the best are young, randy wives who love getting it every day, but with their husbands away in the army, they are all very tight from lack of use. And there is always the promise of a safe and friendly assignment for their husbands. And there are a lot I do on a Return Ticket—you know, out and back, they come back again and again for more.”
“You make it sound like work.”
“It is half and half; half work but also fun—you would not believe the noise—four young, randy German women all in heat and completing (they often use their fingers on themselves while waiting for me to properly relieve their itch). You see, what makes all women most excited is when they see other women getting excited, it excites all the others and then the first one gets more excited, and so on. The noise is like a Stuka attacking—you know our new dive bomber with the screaming airbrakes. It is always very loud; that is why my wife is at the baths in Baden and I dismiss my servants for the weekend. But I like it. It’s a good way to pass the time; who knows—the British or Russians might invade any day and kill us all.”
“You see, when women are in a group like this, they immediately become raw animals who all want to be next, they like the act, but even more, they want to get the power. They start competing for the man. Whenever you get two or more women together, even in a social environment in a bar, instantly they start competing. Even when I worked on the farms years ago, on a Saturday night I would take the ugliest girl I could find into town, and just her presence would attract other women like moths to a candle. It works every time. This is why when you have four women all kneeling on all fours on the edge of the bed, they get amazingly excited and they make so much noise when you’re inside them because they have never been so excited—Mother Nature is making them be the one to get the man’s seed. This is why they are so wet, and why they try to make you complete in them and not the other girls. And to be the winner, they actually will do anything and they say the wildest things—things I cannot even imagine.”
Eva was too excited to let this last idea disrupt her. Later, Bormann doubted if she even heard it.
She then did the standard procedure of girls like her—she stood and walked to the far end of the table, the end with no papers or pencils, she bent over the table and she turned her head to the side.
Looking at Bormann, she said,
“Martin, please show me what you do to them. Now.”
“Eva, this is what I do and this is what other men don’t do to you.”
While she may have been envied by tens of millions of German women, and on the cover of countless women’s magazines, the fact was that she could not remember the last time she had been entertained by her “husband.” She later confessed to Bormann that she did not understand if she had lost her appeal to him or what it was.
Eva was panting breathlessly and demanded it rough—she liked a little pain; actually, she liked more than a little, just like the three Slavs with the huge Negro at the Pink Diamond.
Eva was deliciously tight—very wet like any experienced woman, but oddly tight—almost like a virgin. Immediately, Bormann felt her starting to tighten and contract, and the contractions came faster and harder very quickly. But before she completed for the first time—and to ensure her heat continued—he stopped and he lay on the floor.
Once on the floor, he had Eva do all the work, perched above him bobbing up and down like a cork on a fishing line. She was so tight that when she descended fully for the first time, he felt her start to complete, so he thought no reason in waiting and he dumped all he had into the First Mistress Of The New Reich, or as she preferred to think of herself, the First Lady Of The New Reich. His extra lubrication made her climax deepen. Bormann smiled to himself at the thought of someone interrupting them—the insanity of the event, the shock. But, what the hell? He would lie his way out of it as he always did. But no one appeared and he stood her up and with Eva facing the picture window, he hardened again and took her from behind. This time, very roughly and she made a lot of noise; clearly the forced abstinence made her like it even more.
After 15 minutes, she collapsed.
“Oh my God, I needed that. We need to do this more often. I miss it so much. You know, I am a normal girl with normal desires and needs. Once, when I was very randy just like this, I had Hoffie relieve my tension, even though he is a homo. You know, it was like a dream—once I saw that slut Sally stroking him and teasing my boss in the office and I knew I had to have Hoffie, it was like an invisible hand of some primitive spirit that made me force him to put his thing inside me first, and complete inside me first. I don’t know what it was, it was just that he had to do me first to give me of him before Sally got any. It was madness. I need this more often.”
Bormann shook his head, “No, Eva, this is the first and last time—too many problems.”
She nodded, sad and wistful, “Yes, I suppose you are right.”
As it happened, Bormann’s boss—his beloved Chief—was never again to see Bormann or Eva or the large table.
12: The Wingless Eagle’s Last Flight
Haus Wachenfeld
Monday, 1 September 1941
The first day of september was the hottest day of the hellish summer of ‘41. And at a mountain house, it was a real tar burner. By nine in the morning, the sun had already turned the terrace into a furnace, the alpine elevation doubling the sun’s power. It seemed like every blade of grass had given up the struggle and decided to turn brown, as if it was a wounded animal feigning death.
Breakfast, normally served to the guests on the terrace, had been moved to the great hall. Bormann had the “manufactured air machine”—his dated term for the air conditioning plant located in the lowest basement of the mountain house—running at full capacity. Like a prized Pekingese, he moved from guest to guest to annoy each of them in turn with his self-important chatter, mentioning to each in turn how hard he was working—“Like a draft horse. No, worse actually, as animals get Sunday to rest; for me there is never any rest.”
“And less brains than a draft horse,” was Albert’s unspoken thought.
Albert move to the balcony and sat alone, allowing the heat to envelop him. But, even with his second excellent double espresso, he was getting just a little sleepy. Nevertheless, the glorious view of the mountains and the sound of the birds made Albert feel completely at ease—no squabbling petty officials with their fastidious attention to their shirt cuffs and the precise knotting of their ties, and their vacuous arguments about why they should be the sixth car in the entourage—“not stuck in the back in car 17”—oh, the horror of not being in the top eight.
His brief reverie of calmness was broken when Jodl greeted him, accompanied by Milch.
“Well, it is one for the record books today,” Milch said.
His two companions agreed.
On the terrace the three men sat under one of the light-blue-and-white-striped umbrellas. They were alone except for the occasional cack-handed spying exercises by Bormann who would periodically patrol to inquire if they needed anything: Would they be having lunch with us today? Did they need any more coffee—it is real coffee here? His inane list seemed endless.
Jodl was universally known for two traits: the extreme ugliness of his wealthy Swabian wife and his ears. He was pitied for the first and named “Wing Nut” for the second. Regardless of these two trivialities, Jodl possessed the greatest tactical, and certainly the strongest strategic, mind living, with the poss
ible exception of his British counterpart, the dour and modest teetotaler, Ulsterman Field Marshal Alan Brooke.
Jodl was a swarthy and earthy Bavarian with a very quiet demeanor that belied his outstanding intellect. It was Jodl who had held his nerve during Narvik while his leader, whimpering and vacillating like a whipped dog, changed his mind by the minute. It was Jodl who rapped his knuckles with each word until they were white on the massive oak table in the conference room, as he stated, “In—times—of—extreme—pressure—a—leader—needs—to—lead.” The nine other staff officers in the room each inwardly gasped at the audacity of this act.
At the end of this statement, there was a very, very long pause; the leader straightened, and actually pulled down the tails of his uniform jacket, as nervous young cadets the world over do. Careful to been seen studying the map and avoiding any contact with Jodl’s eyes, he asked the plaintive question, “Jodl, so what do you recommend?” showing Jodl’s dominance over the Austrian. The effect on all of the professional military men present was to cast the very first seeds of doubt about the so-called supreme commander, whose only real experience was as a very brave but very lowly message runner on the Western Front in the Great War.
“Let’s go to the lookout,” suggested Jodl, “Fewer ears there.”
The other two nodded.
The trio made their way down the stone path Bormann had created two years earlier.
The lookout was a collection of three Austrian gazebos Bormann had had built the previous year. Rough-hewn, they were in the traditional Austrian mountain style so favored by the owner.
Once seated, Jodl offered his cigar case—from Dunhill’s of London.
“A gift from a Swiss colleague,” Jodl explained.
Both accepted.
Albert was not a great cigar smoker, but he was the greatest chameleon of the Reich. On the other hand, Milch loved to smoke—“Cigar” was one of the two nicknames his staff had given him; “The Diplomat” was the other, as he was probably the least diplomatic commander in the Reich—“totalfuckinghorseturd” was his mildest statement of reproach.
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