A Punishment for a Traitourous German Actress

BY : CrystalRose
Category: G through L > Inglourious Basterds
Dragon prints: 5387
Disclaimer: I do not own Inglourious Basterds, nor am I making any money from writing this fanfic.

There was no hesitation as Bridget von Hammersmark continued to bash Colonel Landa’s face with the blunt heel, over and over, until crimson stained the heel and blood ran down his face in rivulets. With an unintelligible yell he fell backwards in the chair, and letting out a pained moan, landed sharply on his back on the rungs of the chair’s back. His attacker immediately stood up and moved towards him with her weapon.

Though his vision was marred from the sensation of burning blood in his eyes, he could see her blurred figure approaching. He thought about grabbing his pistol and ending her with a single point blank shot but this was still much too fun. Though his forehead smarted and his eyes stung, his arousal remained as ready as ever. Did she actually believe she could get the upper hand, simply because she was standing and he was not?

When she was close enough, he renounced his pitiful posture, pouncing onto the foot of her uninjured leg and using both of his powerful hands to grab her ankle. Thinking of how this actress had disguised her cunning plan to overpower him for desperation, he channeled his anger over her deception into twisting her leg at an angle it could not handle. His face red with exertion, sweat beading along his hairline, Landa held his breath as he jerked her leg out from underneath her. She fell to her knees with a gasp, her head lolling backwards in an attempt to keep away from his face, those large worker’s hands.

With a mighty grunt Landa heaved his body onto Bridget von Hammersmark’s, causing her to cry out in pain as her injured leg was bent in a way it was not accustomed. She straightened her legs out in front of her as best she could as he grabbed her roughly by her upper arms, positioning himself firmly on top of her. The bright red blood from his face dribbled onto her décolletage as he dug his knees in between her outstretched legs, teeth bared in a triumphant smile. He continued to ram his legs in between her own, the fabric of the dress tearing as he did so, eventually spreading her legs wide enough apart so that they could not do much else other than feel sore from their being stretched apart in such a manner. As she gaped down at his face hovering above her chest, he looked much like a devil, face oozing with blood, white teeth glistening with red in the harsh light of the cinema office.

As she watched in horror, unable to move underneath him, he shifted his weight upwards so that they were face to face. Her eyes remained wide open, pupils large enough to completely block out the blue of her irises as she gaped at him, mouth opening and closing like the mouth of a suffocating fish. Effortlessly he pinned her arms above her head, then shifted his double-handed grip of her wrists to one hand holding both wrists, liberating his other hand. He was now positioned above her on a hand and his knees, which had been shoved forcefully against the inside of her knees, keeping her spread-eagled on the dusty office floor.

All the while, she watched him. His eyes, soulless and as black as coal, with no color around his pupils, stared down at her, probing into her mind like an iron stake. On his mouth was a sinister smile, aided in its eeriness by the presence of his own blood staining his lips and teeth. His face was for the most part unmarred by wrinkles or any such scar or marking, but she had been wrong about his facial hair—at this distance she could see the hint of a dark blond stubble on his jaw and in the form of a moustache above his mouth. He breathed onto her as he finally gained complete control over her body, the sour metallic smell of iron mingling with the scent of peppermint.

“Now, where were we?” he announced, his hot breath on her face. “Ah, yes… You wanted to please me.” His face was mere inches from her own, her blinking involuntarily as drops of his blood fell on her cheeks. His arousal was unbelievably still present, indicating that he had most likely enjoyed the brief moment she had taken control—and relinquished it. The close proximity to him made her feel like a rabid animal as she struggled in vain to move her body, her legs, her arms. As he continued to speak, she could feel his spittle on her face. “It’s a shame you had to go and spoil the moment, Fraulein. You were doing so well, too.”

With his free hand he reached somewhere below his belt. She felt his fingers moving somewhere on his own body, brushing against her crotch as they performed their function on his trousers. He felt his own blood pulsating throughout his body, as an insatiable lust overcame him. It coursed through his veins, pooling in a place that was definitely not his brain. How could he, the self-proclaimed Colonel of Composure, have let himself get this worked up?

“Believe me when I tell you that I wish you would have simply done your duty without needing this kind of restraint,” he muttered, voice thick and low.

His fingers pulled what she imagined to be his arousal out of his trousers, but she was unable to see it due to the presence of his chest lying heavily against hers.

“But, as you said so yourself, Fraulein von Hammersmark, I cannot leave this room remaining unfulfilled—that would be very conspicuous indeed.”

With a crooked smirk, he slid his thick hand between their bodies, pushing the fabric of her dress upwards with the tips of his fingers. The calluses of his hand brushed against the flesh of her thigh, of her abdomen, as he pushed the intact material of her dress up higher and higher. He would take what he wanted from her, in the meantime making her pay for her treachery—and of course for her disfigurement of his face.

“I strongly suggest you refrain from struggling—that is, if you wish to continue breathing, of course,” he murmured in a husky voice, his hand freeing itself from between their bodies and appearing on the floor palm-down. With his face remaining unreadable, he moved his hand so that it glided along the bare skin of her torso, passing over the bony projections of her ribs, down the soft concavity of her waist, over the swelling of her hipbone. She gasped out of horror and fright, certain that if she began screaming, that he’d make short work of her—and so she remained silent. His hand stayed by her bare hip, his thumb tracing little circles around her hipbone. Why was he bothering to be gentle when he’d soon be violating her? She was perplexed and disturbed by this unpredictable behavior.

Before he could slide down to where he’d be able to then force himself on her, Landa stared at Bridget von Hammersmark’s face, so full of life right now, though so very close to death.

All the while she gaped up at him, watching his eyes, his mouth. She had never imagined she’d ever get to see him up close like this. Being as this would be the last thing she’d ever see, she reasoned, she might as well get an eyeful.

The blood dribbling from the wounds on Landa’s forehead was becoming sluggish, coagulating in blackish patches around the boundaries of the holes, each roughly the shape of a half-circle—namely, the shape of the bottom of the heel of her shoe. His eyes were full of concentration, moving slowly and deliberately over the entirety of her face with laser-like precision. He licked his lips as he examined her closely, removing the stain of red from around his mouth with the wetness of his tongue. Though his mouth was slightly ajar, she could feel his breath through his nose, deliberate, steady breaths—a bit faster than she would have expected from this ice-veined man, but rather slow for the intense situation. Under his eyes she could see faint grayish lines, more from age than from lack of sleep. At the corners of his mouth were fine lines, creases that ran up to the corner of his nose, the combination of the two lines restoring the symmetry that his crooked smile could not afford him. A series of small, albeit noticeable pockmarks marred his prominent chin, which held a trace of dark blond stubble. From this distance, she could almost count the pores within the cleft on his chin and noticed what looked to be dimples in the skin of his cheeks. The smile that elicited these dimples, though theoretically attractive, was a horrifying sight when in the proper context—for example, right now. However, to her relief, Landa refrained from smiling, keeping his face expressionless for the moment. The time she had spent scrutinizing Landa’s couldn’t have lasted for more than half a minute, but it seemed like forever to her as she awaited his next move.

In his close inspection of Bridget von Hammersmark’s face, Landa saw her eyes, wide and fearful, pupils overwhelming their light blue counterparts, her lips slightly parted. Being as he lie directly on top of her, he could feel her rapid heartbeat through the material of his shirt, through the medals and decorations pinned to his pockets. Landa gave her a grim smile, his eyes exploring her face, as she remained completely silent, frozen with fear, with impending doom. He could see the traces of rouge she applied to her cheeks, the powder foundation coating the fine hairs of her face, as if she were a porcelain doll covered with a thin layer of dust. Her lipstick was no longer immaculate, with a smudge rubbed off on her lower lip, and a crimson smear across her upper lip that extended onto the creamy complexion of her skin. Her eyelashes had been lengthened and thickened with the help of black mascara, which unfortunately was clumping at the base of more than a few lashes. Her nose was straight and small, with a trace of shininess—smudged-off powder, he suspected, on its tip. She blinked rapidly, her breath leaving her nose and mouth in shallow gasps.

As he moved his gaze downwards, he could see the pulse throbbing in her neck, her perfect, unblemished neck, save for a mole or two hidden under a thin layer of powder.

When he again looked into her eyes he could see that she was equally at work examining his face, his features. He felt the urge to swallow, to blink. Her life was in his hands and yet she still looked at him, studying his face, regarding him as a person. He had never expected her to be this courageous in the face of certain death, this willing to want to survive. Sure, she could have spat on his face, could have cursed him into hell in that crude English, and he would have then exterminated her rather quickly. But he’d never expected this strange staring contest before he would be forcing himself onto her, emptying his seed into a body that would soon hold no life, no hope. As many repulsive actions as he had performed in his past, he had never dared cross this particular line before—and yet, there this chance was, right in front of him—a true enemy of the state, there for the taking.

He couldn’t bring himself to do it while looking at her face. Bridget von Hammersmark’s face, full of fear and a strange sense of innocence, evoked rather different feelings from him. Had she not been the disgusting traitor she was, evading his detection successfully for however long—and then having the audacity to pummel his forehead with the very item that incriminated her—he might have been inclined to kiss those lips. But not now.

She had prolonged the moment successfully. Certainly in less than half an hour now the dynamite would explode and she and Landa would be no more than a couple eliminated during some tryst in a cinema office. How, though, could he be sure that the plan wouldn’t be enacted while he punished her in his own humiliating ways? She was torn from her reverie by the sound of his voice, cool and calm as ever.

“I must say, Fraulein, I’d never expected the situation to end in this manner,” he murmured, a crooked grin on his face.

“What manner?” she quickly replied. What was his final plan here? Was he to commence forcing himself on her? Was he to go for his sidearm, which presumably still remained at his hip?

With his free hand he reached towards his hip, answering her question for her.

“Colonel Landa, I implore you to spare my life,” she heard herself say. She was only thirty-six years old and had so much to live for—namely, she couldn’t wait to have her Hollywood career jumpstarted after Operation Kino was enacted and the war had ended. All this, of course, depended on her surviving the night. A possibility that looked bleak at the moment.

“What was that?” he replied with a big toothy grin. “Oh, that’s right; your life. I’m afraid that option is no longer possible, Fraulein. Now, if you had simply done your duty earlier while on your knees, you may have stood a fighting chance.”

“You don’t have to kill me,” she whispered. “You can be a hero to Germany without needing to kill me, just by stopping this operation before—”

“Ah ah ah,” he responded in a singsong voice, the same response he had given her before when she had mentioned his halting the operation. His free hand, she presumed, had found its target at his hip. She swallowed loudly.

“Why do you interrupt me like that?” she spat. “If you don’t care that the operation will proceed—though you have the power to stop it—then you’re no less a trait—”

“Do you think saying things like that will change my mind?” he interrupted with a goodhearted chuckle, though his eyes were cold. His smile faded until his face was utterly sober. “On the contrary, Fraulein.”

“What do you want from me?”

“I want you—” he began, moving his free hand back towards their upper bodies, a metallic clicking accompanying the movement, “—to resist resisting.” There he was again, beaming at her, his teeth perfectly straight and white, surrounded by those deceptively boyish lips.

His smile never wavering, he opened his hand, exposing a pair of shackles. His eyes focusing somewhere above her head, he brought the shackles up over her face until it met his other hand, which had been busy restraining her hands. In seconds her hands had been shackled together above her head.

Suddenly he lifted his body up so that he was on his knees, positioned between her thighs. His hands moved immediately to his pistol, though not quite touching his sidearm. She couldn’t help but notice that his smile remained all the while.

Staring into his laughing eyes, she hesitantly moved her shackled hands to her chest region, the positioning of her wrists under her chin a posture of self-defense. It was then she noticed that his arousal was now exposed, a thick, stiff rod standing at attention in front of the green-colored material of his shirt. He was aware of her eyes traveling to this organ and chuckled naughtily, glancing towards her exposed groin, the ripped dress now tucked up towards her chest region baring all below.

“Tell me, Fraulein, have you ever owned a dog?” he implored matter-of-factly.

The question struck her as extremely out of place. In fact, it made no sense whatsoever. She proceeded to answer it with great care.

“Yes,” she admitted, watching his face, her face twisted with confusion, suspicion.

“Male or female?”

She was utterly puzzled now, which was not lost on him. His mouth drew up into a crooked smile, dimples appearing in his bloodstained cheeks.

“Both… Why?”

“Ah ah ah,” he chided. “Just follow my line of questioning without diverting it, please. Now, have you been certain to keep your female dog—the bitch, as it were— indoors during certain times of the year?”

She began to sit up, but was met with the palm of his hand. Strangely during this talk, his arousal still remained. She let her head lay back down on the floor and sighed with exasperation. What was he getting at, anyway? With a sigh, she began her response.

“You mean, when the female was in heat—”

A nod from Landa, accompanied by a disconcerting smile. He was all but completely ignoring his arousal, which implausibly lingered. She narrowed her eyes at him, feeling rather lost. How could he switch his line of thought so rapidly, one minute ready to pounce and the next asking her a series of banal questions? She rolled her eyes before replying.


“Now, what would happen if you failed to do this?”

She narrowed her eyes at him, attempting to read his mind. Of course that didn't work.

“What do you mean, fail to keep the female indoor—”

“Yes.” He was now unabashedly beaming, a smile lighting up his entire face. Had it been a completely different situation and had he not been Colonel Hans Landa but an American G.I. with that disarming smile, those sparkling eyes, those perfect teeth, she would have been ready to do anything. But this—this man was essentially torturing her with his two personas, a sinister presence under an easygoing, attractive façade.

“Fraulein, as I already inquired, what would happen if you failed?”

“A male dog would…. Well, you know, Colonel Landa…”

“Would what?” he asked, with the utmost of politeness.

“Would mount her,” she finished, feeling revolted. Was this stupid conversation the last she’d have in her life? Was Landa doing this on purpose to make her feel like an idiot? She couldn’t be certain.

“That’s a bingo!” Landa suddenly exclaimed in English, looking positively ecstatic. It caught her off guard as she looked up at him, confusion written all over her face. She cocked an eyebrow at him as if he had just grown an antler.

“Are you familiar with that American term, Fraulein? I can only assume you are.”

Watching Hans Landa beaming, his megawatt smile as large as it could possibly ever be, she had never seen a man look so excited in her entire life. Yet Landa liked to show his unabashed joy, no matter how inappropriate it was. She felt her intestines squirming around inside of her, her entire body full of uncertainty and discomfort.

“No,” she muttered, keeping her hands close to her chin, watching him warily all the while.

“You failed tonight, Fraulein. Do you know what that means?”

Her eyes widened in disgust and horror, and she was reduced to silence, attempting to scoot her body away from him by digging her feet into the floor and shoving her body backwards. He put his right hand on her uninjured calf, gripping it tightly and keeping it in place.

“As you told me yourself, when you fail, the female gets mounted,” he explained giddily. A chill passed over her as the merriment in his eyes suddenly faded into darkness, his stubbornly remaining smile now taking on a sinister form. “And, well, I only see one female in this room—a rather deceptive bitch, at that.”

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