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.

“You can’t be serious,” Bridget von Hammersmark gasped, eyes as wide as saucers, looking up into his face. How had this evolved from a simple punishment—a degrading, humiliating one at that—to something truly bestial? Here a Waffen-SS Standartenführer in all his military splendor and well-earned medals knelt in front of her like a wolf ready to pounce on a sheep, incredible danger in the dark depths of his eyes. She couldn’t have been any more surprised if his mouth had been watering, which it wasn’t. How had she elicited these sorts of feelings from someone well known for his complacency—a man who not only could not be unnerved, but also a man extremely proficient at unnerving others?


“Do I look like I’m kidding,” Landa replied matter-of-factly, retaining his powerful grip on her calf.


“No, you don’t; but I must warn you, Colonel Landa, there isn’t much time.”


“You haven’t been too concerned about it, Fraulein, until this very moment. You’ve no watch to keep track of the time, so my guess—” he said, revealing his watch from beneath his sleeve, “is probably better than yours.”


“Please don’t do this,” she pleaded, remaining immobile on the floor. “You are a reasonable man; you don’t have to do—”


“Reasonable?” he chortled. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d believe that was a compliment.”


“It was, Colonel,” she hastily replied. “You are so very sophisticated, and this would be below you.”


“Ha!” Amusement was written all across his face. He slapped his thigh with his free hand, her eyes following the movement and noticing his arousal was still not waning. “So you are saying it is below me to have sex with you.”


“Yes.”


“Tsk tsk, you’ve got to work on your self-esteem, Fraulein von Hammersmark. Now, if you please, why do you feel this way?”


Her mind raced. What fact would put him off of her, would disgust him enough to get him to refrain from mounting her, as he called it? What would utterly revolt him? She was going to die tonight—she felt it in her bones—but she did not want her last sight on earth to be the Jew Hunter forcing himself on her like a crazed animal. How to disgust Colonel Landa, the Jew Hunter….


“Because I am half-Jewish,” she blurted.


Bridget von Hammersmark’s father was a semi-famous German actor so she reasoned that Landa would know her father’s Gentile background. But her mother was a homemaker, an unknown that was never seen at premieres, was never in the public eye. It was a shot she had to take.


For a moment he froze in place, just staring at her. Within a second or two of her speaking the words, he burst out laughing.


As he laughed she watched him tuck his arousal back into his trousers and almost wanted to sigh with relief. Perhaps her ruse had worked, if not in the way she had originally intended. Even so, he was still in hysterics. She gaped up at him, a mixture of horror and fear boiling inside her stomach, heart thudding in her skull.


She watched him then drop his head, resting his hands on his thighs as he lowered his body onto his haunches. His face had turned bright red, eyes shut tightly as he guffawed quite the same way as he had done when she had mentioned mountain climbing in the lobby. Tears ran down his cheeks, body shaking as he tried to control his laughter, which then sank into his throat and remained there as he shook in silence, probably finding it difficult to breathe. Oh, God— she mused, horrified –but how would he know?


Now was her chance. As he remained in his fit of laughter, she slithered her legs away from him as best she could with a full leg cast, and drew her knees up towards the sky after her feet had been firmly yet silently planted on the floor. With a start she lifted her upper body, using her shackled hands to push herself off the floor and twist her body around in a mad dash for the door.


She was not able to hear his continuing laughter through the heartbeats thudding in her ears, the sound of her own labored breathing as she struggled to keep her mouth shut in an attempt to keep from panting with exertion. Of course, she hadn’t realized that it was not the sound of her overworked bodily processes blocking out his laughter; he had in fact stopped laughing.


“Where do you think you’re going?” Landa growled, standing up quickly and lunging towards her in the tiny room. As she flinched away from the sudden voice, one shackled hand on the doorknob, the other feverishly batting the dangling fox wrap away from the lock, he grabbed her roughly by the upper arm.


“Do you actually believe I’m that stupid, Fraulein?” he hissed, promptly swinging her around by the arm until she slammed face first into the large oaken desk, her upper body doubling over onto the piece of furniture, spilling various papers onto the floor in the process. She let out a yowl of pain as the cast of her injured leg connected with the desk, forcefully slamming her gunshot wound against the inside of the cast.


One moment he was beside her gripping her arm, the next he was shoved up behind her, his body pressed up against her own, the dress having since fallen again to the floor. She could feel the friction of his calloused hands now pushing down on her bare shoulders, keeping her upper body bent over the desk. Warmth emanated from his trouser-clad legs, the bulge of his arousal rubbing against her backside. She shuddered, attempting to squirm sideways to get away from him. It was then, after she had been pinned against the desk, that he broke the tense silence.


“Your mother is Margarete Bauer, daughter of a Lutheran minister—certainly no Jew. That was a particularly poor attempt, Fraulein, especially in your assumption that I am revolted by Jews. Now, where were we?”


His hands left her shoulders for a moment, reappearing just above her knees. She could feel her dress again being hiked up and made an effort to straighten her back, all the while stomping her good foot onto his boot. She was about to speak, but was cut off by Landa.


“You do realize that it’s rather insulting to me for you to resist so fervently. I have been told by many that it is sex, and not Jew hunting, that is my true forte. And based on what you know of my reputation for the latter, you ought to be very impressed indeed.”


“To say you are not revolted by Jews is an outright lie, Colonel Landa,” she retorted, turning her head to view him with her peripheral vision as her cheek rested on the desk. “How can you do such things to those people—hunting them down like animals and then slaughtering them—without some explanation, as contrived as it might be?”


“I need no excuse to do my job to the best of my abilities,” he replied coolly, having again exposed her backside, now again fiddling with his own pants. “After all, it is my expertise in detection that makes me invaluable to the Reich.”


“Ha!” she suddenly exclaimed, but then immediately fell silent. She felt him freeze behind her, unsure of what he would do next. Would he throttle her by the neck from a position safe behind her? Would he simply force himself on her without another word? Would he demand an explanation? She couldn’t decide which consequence was the worst, and held her breath.


“Now, what in the world was that for?” a voice suddenly whispered into her ear.


“You figure it out,” she hissed, attempting to come across as unafraid but being completely terrified.


“You know, that little outburst of yours a moment ago completely altered what I perceived was to happen here. Rather than being on all fours on the ground to receive me, you’re instead bent over a desk. Yes, a very different outcome indeed; wouldn’t you agree?”


“Fuck you.”


As she spat the words at him with utmost hatred, she dug the heels of her hands into the desk in an attempt to push herself off of the desktop, but he bore down even harder on her shoulders, leaning his entire upper body onto hers.


“I’m afraid you have that one backward,” he replied in an amused voice. “You don’t hate me, Fraulein. I think that the humiliation you feel over betraying your country is in fact what’s driving all this defiance, coupled with your instinctive desire to be put in your place by moi.”


She felt his hand slip down below again, his fingers running across her womanhood as she squirmed awkwardly all the while, hating him, hating herself.


“Now, see there?” he said with great pleasure, “Again I prove my theory to be correct.” She felt him wipe his fingers along her thigh, the wetness of them leaving goosebumps where he touched her. She felt an urge to just grab his gun and blow the both of their brains out, for all the disgust she felt at her own body again betraying her.


“Do you want to play this game, Fraulein? The loose bitch in heat mounted by the dog? Or, better yet, the naughty little half-Jew being taken by the Jew Hunter?”


“You’re a monster,” she hissed, the shackles now digging into her wrists. “If I survive this I’m going to ensure the rest of your life is hell, because you deserve it.”


The warmth of Colonel Hans Landa’s body enveloped her like a cloak, though she could feel the cold medal of his various awards scraping against the bare skin of her shoulders as he breathed in and out. She again attempted to stomp her foot on Landa’s boot, but it was no use. They were constructed of hard black leather and were probably reinforced with steel in the toe, based on their utter inflexibility.


“Oh, what to do, what to do,” he muttered quizzically, idly rubbing his hands along her bared skin, “kill Bridget von Hammersmark and live in peace, a hero—or let her live and give her the chance to make my life hell? Hmm, a very difficult decision indeed….”


“Since you’ve decided, just get it over with,” she snarled, positively furious, clawing at the desk like a rabid lion as she struggled to lift her upper body off of the piece of furniture. She continued, her fury ever-increasing. “I only hope that at least one of the people you are responsible for killing haunts your memory and gives you nightmares every night of your miserable life.”


“So you’re giving me permission then?” She could almost picture him beaming at her as he whispered silkily into her ear, the tip of his tongue almost grazing her earring.


“As if you would need my permission.”


“Point taken,” he said with a tacked-on chuckle. It was enough to make her want to vomit.


She moved her head forward, resting her chin on the desk as she listened intently for his next move, expecting his hands to quit their wanderings and go for the weapon—namely, his Luger. As she continued imagining her hopefully painless death, he did move his hand from her skin back towards his body.


This is it, her brain screamed, a cold sweat running from her hairline, beads of cold moisture working their way down the rivulets of her neck tendons. Every hair stood on end. When exactly will my life begin flashing through my eyes? A shuffling of fabric. Better for that to be the last sound I ever hear than the sound of his sadistic voice, she mused.


Suddenly she let out a scream, which was immediately stifled by a thick hand clamping across her mouth. The body behind her shoved into her forcefully, slamming her knees against the oak as she became aware that rather than penetrating her skull with a bullet, he was penetrating her womanhood with his own weapon of power. She saw his hand then, positioning itself stiffly on the desktop as his medals scratched across her back, the sharp edges of the iron crosses positioned on his lapel digging across the flesh of her shoulders as he moved rhythmically along her body. There came a deep ache within her at this violation—a never-ending void in her loins throbbing painfully with the realization that he had actually went through with such an act, that the usually debonair Colonel Hans Landa was capable of such personal, intimate violence.


She squirmed and kicked and struggled underneath him, causing him to move the hand he had set on the desk to her back once more, shoving her back down with a rather sudden blow between her shoulder blades. All the while she spat behind the hand that covered her mouth, opened and closed her jaw as wide as it would go in an attempt to bite him, but only ever able to produce loud but incoherent sounds.


“Soon I will not be so conspicuous,” Landa suddenly revealed, his voice having taken on a thick tone and marred by the presence of subtle pants. “I thank you for making me aware of what needed to be done.”


Landa was most certainly panting by this point, and she could almost picture the redness of his face, the prominence of the veins in his forehead as he worked himself to a frenzy. As he moved faster and faster against her, her teeth now gritted from the pain his medals caused her back, his hand suddenly left her shoulders, repositioning themselves on a rather sensitive region of her anatomy and remaining there. As he approached his own release he used his fingers to tease her own brainless vulnerability between her thighs, a much smaller entity than his own vulnerability. All the while she remained speechless, her breath catching in her throat as she jerked about, struggling to get away from his knowledgeable prodding. Why was he even bothering to care about her pleasure? She was his victim, and thus, this strange stroking was not suitable for such a relationship.


As he slowed himself down, seemingly in an effort to get her caught up in the fervor, his thick masculine fingers effortlessly stroked that barely perceptible knob, keeping their position until she wanted to scream from the betrayal of her own body. He kept his body bent over hers, panting into her ear as her head jerked side to side, hips swaying against the desk, legs unable to stop fidgeting about.


Bridget von Hammersmark whimpered as she felt dizzy, her mind overwhelmed with her thoughts, which wholly conflicted with the ecstasy he was inflicting upon her nether regions. She must have swooned, for she felt his hand leave her mouth, moving to cup her jaw as if it were made of fine porcelain.


“Why are you doing this?” she muttered, her voice trembling, clumsy. She felt utterly drained, her throat as dry as cotton as she attempted to speak.


“Upholding my reputation,” he remarked back in a husky tone, his mouth too close to her ear, and she could picture the knowing smile on his face. “So, Fraulein, do you think it’s about time?”


“Time for wh—”


“You’ll see,” he replied in an amused voice. “Soon you’ll know how it feels to be betrayed—and by your own body, no less.”


Within a matter of moments Landa was moving quickly again, his hand feverishly stroking her to a hot numbness, his other hand leaving her jaw and covering her mouth as she cried out—half from dismay, and half from his obvious expertise. There was then a lack of any negative feeling in her entire body, her legs and arms feeling like gelatin, as she felt him attain his release inside her. How had he warped this scenario in such a way? Her head swam and within moments she had collapsed face-down on the desk.


-----


“Wake up,” a male voice swam through her consciousness. “Wake up, Bridget.” She felt a light slap to her cheek, suddenly aware of soreness in her nose and jaw. Had she survived? Was this Lieutenant Aldo Raine speaking to her, speaking crookedly out of his boyish lips, clad in his neat white smoking jacket? She attempted to move her hands, which were still securely shackled together.


She opened her eyes towards the sound, squinting in the light of the office as the blurred face came into focus. It was Colonel Hans Landa in his black leather coat, a hat on his head, down on one knee beside her. He was getting ready to leave. He must have placed her on the floor, because she didn’t feel the soreness she’d expect to feel from falling flat on her back. She began to try to sit up, noticing that her dress decently covered her and that Colonel Landa looked concerned. Not in the concerned way he’d observe a man suspecting of hiding enemies of the state, nor the concern he’d show towards a foe, but what seemed like a genuine concern for her health that she presumed could never cross that face. His eyebrows were knotted, lips drawn into a tight grimace as he watched her intently, his gaze focused on the fluttering of her eyelids, the subtle movement of her lips.


“Why are you looking at me like that?” she blurted, utterly terrified.


His mind didn’t register his actions anymore. He simply leaned his face downwards, moving his head steadily towards his captive, eyes closed, features relaxed.




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