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.

Bridget von Hammersmark gaped indignantly at Colonel Landa’s rapidly approaching face, his closed eyes…


She let his lips touch her own, feeling the dryness of his bottom lip brushing against her own parched lips. His lips implored hers gently, a light pressure as they angled themselves over her own, the sudden damp sensation of his tongue lightly moistening the connection between the entrances of their mouths. She could see the light brown eyelashes of his closed eyes as his face brushed against her own, the faint stubble of his cheek rubbing across her skin like fine-grit sandpaper. The smell of blood, peppermint, and pipe tobacco emanated from his skin, as his mouth pressed against hers, his full lips moving against her lipstick-laden ones. Her shackled hands remained together under her bust line, arms bent at the elbows, as she considered what her options were—and what exactly his plans were.


As she allowed him to continue the kiss, she shivered. Why hadn’t he simply shot her after she had served her purpose over the desk? She felt his tongue gently prodding against her lips, moving back and forth lightly as if pacing around after requesting entrance.


With grim acceptance, she granted Hans Landa’s tongue entry into her mouth as she closed her eyes to block the view, knowing it was likely her last. He delved deeper, though his kiss was surprisingly tender. His hand rested firmly on the ground, supporting his upper body as she allowed for her tongue to slide over his own. Now would be the perfect time to bite down, to sever that most-reviled organ clean out of his mouth—the organ responsible for all the questionings, the investigations leading to countless executions. For the life of her she was too petrified to do much else other than kiss him back. Simply put, his actions frightened her out of her wits. How could one man, a man so able to predict the actions of others, be himself so utterly unpredictable? To force himself on a woman, but then to work for her release as well—and then to kiss her so tenderly afterwards. It made no sense.


She then felt his hand running along her waistline, moving from the curve of her hip upwards, barely skimming the shimmery fabric of her evening gown. He ended the kiss, lifting his head and smiling at her, eyelids heavy and grin crooked and—had it not been for her terror and hatred for this man—utterly irresistible. His eyes were bedroom eyes, pure and simple, unfortunately framed by his Nazi uniform, the skull on his hat almost seeming to wink down at her. As he watched for her to change expression at his blatant intrusion, his hand reached its goal—her breast. She gasped, eyes widening with confusion.


“Why are you doing this?” she blurted. “I don’t understand.”


“You ask too many questions, Fraulein,” he replied matter-of-factly. With that, he pulled back the dress to expose her breast, focusing his gaze on his newly uncovered prize. He heard her gasp but only looked back at her for a brief moment, his eyes shining. She watched him intently as he again returned his focus to her breast, smiling down on it ravenously as if it were a fresh strudel topped with the most delectable cream. Her face became ever-hotter as he then lowered his face onto her breast, enveloping it in the warmth of his mouth, his tongue encircling its apex with practiced expertise. She quivered involuntarily at the sensation of suction from his mouth, a renewal of moisture gathering in her nether regions as he delicately suckled. How could such a monster be such a lover? Hans Landa was a walking contradiction, a man she could not understand nor manipulate. Something was going to explode soon, and it might not necessarily be the cinema.


After bestowing the same treatment on her other breast, Landa raised his head and licked his lips, flashing her a wide toothy smile of triumph. As he did so, he made certain to cover her back up, restoring the neckline of her dress to its original position. She raised her eyebrows at him.


“Colonel Landa, I am confused,” she remarked.


“How can you be confused? I am merely bestowing pleasure upon a beautiful woman,” he responded, grinning wholeheartedly. “I’m sure you receive offers all the time, but I can now say that I have had the privilege of doing to you what many men can only dream about.”


She felt a blush coming on and her mind screamed—don’t fall for his niceties and his compliments! You know damn well that there's an underlying motive for this sudden change in him! You know better than to let him win you over with his charms!


But what could she do? She had to get out of this room, if only to avoid the impending explosion—both in herself and in the cinema. She had to get the upper hand, if only for a moment. That would be all she would need. To immobilize Hans Landa for a short time and escape. His voice, thick and breathy, pulled her from her thoughts.


“What are you thinking, Fraulein? Have I embarrassed you?”


“Yes, you have, Colonel Landa.”


He put a hand up, closing his eyes as if bothered by her response. She cocked an eyebrow in curiosity.


“I must request that you call me Hans; Colonel Landa is far too formal. May I call you Bridget?”


She felt very much like rolling her eyes, but evidently a change had come over him. Perhaps she could convince him to let her go. Perhaps.


“Of course—Hans,” she scoffed, attempting to come across as unperturbed. “You needn’t ask such things.”


He watched her carefully as she slowly sat up, her eyes never wavering from his own. She half-expected him to push her down, but he simply remained in his half-kneeling, half-squatting position to one side of her body. Could she be winning? Even if she was, she had to seal the deal.


It was then that Bridget flashed Landa a most surprising smile, an intoxicating, come-hither grin that was entirely meant for him. He was a bit baffled by this shift in her strategy, but knew his sexual prowess had been more than enough to alter many women’s initial opinions of him. His infamous reputation afforded him no openly interested women—that is, until he was close enough to seduce them. Even Bridget von Hammersmark was not immune to his charms; that he certainly knew.


“Kiss me,” she murmured, boldly leaning towards him, chin up as her eyes focused up at him, pale blue hidden under a curtain of thick eyelashes and heavy eyelids.


“Of course, Fraulein—err, Bridget,” he corrected with an easy laugh.


Her smile increased for a moment to acknowledge their new intimacy of a first-name basis, then she lifted her shackled arms up over her face to run her fingers through her hair. He watched her suspiciously as her face approached ever-closer, hands still above her head. In the last several inches before they would make contact, she, with eyes now closed, slipped her shackled hands behind his head, settling her hands on his shoulders. He couldn’t help but narrow his eyes at this technique, knowing exactly what might become of this daring move of hers but knowing he could blow a hole right through her stomach at any time, if she should be so stupid as to attempt to strangle him with the chain.


He closed his eyes lightly as their lips again touched, Bridget von Hammersmark taking the lead this time around, grasping his leather coat tightly under her hands, feeling the muscles of his shoulders shifting in his back as he shifted his positioning slightly to better accommodate the kiss. She pulled his body tightly against hers as she felt him lower down onto both knees, and then further lower onto his haunches to maintain balance. Again his medals brushed against her décolletage, their bodies flush against the other. She slanted her head slightly to gain entrance to his mouth, and was allowed entrance. Now he would know her charms. She already had the looks, the fame, and the love of her many fans. Knowing that the Jew Hunter himself, as sadistic and sinister as he was, had been able to excite her—well, she could alter his entire opinion of her with her feminine wiles.


She slipped her tongue into his mouth, flicking it about until it collided with his tongue, which happily received hers, mimicking its motions and attempting to battle its way back into her mouth. A moan escaped her lips as her shackled hands ventured further down his back. He was fortunately slight of build, slender and free of bulk, making her ecstatic that she had some freedom of motion so as not to focus on the obvious target of his neck.


Landa couldn’t help but open his eyes at this new development: Bridget von Hammersmark’s shackled hands wandered down his back, the chain brushing against the leather of his coat as her hands continued southward. She had since opened her eyes at this moment and their eyes locked for an instant, eyelashes almost able to touch. Modesty overcame her and she looked downwards, continuing the kiss with a renewed moan, her hands feeling their way down the back of his coat.


Now Landa was feeling ill at ease. Was she attempting to get at his pistol? There’d be no way she could lift her arms up over his back in time to fire off a shot. Was she really so foolish as to assume she could try such an audacious move? All he’d have to do was lean back and her hands would be stuck in place. He allowed her to continue, curious as to the limits of her intelligence. This was a game she could not win.


She pushed into him with new force, moving her lipstick-clad lips over his full lips, moistening them with the very tip of her tongue as she teased him with a throaty giggle. At the same time, her hands lowered to their final position and squeezed flesh—namely, Hans Landa’s derriere.


With a start his body jerked and he stopped the kiss, eyes shooting open as if affronted. This woman had unabashedly grabbed his ass, had done so without even asking his permission or being told to do so. The women he had chosen to sleep with over these last several years had not been the type to take control, to do what they wanted to him simply because they wanted to. Bridget von Hammersmark was more mature than these girls of twenty or so and far more experienced. He had not expected a fact like that to delight him, but as her fingers squeezed into the flesh, pulling his derriere towards her, he couldn’t help but feel thrilled at the development. Could he become aroused again so soon?


Bridget von Hammersmark’s eyes opened slyly, staring boldly and directly into Landa’s surprised eyes.


“I’ve always wanted to do that,” she murmured huskily, squeezing his backside again as he again recoiled.


“I thought so,” he replied after a beat. With that, he wrapped his own arms around her back, crushing her to him as he continued a powerful kiss for several more moments—a kiss and embrace that left her breathless. She felt his well-muscled body against hers, his chest rising and falling with quick breaths, the slenderness of his waistline, sandwiched by her on both fronts. His large hands clutched her flesh tightly but without eliciting any sort of pain. The palms of his hands were hot and moderately damp as they skimmed over the skin of her upper back, grasping the flesh there with a neediness that shocked her.


As she felt trembles of excitement, she reminded herself that her body was pressed against Colonel Hans Landa, that ruthless, terrifying mercenary that politely killed hundreds, if not thousands of innocents. How could such a man be so dichotomous, sadistic on the one hand, tender and passionate on the other? The thought made her guts churn louder and louder until she was sure he could hear them.


When he finally ended the kiss, he pulled his head back but only far enough so that he could take in her whole face when he looked at her. He beamed at her, his eyes cheerful and amiable, cheeks flushed, lips swollen and red. He looked much like a man in love, all starry-eyed—she could almost swear that she could feel his heartbeat as they pressed against each other. Had she triumphed over him? Had she swayed the unswayable Hans Landa?


Her heart thudded in her neck, half from excitement, half from simply looking at Hans Landa in such a state. She reasoned that he’d never expose himself this way, allowing himself to look so lovestruck, so vulnerable, unless he truly felt it. She couldn’t help but smile back coyly at him, feeling that she had won. A lovestruck man wouldn’t kill the woman he loved, she mused—not even if that man was Hans Landa. His voice pulled her from her thoughts.


"May I see your hands?" he asked her, as polite and sweet as he could be, his voice taking on a boyish, shy tone. She felt like melting on the ground and then laughing at the outcome of this encounter.


"Of course, Hans," she replied, with a raising up of her shackled hands, removing them from the region of his backside and inching them up his back, brushing along his coat as her hands continued their journey upwards. As she slipped her hands up over his head, he held out his hands, taking hers in them. She held her breath, feeling her heart beating faster and faster.


“I hope you don’t mind my switching to French for a moment, Bridget." He looked down at her hands, holding them so that her palms faced upward. "Ah, French, the language of romance—much less harsh than German,” he added with a sigh.


“Why,” she murmured in German. She was not proficient in French, but she would hopefully be able understand to it if he kept it simple. Maybe he'd recite to her Paul Verlaine's Clair de lune or perhaps a selection from Pierre de Ronsard's Sonnets pour Hélène. Perhaps he'd utter a single word in French and then proceed to unshackle her wrists, a distinct possiblity.


Much to her surprise, he leaned forward, still on his haunches, and planted a soft kiss on each of her flushed cheeks. He then lifted her shackled hands up to his face and leaned down to tenderly kiss each palm. His face positively glowing, he then looked straight at her, staring into her perplexed blue eyes with his dark laughing eyes. A hand lifted to stroke the side of her face delicately, as if wiping the dew from a flower petal, and he murmured softly his flawless French.


Parce que je dois dire adieu… mon amour traître."


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