She freezes feeling his lips on hers, much too soft for a man, a soldier, a SS. She freezes and still she can't help allowing him to open her and take what he wants, too gently for such a man, too.
He licks her lips when he is done. The low, slow shiver she experiences has to be nausea, or at least this is the only fact she considers.
"Sweet like chocolate", he whispers, and he's out of breath already just from kissing her. She refuses to be flattered. Madly she ponders that chocolate is bitter, certainly wartime one. He tastes of expensive cigarettes and liquor she couldn't name, this must be how he keeps it together, and this must be why she is light headed.
She comes back to the present situation, as he is staring at her.
"You are no Krystyna", he challenges, mocking that obviously fake name. Of course she's no Christian. A new moniker and no Jewish star adorning her graceful figure could never change that. The taboo of her Jewishness isn't enough to turn him off though, maybe it even fuels the fire. He doesn't say so, but his eyes do, his hands do.
He looks around, not knowing how to proceed. If he has fantasized this long enough to plan her downfall, it is obvious he never actually thought it would happen, or go that far. Did he expect her to resist? Run and get killed? Her cheeks burn in shame. Maybe she should have. It would have prevented her from being lifted and deposited on his very desk, sitting not far from his SS officer cap and ominous lists - prisoners? Jews? bolsheviks? If only she could get a look, warn the partisans, do Something! But she can only see his gaze so deep, his mouth glistening into the imperfect light. She remembers the first glance she got of him. His caress on her cheek, brazen in its very existence, as she stared at his Nazi insignia to remember.
He is standing in front of her, so close her legs can only remain parted as his hands run on her thighs, first above her dress, before finding a way under. She trembles. Her attempt to close them only encircle his slim hips with more vigour and both of them gasp.
"Shhh this is alright", he says with a half smile, as if she was a frightened maiden. He aims higher and higher over her stockings, and she can't hold his gaze anymore when he reaches the bare skin. So much for her composure.
"Look at me", he orders. There's no threat but the tone is enough for her to obey. His eyes, the way he looks at her in return, she has never experienced that.
Everything is cold, the whole world is cold - even though war is burning its way through a whole continent - except his hands.
"Please", she begs. "No", she adds, just to make sure she is not pleading for more. Her cheap shiny dress, her make up, she can only assume what she looks like to him, and why he chooses to believe she really is for sale.
"I'm Jewish. I'm married". She tells him everything she thinks he doesn't want to hear. Everything she doesn't want to think of: her God, her husband. Neither of them are intervening.
He slaps her again, not harsher but not gentler than before, and this time too, she finds it in herself to meet his gaze. There's fire there too. She could almost forget he's rubbing her over her underwear now, before pushing it aside. She winces in horror, more than because she is dry. If he notices, he doesn't mind, and he keeps touching deeper, gently.
She wants to believe it's not helping but when he finally removes his hand, he makes a show of it, making sure that she sees the tip of his fingers is wet.
"Good girl", he offers low, biting his own lip. Only one tear escapes.
"You are beautiful when you cry, Frau Czylinska". That fake name again, that fake gentleman speech again.
He fumbles below his waist and though she doesn't look, she feels him hard against her thigh. It is obvious he was only untucking himself and he doesn't need any more stimulation to be ready, whether it is the tear, the touch, or the power.
She sobs without any more tears as he advances. She can only recoil a few centimetres before he catches her, embracing and whispering "Come closer". He is so stiff he doesn't need any help to take her, and shamefully, she is wet enough to welcome him smoothly.
"Oh my God", she exclaims in shock that it is really happening. She is in this Nazi officer's arms, he is inside her and he starts moving. She tries to get away again but he's so much stronger. He reaches Something inside her when he bucks and she instinctively grabs at him, afraid to fall, afraid. His uniform feels rough against her cleavage and she explores his shoulders, his back, whining when a button catches at her skin.
She is smoothly moving against him, not even to get over it and finish him faster. Her thighs keep him prisoner and she feels his mouth, warm and wet, kissing at her neck, her cheeks, finally setting upon her mouth. She is warm and wet too where he possesses her, and when she kisses him back.
In the end it's not even a real kiss anymore, more a dual of tongues and teeth and he swears low under his breath, something vulgar and crude that shouldn't excite her but pushes her off the edge when he tugs at her hair. Tension grows and releases. She keens against the expensive material, catching a whiff of his cologne. There's no way to disguise what has just happened and even him looks taken aback that despite everything she has experienced her peak before he even did. He follows soon, trying and failing to be silent, and he forgets to pull out until it is much too late. He does when he is almost finished, though, as an after thought, and she feels him leak against her thigh.
He rests for a moment against her, his forehead against her neck. This is the strangest rape ever. Because it is rape, they both have to believe that… He detaches himself finally, just enough to tuck himself in without her seeing his manhood. She's not trying to but he might like the idea. He pats at his uniform, more gently at his hair still meticulously slicked back, and just like that he looks perfect as if nothing had happened, except for the pink on his cheeks and his swollen lips. She is afraid to get off the desk or to move at all, because she knows she'll feel him leak out of her, and she knows there will be some of hers too. In the end she has to, so she does. Her stockings are a mess, her underwear - she doesn't want to think of this - and she senses without a mirror that her lipstick and eye crayon have been destructed though in different ways. She must really look like a prostitute now. She stands on wobbly legs.
He scrambles into his wallet, obviously at a loss. He doesn't know how much he should give her, and she ponders that he never interacted with a - real - prostitute. She makes no move to take hold of the money, refuses to even guesstimate, even though it would be really, really helpful. The tears flow suddenly, held back too long.
"Did I hurt you?", he asks, and she can only shake her head because no, he didn't. There is something disturbing to that. If not for the details, he could have been taking a sweet Aryan wife.
"Keep your tears, then", he commands, almost back to himself. "You'll need them later". She shivers, is that an inkling of what is to come, personally, or…? Her husband is saved, but she isn't sure the ghetto is meant to stay forever. Many have understood by now that there will be no dreamlike relocation, hence the resistance, the fake name.
"Is it like this with your husband?", he asks suddenly, seemingly out of the blue. She looks at him interrogatively. It is the most hurtful thing he could say, and yet she reads lack of certainty more than his usual refined cruelty and arrogance in it. Does he ask about what she experienced, or what he did? Is the master of the land, the new Pharaoh, comparing himself to a tired man in the ghetto? Any man wants to be normal. There is something shockingly young and vulnerable lurking behind his eyes even though the officer façade is carefully up again.
In the meantime she is afraid to offend him, tries to abstain from crying. He opens and closes some drawers in his desk, swearing again - differently though, and it doesn't turn her on this time - before he seems to have found what he was looking for. A couple chocolate squares, still in their brown paper. He extends the arm, presenting it to her.
"To the victor the spoils", he says, and she doesn't ask if he's talking of this as a prize, or of her as his. She recoils and he scowls, his much too handsome face showing only frustration.
Once again she wonders how experimented he is, not only with prostitutes but generally with women. She decides he is certainly younger than her, and much more awkward around females - even inferior ones - than he would like his men to know. Planning a battle, interrogation, that's his forte. Not that. He must have killed more men than he kissed women. She inhales shakily. She looks down, almost bows to him in appeasement.
"Yes mein Herr", she offers meekly, a reply to his question, his gift, or nothing.
He hums, putting it down. It must make sense to him, in a way, that she doesn't need payment since she enjoyed him. He tells himself she loved it more than he did and clings to his memory of her surprised at her own pleasure. She is tired, exhausted, and she almost expects him to go for his gun and shoot the woman who has seen Herr Kommandant in such a state, sinning against race, against Reich, the angel of death, totenkopf - those who live, on this side, those who don't, on the other - no more. Maybe he is too smug, on a high from this very human experience. Maybe it will be his downfall too, eventually, though she doesn't know if anyone will still be there to bear witness.
His eyes cling to her form, still hungry for her curves, her mouth, while she feels him drying on her skin. He thought he would be rid of this pesky trouble once he tasted her but he is swelling again fast. She recognizes this gaze just as she recognizes her own reaction. Somehow it makes it worse that he doesn't order her around clearly. He doesn't lie when he says "Your husband is safe, for now". For now.