It was late, well past a reasonable dinner hour, and Zelda was still toiling at her thankless piles of paperwork. Ranged around the room, they stood out in stark contrast against the towering bookshelves of Longfellow’s library, lately become August’s lair. Old, leather-bound volumes lined the walls, while marble busts of historical figures watched over the room with cold indifference. The richly patterned Persian rug beneath her had once belonged to Washington himself, adding to the weight of history. August’s desk was a study in contrast, meanwhile, cluttered with old-fashioned knickknacks and modern reports. The tall, arched windows were draped with heavy damask curtains, their deep red fabric creating a sense of gloomy opulence. The grand salon, with its dark wood and elegant furnishings, matched his air of somber command. Life under his thumb was never dull, with each hour bringing new challenges, but sometimes the tasks assigned to her were truly bizarre. Tonight, instead of suffering through another roast with Adolf, she was examining confiscated porn.
With a groan, she rubbed her temples and looked around. Thinking about Washington, and what he’d fought for, caused a strange brew of emotions—as did watching her boss, bent over the president’s desk, tapping his pen on the hardwood as he scanned some new piece of intelligence. The chandeliers’ light flickered over the richly carved wood and shadowy corners, imbuing the air with a romantic, almost hypnotic ambiance. August’s presence, commanding and enigmatic, filled the space, stirring something inside her that was both alluring and deeply unsettling.
Refocusing on the task at hand, she picked up a card from the pile on the floor beside her. A woman smiled back at her from its glossy surface, waving to the camera as a pair of men in uniform attended to her needs. Unable to suppress her incredulity, she snorted. “This can’t be real.”
August looked up from his own work, one eyebrow raised. “What can’t?”
She waved the card at him. “I had classmates who did this,” she replied, exchanging it for a magazine.
“Sold pictures of themselves?” Dipping the nib of his pen into his inkwell, August carefully refilled it. “Cambridge Rindge and Latin is a more exciting high school than I’d thought.”
“Stealing from their fathers’ nightstands,” she clarified, flipping through a spread that featured women in various states of undress. “And trading Beaver Hunt for weed.”
“These are traded, too,” August pointed out, leaning back in his chair. “For other, less innocent goods. American pornography is more inventive than ours, although we do have our specialties.”
“Case in point!” She held up a second magazine, this one called Feminizing Hitler.
Within the Reich, porn was strictly illegal. However, naturism was acceptable to an extent, allowing ogling a woman’s breasts as long as the fantasy revolved around her athletic prowess. Zelda shook her head at the contradiction, her lips curling in a bemused smile. The regime’s obsession with control extended even to people’s private fantasies. She’d heard rumors that the Wehrmacht produced its own pornographic material, featuring its officers and women recruited from bars, sometimes even involving their own wives and girlfriends. The irony was not lost on her—the very regime that criminalized pornography had its own sordid underbelly.
“During his life,” August remarked, “Hitler made every effort to appear celibate.”
“To his wife’s delight, I’m sure.” Zelda’s tone was dry.
“He seduced her with rhetoric.” August winked, his eyes glinting with mischief.
Zelda glanced at him, a slight smirk playing on her lips. “Hot.”
Chuckling, he opened another file.
It struck her as strange, this blend of intimacy and duty, how their banter masked deeper, unspoken feelings. The air between them crackled with a new, electrifying tension, their professional façade slipping just enough to reveal the thrilling yet unnerving undercurrent of their evolving relationship. But what that relationship was, or might be, she didn’t especially want to examine—not right now, she told herself, not with everything else going on. Instead, she grimaced and changed the subject. “Why does the Gestapo care about people’s sex lives, to begin with?”
“Freedom of action leads to freedom of thought,” he responded, his expression pensive.
Zelda giggled. “Gerda sans Uniforme is fomenting revolution? Quick, somebody tell the resistance!”
Shrugging, he twirled his pen between his fingers. “Sex is, according to doctrine, a tool to build the population and nothing more.” He sounded somewhere between discouraged and amused.
“I love it when you talk dirty to me,” she quipped, unable to repress her natural humor despite the strange undercurrent of tension.
His gaze softened. There was something in his eyes that made her heart race, a mix of warmth and intensity that she found both thrilling and unnerving. She cleared her throat, breaking the moment. “Here’s Mädchen in Uniform,” she announced, hoping her voice sounded steady. “Lots of uniforms,” she added under her breath, a weak attempt at humor.
Focusing on these ridiculous rags gave her an excuse to ignore both August and her own conflicted feelings. That, and she was genuinely curious! If she’d grown up with brothers, or sisters who weren’t complete prudes, she might’ve been better prepared for the Reich’s hidden depths of depravity. But having it laid before her now, in such fascinating and shocking detail, drew her like a moth to a flame. She’d never imagined that there were whole novels devoted to nothing but sex.
As she flipped through the pages, the explicit imagery aroused a strange blend of excitement and apprehension. The best ones described, in lurid detail, acts that seemed neither safe nor physically possible. Most of the world, she was pretty sure, had never heard of either knismolagnia or shibari, let alone electrostimulation and something called—ouch—cock and ball torture. Her own erotic education seemed almost tame in comparison. “I feel like there’s far more biting in this one than anyone actually wants in real life,” she couldn’t help but comment, wincing. “No woman wants that area to meet teeth.”
August’s tone was bland. “Are you sure?”
Her mouth dropped open in shock. “Yes!”
He sliced deftly through an envelope, his movements precise as he wielded the letter opener. “I’m confident that I can prove you wrong.”
“No!” She stood, stretched, and walked over to one of the armchairs, trying to shake off her growing exhaustion. Maintaining her focus was becoming increasingly difficult, especially given these distractions. The men around here, she told herself, would still be leering at the first box of cards…so she could probably spare a minute or two to indulge completely work-related interest. “What about the films?” she asked cautiously.
He turned towards her, that hint of amusement back in his eyes. “Ever seen one?”
Her lip curled in revulsion. “Again, no.”
“Would you like to?” His tone was both indulgent and suggestive, his eyes lingering on her a moment longer than necessary.
“What? That’s gross!” She waved her hands in the air, trying to dispel the awkwardness. “I just mean, something here has to be normal.”
He lit a cigarette, taking a slow drag as his gaze remained fixed on her. “Does it?”
“Where do people even go to see them?” she challenged, ignoring the hint. “Clearly not in a theater.” Although, she had to admit, that particular mental image was a hilarious one.
“Usually,” he explained, exhaling a plume of smoke, “films are screened at parties in private homes.”
She gave him a flat look, her skepticism clear. “I’m not going to ask how you know that.”
He arched an eyebrow, his amusement deepening. “No?”
“Okay, fine!” She sagged, defeated, and threw her hands up in mock surrender. “Tell me about one.”
“The party,” he inquired, leaning back and enjoying her capitulation, “or the film?”
“Start with the film.” Her voice carried a hint of resignation and genuine—if morbid—interest.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
“Most of them are about people in leather,” he began, “experimenting on each other. Americans in particular like to imagine life in the camps.” Opening his desk drawer, he produced a box. “This one, here, is popular. It’s about an alluring prisoner of conscience, who’s taken by the commandant as his personal lover.” He sipped the drink he’d poured earlier. “Mutual cross-dressing and various acts of creative bondage ensue, at least until she kills him and escapes.”
Zelda grimaced, her nose wrinkling in distaste. “She ties him up?”
“Yes.” August’s voice was calm, matter of fact, as if they were discussing the weather. He glanced at her, a hint of inquisitiveness in his eyes, as if gauging her reaction.
“Ever let someone tie you up?” Zelda asked, trying to keep her tone casual. She glanced up at him through her lashes, her interest barely disguising the underlying nerves.
His gaze darkened, his voice dropping to a suggestive susurrus. “No.” Leaning forward, his eyes locked onto hers. “I would, however, like to tie you up.”
Her throat dried out, her cheeks flushing slightly. She shifted her weight, trying to sound nonchalant. “So after, at these parties, the guests…?”
“In two’s and three’s,” he confirmed, his eyes never leaving hers. “And sometimes all together.”
A tendril of forbidden excitement made her pulse quicken—along with a sudden, clear image of him, participating. She managed a teasing smile. “And you accuse us of being decadent.”
He chuckled again, but she noticed the subtle shift in his posture. “Indeed.”
Zelda hesitated, a flicker of insecurity crossing her mind. Anna, his ex-wife, had always been a shadowy presence in the background of these conversations, an unspoken competition. He didn’t like talking about her, but that could simply be a function of their having ended on such bad terms. Or, a traitorous voice whispered, it could be that he wasn’t over her and never would be. Anna had been his first love, after all, the woman he’d thought he’d spend his life with. Had he truly moved on, or was he biding his time, hoping she’d take him back? As little as Zelda wanted to define the terms of their own relationship, or even think of it as one, there were certain things a girl had to know. So, steeling herself, she took a deep breath and tried to sound casual. “What about Anna?” She studied him, gauging his reaction. “Did you ever bring her along to one of these get-togethers?”
“No,” he said curtly, averting his gaze. “She had no interest. Not in pain, giving or receiving, and certainly not in pleasuring herself with other men while I watched.”
Zelda knew this was a fantasy that lived rent-free in his head—and one that was, to him, just further justification for his own self-loathing. He might not have confessed explicitly how much his desires tormented him, but he’d said enough, and she wasn’t an idiot. To the rest of the world, he was the Reich’s Marquis de Sade, a devil in black who manipulated them all from within his spider’s web. But beneath the hard mask he wore lurked a surprisingly sensitive individual. He might be twisted, even depraved, but he was far more complex than most realized. Seeking acceptance, to him, must feel impossible. “Would you have, though?”
He paused, considering. “If we’d had a different kind of relationship.”
“What kind of relationship would that be?” She kept her tone light, sensing the weight of his words.
“A good one.” His response was sour, a touch of bitterness underscoring both regret and a longing that he couldn’t quite hide.
She cocked her head, fascinated in spite of herself. “How did you learn, then?”
He studied her intently. “Are you sure you want to know?”
Her eyes met his, unwavering. “Yes.”
After a moment’s reflection, he nodded. “Inflicting pain is a skill, like any other, and it can be taught.” His account was brusque, almost clinical. “Finding teachers isn’t difficult for the willing student—male or female. Women with compatible interests aren’t rare. Or, more accurately, those willing to endure certain…unpleasantness for a price.”
She hesitated, then nodded. “I see.”
By teachers, he knew and she knew, he meant sex workers. Despite Klaus’s presumptions to the contrary, he’d been equally forthcoming about that vice as all the others. That she didn’t know more was her own choice; setting ground rules felt too much like being boyfriend and girlfriend. But she couldn’t ignore everything forever, which he seemed to understand. After a moment, he continued, his tone still dispassionate but edged with something deeper. “A woman can earn more in an hour with a man like me than she can in a month slaving in some typing pool. Presumably,” he finished, “whatever pleasure she experiences derives from that fact.”
“And if the woman doesn’t want to do something?” she prompted, her voice soft but insistent.
He stood and walked over to the window, staring out into the darkness with an unreadable expression. “The point is that both the man and the woman are interchangeable.”
She sighed, her voice filled with empathy. “That sounds lonely.”
He remained silent as time stretched, his shoulders tense. When he finally spoke, his tone was resigned. “Far lonelier, I assure you, is knowing that the woman you love has to lie to you.”
Carefully, she ventured her next question. “Do you ever like… normal things?”
“Under certain circumstances.” His expression turned musing as his eyes met hers. “Do you?”
Biting her lip, she debated how to respond. Before meeting him, she hadn’t known what she was into, only that none of it had satisfied her. Both Alex and her first boyfriend, despite their best intentions, had left her feeling so… empty. Like something was missing inside. She couldn’t tell her friends what she’d done with August, not without them throwing up. Even her sister would probably lecture her on feminist values, and Charlotte was the most non-judgmental person in the world. Ironically, she knew, she’d do the same if the shoe were on the other foot. Instead of degraded and ashamed, though, she felt powerful…liberated. Being subservient to him somehow made her feel more independent, more in control of her own desires, her own identity. It was confusing, exhilarating, and terrifying all at once. “I should go home,” she volunteered eventually.
He rested his hand on the windowsill, his gaze lingering on the darkened streets outside. “I could come with you,” he suggested, his tone carefully measured.
She felt her heart skip a beat. They’d had this conversation before, and the answer was still no. “The shock might kill Charlotte,” she replied, forcing a lightness into her voice that she didn’t feel.
Turning to face her, his expression betrayed competing impatience and concern. “Do you plan on hiding this forever?”
Opening her mouth, she shut it again. She wanted to be with him, truly, but clandestine rendezvous were one thing; bringing this—whatever it was—into the harsh light of day was quite another. “I plan on waiting until my sister feels better,” she reminded him, her voice firmer now.
His jaw tightened, but he nodded, letting the matter drop—for now. “What will you do at home, then?”
“Get lectured by Adolf,” she replied with a dramatic eye roll. “Or, even worse, made to read one of his books.”
Warmth lit deep within his eyes, making her pulse quicken. “What would you rather be doing?”
“I don’t know,” she murmured, a flush creeping up her neck.
He took a step closer, his eyes searching hers. “I think you do,” he said gently, his voice like a caress.
Her fingers dug into the armrests of the chair as she nodded, anticipation and trepidation swirling within her.
Striding over to the door, he locked it with a decisive click. Then, as businesslike as ever, he returned to his desk and sat down. “Stand up,” he commanded, his tone cool and detached.
Hesitantly, she rose, her heart pounding in her chest.
“Come here,” he indicated the penitent’s spot in front of his desk with a nod.
She moved slowly, her mind racing with what might happen next; her steps felt heavy, each one laden with the weight of her conflicting emotions.
“Take off your clothes,” he ordered, his voice maintaining that same aloof tone.
She froze, uncertainty gripping her. After a moment’s hesitation, she unzipped her dress and let it slide down over her hips. It was form-fitting and one of her nicer pieces. She could feel his eyes on her, appraising yet impersonal, as she went through the careful procedure of unhooking and unclasping her garter belt, the seams of her stockings running up the backs of her legs. The matching bra followed, leaving her in just her panties. She faltered one last time before finally removing them, standing naked and defenseless before his penetrating gaze.
The air between them was charged, a silent communication passing as he observed her. She could feel their dynamic shift, her own empowerment derived from her willingness to be vulnerable. In this moment, she was both exposed and in control, their connection deepening with each shared breath.
He gestured toward the desk. “Now, get up.”
She assumed a position on all fours, her body trembling with anticipation. Despite her mental preparation, she jumped when she felt his hand on the small of her back. He slid it up and down, over her shoulder, and down her arm, his touch both soothing and electrifying. A second hand joined the first, initially resting on her thigh and then moving to her rump. He didn’t speak a word as he stroked her, all over, his hands mapping her body with deliberate precision.
His fingers finally reached her stomach and then one of her breasts. Her exhale was almost a shudder as he caressed it before pulling and then pinching her nipple. The sensation sent shockwaves through her, causing her to gasp. Probing fingers slid up her thigh again, this time much further, exploring her with mingled tenderness and intensity.
He moved her onto her back, guiding her hand between her legs. Her feet gripped the edges of the desk as she stroked herself, her heart pounding against her ribcage. He slid one finger into her, then a second and a third, each movement pushing her closer to the edge. What happened next was earth-shattering, her body arching in response to the overwhelming sensations.
She floated, unmoving, as he freed himself and took her. The connection between them was palpable, each thrust deepening their bond. He trailed his lips down her neck, his breath warm against her skin. “Tell me you love me,” he whispered, his voice a soft command that echoed in her ears.