Vengeance 10

It was a three-room suite: sitting, bed, and bath, all in differing shades of blue that were not quite contrasting, not quite matching. The effect was striking but vaguely uncomfortable. An exquisite Botticelli reposed on the eighteenth-century credenza that had been rebuilt inside to house a record player. Over the Empire sofa hung a magnificent Renoir, somewhat out of place but acceptable for itself. He had studied the painting that morning but had not been able to decide if it was real or a clever fake. Bethwig crossed the Persian carpet to the bedroom, switching on the light as he entered. Weary of the day’s equal servings of sense and nonsense, he shed dinner jacket and shoes and started for the bath. A muffled whimper stopped him dead, and he turned to see the bedclothes thrown aside to reveal a pale face crowned by a tousled mass of long reddish hair. The apparition was so startling that he halted in midstep.

‘What the devil…’ he began, wondering if he had not got into the wrong room. His shock turned to embarrassment as a woman sat up, unmindful of the eiderdown slithering away. Bethwig’s protest stuttered into incoherence, and the girl laughed, a quicksilver sound that filled the room. She turned to look at him, drawing her legs under so that she was kneeling on the white satin sheets. She brushed the blanket aside with a lithe gesture, and Bethwig was struck dumb by her unexpected beauty.

‘You are Herr Professor Franz Bethwig, are you not?’ she asked with a smile that made him catch his breath. ‘They told me you were quite handsome and very athletic. I can see that they were correct.’ She shifted her legs, so that she was now sitting, and patted the bed beside her. ‘Come, here beside me. I can promise you I will bite.’ This last pronounced with laughing authority.

Desperate for something to say, Bethwig cleared his throat. ‘What is your name, please?’

‘Oh my, so formal.’ She pouted a moment, then gave him that heart-stopping smile once more. ‘Inge. Do you like it?’

Even though Bethwig was experienced enough to know that her entire manner was a well-practised art, he nevertheless felt drawn to the girl and moved to sit beside her. His hands were shaking, and he clenched his fists to hide his nervousness. Inge touched a fingertip to his cheek and smiled again.

‘Do you like Inge?’ She postured for him, thoroughly enjoying herself. Her voice was pitched quite high, and as he turned to her the soft light shone into eyes that were little more than dark pupils. ‘Men always tell Inge she is beautiful. They always want me to take off my clothes.’ She laughed again. Bethwig closed his eyes a moment, in pain as he realised that she was mentally retarded.

‘Well,’ she demanded.

‘Yes, very much so,’ he told her softly. ‘You are quite beautiful, Inge.’

The girl preened like a cat, arching her back so that her breasts shivered seductively. In spite of himself, Bethwig touched a gentle curve, tracing it upward towards the nipple.

‘I have never before made love to a professor,’ she whispered. ‘Have you ever had a girl like me? No? Well, I can teach you and you can teach me. Would that be all right? Isn’t that what professors do?’ Her hands were busy unbuttoning his shirt. He made a half-hearted effort to brush them away, but she persevered with a giggle. A musky odour compounded of sleep and French perfume enveloped them, and he drew a shaky breath. In spite of his inclination not to touch this beautiful but helpless woman, his defences were crumbling. As if able to sense his misgivings, Inge sat back and regarded him with the perceptive understanding of a child.

‘Please, Franz, I am a woman. Please do not deny me that.’ She stared anxiously, willing him to understand. The combination of her appeal, her nearness, and her obvious need for him shattered his good intentions.

‘I can help you if you let me. Will you?’

There was nothing else he could do, and he nodded.

* * *

They lay quietly side by side, and Bethwig wondered if he would ever again experience anything as emotionally trying yet satisfying. That the girl was an accomplished sexual artist, there was no doubt. Strange as it seemed, it did not trouble him when he thought of how she had learned. There was a sense of giving, of sharing pleasure, that he had always thought represented the state of love, and to find it in an SS prostitute had taken him completely by surprise. Bethwig wondered what would eventually happen to the girl and discovered that he very much cared. He propped himself up and caressed her shoulder until she murmured sleepily, snuggled into his body, and, with her fingernail, began to trace patterns that made him catch his breath. His erection came swiftly, and Inge was astride him before he could protest. She put her hands on his shoulders and rocked and rocked until his thrusts matched hers in desperate need, and, inconceivably, their lovemaking was better the second time, seeming to last for ever until both exploded into exhaustion.