Yes My Führer

A bonus to celebrate reaching the milestone of 1,000 posts on this blog.

This is a hard-to-find story from Uniform Girls 17, which was redacted from later versions of the magazine. The text has been kindly provided by Ronald, who had an original mag, and the pictures taken from English Girl in Germany (New Blushes 2.19), as they were duplicated from this story. In their original German context in EGiG the comedy Hitler figure reminded me of the film Jojo Rabbit. As the English Mr Catford, however, he is more reminiscent of Monty Python’s Terry Jones.

‘Führer,’ he said. ‘Call me Führer. My Führer. Can’t you remember that?’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Catford,’ the girl said. ‘I mean, my Führer. I keep forgetting.’

‘Well don’t forget. The nation’s youth must be strong and fit and alert. And that goes for its young women as much as men. Just because you’re not at the front is no excuse for idle sluggards. Or girls who forget the simplest things. Have you got that, Elsa?’

‘Yes my Führer.’

He brought his face close. ‘Good. Because the next time I shall have to take action. I shall have those knickers down. Have you got that?’

Samantha chewed at her lower lip and said ‘Yes my Führer.’ Mr Catford would do that anyway. Find some excuse. Even if she did remember not to call him Mr Catford. That was the whole point of it, or one of the points of it. Smacking her bum. Or caning it. Had Hitler, Mr Catford’s idol, been keen on smacking girls bums? She had never heard that he had. Or making girls march up and down in front of him, come to that.

Mr Catford sat down in the armchair. ‘I think I’d better have a look at it anyway. Before we do some marching. Your bottom, Elsa, that’s the key place to see if a girl’s fit and in shape, or if she’s too fat. Eh? Let me see it. Come here, closer, and lift your skirt.’

Chewing her lip again, Samantha stepped forward in the chunky black shoes, close to Mr Catford’s chair. And turned, to present her bottom to him. She wasn’t keen on all this but after Mr Catford had found out a couple of things she didn’t have a lot of choice. It’s only a game, he had said at first but it was a game he played for real. This wasn’t Mr Catford’s place in their boring little town in Surrey, it was the Führer’s secret retreat deep in the Black Forest. And Elsa Richter had been sent to him for special training. Her mother was overjoyed at this. Frau Richter that was, not Samantha’s mother who didn’t know.

Certainly her mother didn’t know about this uniform which was kept here at the secret retreat in the Black Forest. The grey shirt and skirt and red tie and cord. And of course stockings. Women did wear stockings in those days. Mr Catford was very keen on stockings.

Samantha lifted up the dark skirt to reveal the whole length of the tan stockings, tautly fastened at the darker rims by the clasps of a white suspender belt. Her pale, rounded thighs and then above, the white knickers. She hoisted it right up, round her waist. She guessed… Yes.

His hands on her hips. Fingers hooked into the waistband of the knickers. Sliding them down. The Führer had to have a proper look of course. The bare flesh. The soft bare flesh of a German maiden’s bottom. What better sight for a man bedevilled by the cares of war, by incompetent generals. Yes, the soft, firm hindquarters of a young German girl, 18, in her prime. Coming soon into the age for breeding: sturdy sons for the nation’s future. But right now… His hands were caressing the silky curves.

‘Getting proper rations at home, Elsa? Healthy foods? And of course exercise?’

A mumbled ‘Yes my Führer.’ She shifted her feet in the chunky black shoes. Opened her mouth and closed it again. This sort of thing…

‘Part your legs, Elsa. And bend forward.’

Oh God! But doing it. Parting her feet so that the knickers at the level of her stocking tops were stretched taut. And bending. Mr Catford’s hand… taking hold of her. That plump fuzzy fruit. Parting the outer lips. She gave a little moan. Mr Catford’s voice thick, a bit jerky: ‘No… ah… experiments I hope, Elsa. A German girl… must keep her purity.’

She moaned again, managed a sound of assent, squirmed her hips. His hand… her mouth opened, pink tongue moistening pink lips. Christ. She could feel herself all wet. And the hand… the fingers…

The hand finally came away. ‘All right. Pull them up. Let’s have some drill now. I trust you have been practising, Elsa. Drill is essential for our young people. Drill and discipline.’

Her breathing agitated, as if she’d just run for the bus. That sort of thing… Grabbing her knickers up. She was all shaky. Her knees felt like rubber. But she’d better concentrate on the marching. Otherwise…

Erect, back straight, chin up. Shoulders back. Tits in the grey shirt thrust out. Arms coming forward and up as if they had no joint at the elbow. Knees high, lifting the skirt. Swinging forward, across the centre of the room like a toy clockwork soldier. Up to the wall, mark time, turn, come back. Forget the wobbly knees, forget the hand. Just keep your chin up and eyes to the front.

The seated figure with its clipped black moustache and characteristic flat hairstyle watching with studied gaze. His stick in hand ensured high knees and straight back. Battles were important of course but really no more important than the training of the nation’s youth. Girls especially. Young women: breeders and guardians of the fatherland’s future. Yes, the nation’s great leader could always find time for this rewarding task.

‘Knees higher, Elsa. And keep the shoulders back.’

She kept going. Across the room and back. It made your legs ache, your thighs, having to lift your knees like this. But make yourself keep going. If Mr Catford thought you were slacking… or not fit…

‘Halt, Fraulein Elsa. Face me, at attention.’

She came to a welcome stop. A hand up to her forehead brushing back a damp curl. Then at attention, fingers stretched at her sides. Chin up, eyes front. The eyes met those of Mr Catford as he stood up.

‘Sweating, Elsa? After only a few minutes marching?’

She took a deep breath. ‘Not really… my Führer. It makes your legs ache, though. With your knees right up.’

Mr Catford grunted. His hands were feeling her tits in the grey shirt. Nothing underneath of course, no bra. A fit young woman did not need such things. Mr Catford now at the shirt buttons. Unfastening. Samantha stood still, remaining at attention. A German maiden being inspected by the nation’s leader. What a privilege. He was now pulling the unbuttoned shirt open.

She gave a little squeak as he took hold of her bare tits. Firm and round they were not in need of a bra, although normally of course Samantha wore one. Except when here in the secret retreat in the Black Forest. She came in her normal clothes, you could hardly wear this stuff in the street. Changing upstairs in the bedroom. Samantha Masters going up and Elsa Richter coming down. ‘Good afternoon, my Führer.’

His fingers playing with the nipples which were already half erect. Elsa Richter naturally did not object to the great man handling her tits, it was an honour. Samantha chewed her lip, making herself stand still.

He stopped. A final pinch to each now fully erect nipple and then he was buttoning up her shirt. ‘We’ll have another little spell, Elsa. And this time… so that I can see better the leg action… ’

She knew what he was going to say. As he fastened the top but one button. ‘We’ll have the skirt and knickers off. So that I can observe the leg action…’

And her bare bottom. And her pussy. Observe them. Samantha didn’t like marching like that. Didn’t like it at all. But there were a number of things she didn’t like that she nonetheless had to do. Unfastening her skirt and stepping out of it. And then, pink-faced, her knickers. Tucking the tail of the shirt in her belt. Mr Catford — the Führer — didn’t want shirt-tails in the way. She stood to attention again.

Mr Catford, after eyeing her pussy, came round to the back. His hand at her bare bottom. Caressing. Then a brisk slap. ‘Good. March then, Fraulein Elsa. And let me see spirit and enthusiasm in every step.’

Doing it all again. Only this time your bum was bare and so was your pussy. Your bare bottom jouncing at each step, left cheek and then right, as the knees were raised high and the chunky-shoed feet banged down. Keep doing it just as well as you could because otherwise poor Elsa…

Although the unfortunate fact was that however well she did it, poor Elsa could not do it well enough. And that normally meant…

‘Halt, Fraulein Elsa. Atten-shun.’

Now it would come.

Mr Catford getting up from his chair. She was trying no doubt, and improving. Just a little. But not perfect yet. Was it possible for a girl to be perfect in her drill? Mr Catford smoothed his hand over his flat black hair. He combed it differently, straight back, when he went out. A man didn’t want to invite strange looks. But here in the secret retreat he wore it in the proper style, so familiar in a hundred newsreels and archive films. He smoothed it carefully down.

‘Not perfect, Elsa. And so we must have something to remind us, to try even harder. Eh?’

‘No!’ she gritted. ‘Please… my Führer. I hate it!’

The Führer smiled. ‘It is part of a girl’s training, Elsa. Accepting punishment. Come on, up on the table.’

She absolutely hated it. Getting up on the table and lying on her back without her knickers on with her legs up, gripping behind her stockinged knees. A really awful position because of what you inevitably had on display like that. Everything a girl had right there squarely before his eyes. But it was also an awful position for the cane.

The cane seemed to be quite the worst like that. Worse than bending over touching her toes or bent over the arm of his chair. On the full undercurve of her bottom which was where Mr Catford always applied it. Nasty stinging cuts on those upturned undercurves. So that when he did start Samantha almost forgot the awfulness of her position.

In position now she made a groaning, wailing sound. Mr Catford observed the reluctant display with a clear, unblinking eye. No false modesty allowed when a girl was being trained and disciplined by the great leader. He flexed the cane in his two hands. He would have to get on to that general — what was his name? The Russian area of operations was not going well, he would have to try and put some backbone into those so-called military men. But for the moment there were these other matters. Just as important. What was the point of winning battles if at home things were allowed to fall apart? Training and discipline of young German womanhood: nothing was more important than that.

The Führer had another studied look at Elsa’s reluctantly revealed private parts. And then he raised the whippy cane.