The Vengeance of Rome

TWENTY-NINE

I draw back my arm. The heavy black whip is perfectly balanced. I could hold it like a foil, if I wished, between the tips of my fingers. But I grip it firmly, flexing my muscles as I gather my strength for the first blow.

Hitler’s narrow bottom is lifted.

I lay a swift series of stripes across his buttocks. They are still very white but the blood is beginning to come up.

I begin another series of blows across the backs of his legs.

—Disgusting little queer. Dirty Yidshit queer. Filthy, stinking little shitheap. Naughty, naughty little pansy slut. What are you?

—Pansy slut, mistress.

I hardly hear the sounds he makes. The rhythmic whistling of the whip, the thick smack as it strikes yielding skin, the patterns crisscrossing the flesh, all absorb my interest.

—What are you, Yidshit?

—Filthy little Yidshit, mistress. Filthy Yidshit whore.

—You make me sick. You make me want to gag.