She was led into the clearing with her expensive Paris dress already torn off below the waist, exposing her pale, shapely legs in their silk stockings and the lacy panties beneath. Neither of the two hard-faced men who held the chains of her manacles spoke, or slowed when she cried out, as she stumbled blindfolded over some obstacle in her path, or brushed up against some thorned bush which tore her stockings.

She was led to the clearing, and the men who had towed her in her chains like an animal yanked them downward, forcing her to fall to her knees. She screamed, and begged them to act like true and gallant Frenchmen, at which some hollow voice made a hacking laugh, and then fell silent. There was a clicking sound.

Simone knew there was a crowd around her. She could tell by the cigarette smoke that made her cough, by the rustle, the bitter whisper of one to another. There were men and women, all around her, watching her as she knelt, wrists chained before her. And she was terribly afraid she

knew why.

"Let's have it out in the open," said a rough voice then, and the blindfold was whipped away. Dusk had fallen, but the moon was out for her to see every pair of eyes in the village, staring at her with undisguised hatred. The short length of the chains, fastened to the base

of the marble bench, forced her to kneel, but now her legs shook and she could almost not stay kneeling.

"Simone du Papillon," said Raymond, his voice pronouncing the name as he had spoken of the Boche, of the Germans. "Collaborator."

"No!" she shrieked. "No, you must understand, it was not my fault, I never collaborated!" The Paris dress was already torn, and what

was torn didn't count, but everyone could see the stockings and the panties, also gifts from Helmut. She tried to make them understand. "I did only what I had to! I would have suffered otherwise!"

Raymond's spit hit her just on her cheek, and her shock stopped the words in her throat. "Had to, tramp? Everyone else in this village DID suffer, you filthy little Nazi's slut." There had been an approving

murmur from the gathered crowd when the gooey spit, tasting of his harsh cigarettes, had hit her cheek; now there was another approval as the knife she knew he carried _snicked_ open, and the Paris dress with its lovely rosettes was slit up the back. It fell to the ground, and she flushed as her generous breasts swayed under her.

"Please! I'm innocent!" she screamed. "I demand a trial!" In her mind, she knew that if she could only make them understand, that if they could only see how much nicer it was to receive Helmut's presents -- and some other things from him -- they would understand that she COULDN'T have done other than she did. But the same hollow voice -- she now knew

it was old Rostand, the grizzled grandfather who ran the bakery -- laughed again. Raymond sat down on the bench, with her face between his

legs, and pulled her head roughly up level with the crotch of his harsh-fabric trousers when she tried to bow her head.

"You had your trial, slut," he hissed at her. "Every time you walked through the village streets on the arm of your Gestapo lover, you tried and convicted yourself." He loosened the belt that held up his rough laborer's trousers, and they slid downwards, exposing a cock as red as a rooster's comb and swollen with veins. "Now everyone in this village who has suffered from your crime will get a piece of your punishment."

She mewled in fear. Surely this couldn't be happening! Surely

he could not expect her, a lady, a lady of refinement, to allow in her mouth his rough peasant --

He gagged her with it, and the gathered crowd murmured approvingly. She tried to scream, but his rough dirty cockhead was filling the back of her throat. "Try to bite, little pisette," he whispered to her, "and I'll find another use for this knife than just removing your clothes." Her throat tightened with panic, choking her again on the throbbing head of his phallus. Tentatively, she pulled her

head back only enough so that she could breathe around his manhood, and let her delicate tongue sweep along the underside of his prick. That was

what she had always done with Helmut when she was afraid he might be angry at her. Raymond stiffened in her mouth, and laughed, softly. "I knew you would still be a collaborator, you dirty whore."

He raised his voice. "Come, everyone! There's enough of her for

all! Take what you want from the slut, she's taken enough from us!" The circle of villagers moved closer, and there were men -- and women -- who came to her, touching her, pawing her. Someone grabbed the silken middle-strip of her panties and yanked them down. She tightened her legs

to stop the theft, and got a vicious smack from a bare hand across her ass and pussy that shocked her into opening her legs, letting the garment be stolen.

Pasquette, the pig farmer, put his dirty hands on her right tit, roughly pinching and twisting the nipple, and squeezing it between both hands as if he milked it. Her eyes flooded with tears. These dirty

peasants! Yes, she had sucked Helmut's manly rod, and swallowed his hot

salt juices; she had enjoyed his rough attentions to her breasts, letting him squeeze and suck; she had even spread her legs for him and let him fuck her pussy with his hard violent strokes. But Helmut had kept his body clean, had been fanatical about scrubbing off every last bit of dirt! Whereas the cock she could feel pushing its clumsy way inside her

cunt, she could almost feel it covered with mud and filth as the owner grabbed her hips and forced it in to the hilt.

Raymond had gripped the edge of the marble bench with one hand and the hair at the back of her head with the other; instead of making her suck at his cock he was thrusting his pecker violently into her mouth, shoving it deeper in rhythmic thrusts that gagged her and made the tears roll down her cheeks. "Slut!" he cried. "Whore! Cunt! Trollop! Bitch! Take my cum in your throat, you Nazi's whore!" With that he

began to spurt, the salty seed flooding her mouth. "Swallow it! Every drop!" he ordered. Her sore, abused throat struggled to obey. He pulled his rod from between her lips and slapped each of her cheeks roughly with it, smearing them with saliva and cum. "Now clean it off." Simone had no choice but to extend her tongue and lick the drops of thick liquid from the still semi-rigid tool.

Raymond slid from the bench, and another sat down in his place. Simone was distracted by pain and shame as the oaf at her back finally loosed his come in her tunnel, a tunnel nearly bruised from his clumsy thrusts. When she could blink away the tears, she saw Jeanne-Marie sitting in front of her face. Her heart leapt. "Jeanne-Marie!" she

cried gratefully. Her good friend Jeanne-Marie, with whom she had gone to school, was the only other woman of refinement in the village, who could understand that such peasants had no right to abuse her. "Save me,

Jeanne-Marie! You have to explain to them!"

But Jeanne-Marie looked nothing like her friend, now. "Explain what?" Jeanne-Marie asked coldly. She brought her hand from behind her back, showing the lacy sheer panties that Simone had been robbed of. "Explain nothing. Because of your treachery, my husband who went to the

front will never be returning." She pulled up the hem of the dark skirt

she wore, showing a bush of dark curls. "So until I have another husband, you will do for me what he loved to do."

Simone tried to turn her head away, but a pair of hands caught her head and forced her to stare at Jeanne-Marie's furred snatch. "Jeanne-Marie!" she screeched. "You cannot be one of those, those.... 

damnee femmes!"

Jeanne-Marie slapped her face, hard. Whoever was holding her head in place for it gave a low, nasty chuckle. "No, I am not the kind of woman whose dreams are filled with the tongues of women. But you are

not a woman, filthy Simone. You are a traitor and a slut -- lower than any woman could ever be." Simone stared at the dark masses of curls, and

recoiled from the smell that emerged from there. She realized that Jeanne-Marie must not have washed at her bidet for days... as many days

as this torture for her had been in the planning.

The meaty pecker that plundered her snatch now throbbed and sprayed in climax, and Jeanne-Marie stifled Simone's cries with her cunt, pressed so hard against Simone's face that she had little choice but to lick the hot and musky-wet pussy lips presented to her, and nuzzle the erect clit with her nose. Jeanne-Marie's twat muffled her cries when some man lifted her entire lower body off the ground with one strong arm and with the other smacked her ass cheeks hard and without stopping for at least five minutes.

The night's shaming continued. Simone grew too exhausted anymore to open her eyes, and guess which pecker or slit or bottom was being pushed against her mouth; she had long ago lost count of how many men of the village could now say they had left their white trails of sperm deep inside her cunt, smeared across her thighs, or decorating her tits. At least one young teenager, for all the young men had attended the gathering, had settled for hosing her with a great stream of piss when he couldn't attain sufficient stiffness to fuck her opened cunt. And throughout the whole affair, there were occassional bright flashes of light, blinding in their intensity; she heard the voice of Royeau the mayor laughing as he described how the pictures would be the village's expression of gratitude to all the poor soldiers recovering from the war in hospitals at the front.

Finally, it seemed as if the night might be over, as there were no more cocks being thrust in her mouth or pushed between her struggling thighs, no more hands grabbing at her breasts or roughly squeezing her mound. She trembled, and no longer had the strength to stay on her knees, but lay crumpled with the ground against her cheek. She had only

one blessing for which to thank a God who had failed to rescue her from this: no one had attempted to penetrate her tight bottom. Helmut had

been too horrified by uncleanliness to ever think of it, but in the days when she had had a husband, he had once forced himself on her petite rosette with his hard cock and sodomized her for an hour, ignoring her screams.

But now the night was quiet enough that above the hushed whispers of the crowd, she could hear the tapping of Rostand's cane. Rostand was

an old grandfather, though his first and only grandson had died at St. Lo; surely he could not have a erection sturdy enough to penetrate her with? He could not even stand straight, nor walk without his cane, a staff of unvarnished wood that was thicker around than her forearm.

She could hear Rostand speaking, but the words were not clear. Two village men came to help Rostand in whatever it was he planned; they hauled her to her knees again, though they had to support her in that position. She remained with her cheek resting on the hard dirt, eyes tightly closed against the mud her fallen tears were making.

Her ass cheeks were abruptly spread painfully wide, and an ungentle hand slapped her tight opening with a wad of some sort of oil or grease. She moaned weakly as the hand spread the grease, coating her asshole thoroughly, and let out a shriek as it pushed the grease into her bottom with two thick fingers. When her husband had buggered her, she had ached for days after; her only relief was that Rostand, an old man, would have a smaller and weaker cock.

She screamed as she felt the head of the cane nestle at the entrance to her greased bunghole.  

The End