Unseen Dangers: A Mysterious Encounter in Munich

Eight minutes later, I face an unknown woman’s bedroom door, a shopping bag with three silk scarves dangling from one hand. On the trudge upstairs, I re-examined the wisdom of my decision. Being unresponsive to her generosity would seem suspicious. In contemporary Germany, jousting out of wedlock is an unconfessed national sport. Even in Munich.
For encouragement tonight, her door is unlocked.
A jolting flash lights up my mind. In it appears Geli’s bedroom door, opening. By someone unseen. On Geli’s face is surprise, followed by anger. Then, as quickly, the flash fades, restoring the passing moment.
The suite door swings open and Hilda sits on the bed, hanging up her phone.
A lance of adrenal fear freezes me.
She sighs, stubs out a Gauloises. “I almost thought you were not coming.”
“And so... you

have made other arrangements?”
“Champagne is en route.” This is followed by a smile. “But if you find this might take... the edge off...I’ll finish the bottle myself.”
Still holding the Viennese shopping bag, I smile.

“I have never done this before.”
“A traveling salesman who has never been unfaithful? I hope you have not tried to convince your wife of this. By the way, what is your wife’s name?”
“It would be best if you two never met.”
She begins pacing. “My husband’s name is Karl, which as you know means manly. He is right now being manly with some Kabarett dancer half his age in a little loft he keeps just off Kufürstendamm in Berlin. When he is finished he will rush over to the Kaiser Wilhelm Kirche and sob through a confession, pay a penance, be sent out for a string of Hail Marys and be forgiven.”
I shrug, uncertain that I will be forgiven if the secret hiding inside my trousers is discovered.
Three knocks rattle the door behind me. She nods toward the private bathroom and I secret myself. A “Danke” later summons a squeaking service tray, the slushing of an ice bath and the closing of the door.
“You can come out now, Dieter,” prompts my reappearance. She seems used to getting her way. Quickly she untwists the wire seal and thumbs the bottle open. A loud pop is pursued by pulsing bubbles. I dodge the ricocheting

cork.
Before the cork stops deflecting, the bottle’s mouth is enclosed by her lips, the champagne hoisted. Glistening foam spurts down her neck, past the hollow, spreading into a translucent sheet across her dress. The fabric, already hauntingly diaphanous, becomes transparent. As she intends.
She finds me riveted on her nipples, dark and prominent, raised and stiff, then laughs. “Get undressed,” she says. “I want to see you naked.”
I object. “It is easy for you. Your body is beautiful.”
“It’s not your body I’d like to see. It’s the stuffing in your pants, Herr Fahrlicht.”
“If you are that intrigued, you must let me stuff you in the dark. What you seek is far better felt inside you than viewed from a distance.”
“Can I at least suck it?”
“No. You must first take my tongue.”
Acquiescence. Then darkness, the light switching out. I slip the shopping bag beside the bed, away from her. Then the rustle of garments gathering on the floor.
“I would at least like to touch it.”
“Perhaps. But not right away.”
The silk sheets slip away with their own rustle.
Reaching down, I remove two scarves from the bag.
“Give me a wrist,” I say.
She does. Without hesitation. I tie it, hard, then stretch and tether the attached arm, nearest me, to the brass bedpost. The pace of her breathing picks up.
Without asking, I grab the other wrist, extend the arm attached and secure it so that she is spread out, helpless and pulsing with tension. Reflexively her legs part like a book’s pages as she plants her feet and arches her back. Her velvety mound rises to greet me. Instinctively I collapse onto it like a ravenous beast. My arms are locked beneath her hips, reaching around, up along her chest to clutch her swelling breasts. My waggling, darting tongue is a flame on her engorging clit.
At first there is a silence, then the panting resumes. Next comes trashing of the head side to side. Murmuring. Quietly at first, then louder.
I reach one hand up to clamp her mouth, but she bites it.
Then in a single blurring motion I lunge up and impale her. She reacts to the thrust with a gasp, then a shiver. All of the day’s tension, all of the apprehension that has been building for weeks toward the mission, all the fear of being caught, and all of the rage at what I take as her compliance with the Nazis drives my brutal thrusting.
Her head thrashes while my bruising chin bites down hard into her shoulder, so that, wrists already constrained, she is pinned, and cannot escape. At first I can feel panic in her movements, a tugging at the scarves until the headboard shudders, a pitching of the hips to try and throw off the satyr pounding away at her.
Then she slowly settles into the oozing wave of vaginal slickness and begins to ride her own waves of delight. Her knees rise and her legs coil around mine, then come up and gymnastically the soles of her feet press against my heaving buttocks, beginning to pull harder with every plunge I make.
I am raping her, nothing less than that. Against my violent dominance, she begins to rape back. A snarl escapes her lips, then a rising chorus of “Jahs.”
“Jah, Jah, Jah, Jah, Mein Gott, Jah!”
After this, our bodies pitch in fleshstorm, rising and falling as she howls, at first softly, then, with the build, and finally with her release, in a loud, shrill, piecing, reverberating scream.
When I finish panting, released but still stiff, I whisper, “You must call the desk.” Then I quickly untie her right hand so that she can reach the phone. “They will send someone.”
“They will send no one. I have asked not to be disturbed.” As her panting falls to normal, I roll off of her. While my beating heart slows, she frees her still-bound hand. Next she twists away and finds a cigarette. Then offers one to me.
I take it. In her other hand is a sculpted silver lighter. Georg Jensen Danish is my guess. Our faces ignite like demons in a Caravaggio nightmare, then wink out as the flame is snuffed.
Rolling back, she launches right in, “My husband is an art dealer, works with a swine of a man here named Putzi Hanfstaengl. Perhaps you have heard of him?”
Feigning ignorance, I shake my head, no.
Then she goes on about her husband, how vehemently she disagrees with his politics. He is an ardent traditionalist and she an active member of BDF, Bund Deutscher Frauenvereine, a left-wing feminist organization despised by the Nazis. She owns a carnelian 1925 Stutz Bearcat, annually making the run from Berlin to the Mecklenberg Lake, driving the open coup herself and racing the other female drivers toward the finish line.
Between puffs on her smoke, she waxes rhapsodic about the American trailblazer Victoria Woodhull, and like her believes that every woman should have the right to keep her window open and make love to anyone she pleases. One man, she claims, is like one cigarette. Enough to warm you up but never to satisfy. Sex is the smorgasbord of living. Don’t I agree?
Her recently freed arms are now folded across her abdomen and she is looking at the ceiling when my response comes. “I am in no position to disagree.”
This is enough to keep her going. “You are quite a swashbuckler. But I think you know that, nicht var?”
Flattery often baits a trap too fast to escape. And so I shrug.
Shielded by unbroken darkness, I amble to the closet, grab a lush terrycloth Königshof bathrobe and throw it on, then gather my clothes.
“How about a second joust, Lancelot?” she asks.
“My steed is winded, m’lady.”
“Perhaps back in Berlin. Do you have a card?”
“Not just now. I am on vacation.”
“I have a camera. Would you like to take some souvenir pictures?”
“They are never quite the same.”
Once I have heaped my clothes in my arms, I head back to the bathroom and close the door. Through it I hear, “It is not another woman later? The evening is quite Jung.”
Refusing an immediate response, I confirm that the cyanide capsule is where I left it.
When I re-emerge fully clothed, she is kindling a new cigarette from the stub of its predecessor. The darkness marbles with smoke. The sharp red glow of the ash tip rises in the intimate shadows, an offer. Backlit, silhouetted by the bathroom lights, I shake my head and straighten my tie.
An awkward moment passes before I say, “How do I thank you?”
“Say I have the nicest cunt you have ever fucked.”
I start, then shake my head.
“Say it or I will call the desk and claimed you have forced yourself on me.”
Still I hesitate.
“Say it,” she repeats, reaching for the phone.
“You have the nicest cunt I have ever fucked.”
“Or licked.”
After a hesitation, I add, “Or licked.”
“Now you may go.”
I move for the door to the hallway.
Before I reach it she says, “We will see each other again, Herr Fahrlicht.”
The doorknob rests in my hand before I can ask, “And why?”
“Because what you have just admitted is what you believe, and cannot stop thinking.”
She may be right. And that scares me more than Heinrich Himmler.