[This is another version of this scene, which was based on a previous unfinished version of the fic you’re looking at right now. Both of which were based on an older unavailable fic. The starting premise is basically that the Görings invited Goebbels to spend Christmas Eve with them, he was thoroughly seduced and Bruno Loerzer arrived in the morning to join in the fun. Hence the perhaps otherwise confusing title.This fic is not so much fun for Goebbels as terribly cruel, so please avoid if you know that’s not for you.]

Goebbels
is rinsing their breakfast dishes in the kitchen sink at Carin’s
behest, his mind unfamiliarly
becalmed as he watches water pour into the body of the porcelain cup
in his hand. He has to keep rolling the sleeves of Göring’s robe
back up around his elbows every few minutes to stop the cuffs from
falling past his fingertips and into the stream; far too loose on him
to stay put for long, his forearms are already uncomfortably damp.
The action is mechanical and he’s so transfixed by the action of the
clear water spilling continuously over the lip of the
teacup as it overflows that the reflection of movement in the kitchen
window, a sudden shadow in the periphery  of his vision, startles him
enough to jump.

Bruno
Loerzer standing in the doorway, filling it up rather, arms folded
across his broad chest. Goebbels exhales audibly, his heart pit pattering
away. Is Loerzer smiling? His eyes are hard but there’s a faint
crease at the corner of his mouth.

“Is
there-”

Loerzer
cuts him off. “Come with me.”

Goebbels
places the cup carefully down into the basin and lays his palms on
the edge of the counter, leaning his weight against it, hesitating.
He wipes his wet hands across the front of the gown, shivers
slightly, turns off the tap and then dries his hands again.  Behind
him, Loerzer snaps his fingers twice and then whistles sharply as
though calling a dog.

Limping
half a step behind Loerzer, he follows him out of the kitchen and
down the hall, expecting to be led back to Hermann and Carin but
Loerzer doesn’t slow as he passes the room. Goebbels falters,
touching the door frame, his thumbnail digging into the soft wood as
he stares at Carin and Hermann nestled on the couch like two turtle
doves. Leafing through a photo album, Carin is smiling fondly down at
the book shared between their laps while Herman seems more
preoccupied with his regard of her.

There’s
a brisk yank on the collar of his gown.

“Don’t
dawdle,” Bruno snaps.

Hermann’s
gaze flicks over to them for a moment and Goebbels opens his mouth,
brow furrowed with a question he isn’t sure how to articulate,
stricken with the horror of his words failing him even as the
opportunity vanishes in a blink and Hermann’s attention has already
passed back to Carin and Loerzer is tugging him bodily away from the
doorway with enough careless force that he catches his foot on his
calf and almost stumbles to the floor.

The
bedroom Loerzer frog marches him into is not the master suite he’s so
recently become familiar with. It’s comparatively plain, neat and
decorated with the impersonal neutrality of a room intended for
guests. The winter sun is pushing through the weave of the curtains,
spaces where the light outside creeps in. Goebbels feels a chill run
through him and rubs the toe of his good foot against the back of his
heel. The austerity of Loerzer’s expression is no comfort. Reality is
pressing in uncomfortably from all quarters.

“Take
that off,” Loerzer says, nodding at the robe.

Goebbels
wraps his arms tight around himself, cringing from a wan sensation of
disgust, wishing he were properly dressed. Alone here, without
Hermann or Carin, he feels snapped out of some temporary madness,
left floundering in his bare feet with his uncooperative tongue and
the suddenly appalling thought of what Loerzer has brought him to
this bed for.

He
casts about his mind for something; a delay, a retort, a weapon.

“Göring
told me about how you both…” Goebbels pauses meaningfully.
“During the war.”

“Hermann
telling war stories?” Loerzer replies, his gaze not shifting from
where it’s fixed stonily on the belt of the robe still tied fast
around Goebbels’ middle. “Is that something to remark upon?”

“I
think it was quite remarkable.”

He
barbs his intonation like a threat, but he can’t disarm the looming
truth that it is all far too late for such tactics. He looks at
Loerzer’s hands, large and broad knuckled, what fists they would
make! The idea sends a fierce prickle of adrenaline through him,
familiar thistles under his skin like the heady flush from creating
the nascent instigation for some bloody, joyous street bawl; except
that here he is not the conductor.

“I’m
sure he was very colourful,” Loerzer says. “Get undressed.”

“The
two of you, against your machine.”

“Is
that what he told you?”

The
amusement in Loerzer’s voice engenders a worm of uncertainty to begin
nibbling at him. It must have shown on his face because Loerzer gives
a scoffing huff, shaking his head. Goebbels glowers, mouth a long,
straight line turned down deep at each corner.

“It’s
the truth,” he reaffirms. “I know a lie when I hear one.”

The
only thing to do in the face of doubt is to assert your position with
even greater confidence than if you were sure, he thinks. He manages
not to shrink backwards as Loerzer steps closer, filling his chest
with a deep gulp of air as if it will help root him to the spot.

“Do
you have a point you’re trying to make, boy?” Loerzer squints down
at him.

The
epithet slithers down Goebbels’ spine and before he can answer
Loerzer has a handful of his hair twisted around his fingers, yanking
him upward, yelping, onto his toes.

“Have
you been flattering yourself that any similarity exists here?”
Loerzer continues.

There’s
barely a hint of real curiosity in the question. He brings his face
in very close to Goebbels’ own, craning his neck down considerably,
but it’s not the sort of dashing inclination that leads to kissing
(the way Goebbels likes to picture his own self when he leans in
toward a seated little beauty) and the glint in his eyes has less to
do with interest in an answer than with the hard shine on the point
of a sabre.

Goebbels
doesn’t think he can hold that gaze for long, the question itself has
brought a rash of pink embarrassment to the back of his neck and his
ears worse than the burn of Loerzer tugging at his scalp. He resents
it, enough to be brazen.

“Are
you married, Loerzer?”

Too
sweetly innocent to be anything but an accusation.  

Loerzer’s
expression doesn’t change, just one slow blink and then – pain
explodes in a thunderclap along the left side of Goebbels’ face, like
a blunt skewer thrust past his eardrum, piercing down through the
nerves in his jaw, the sting against his cheek is a distant
accompaniment. He’s still reeling from the blow, trying to draw a
breath, as Loerzer drags him by forward by his hair and shoves him
over the bed.

“Where
did those good manners of yours go?” Loerzer sighs. “I could have
told him…”

Talking
to himself as Goebbels wheezes, doubly winded by the edge of the
mattress hitting his stomach and the dull agony still ringing in his
ear. He chokes on his breath as Loerzer hooks his fingers under the
belt of the robe and hauls him over the rest of the way, the knot of
fabric digging into his belly and falling half undone as he scrambles
to get his knees up over the side of the bed.

His
legs are getting caught in the robe, hands sinking into the soft,
white duvet and the mattress shifts and dips beneath him as Loerzer
clambers on behind; he feels like he’s struggling through quick sand,
the clamp of Loerzer’s hand fastening around his neck and holding him
down before he can even try and break free.

“How
many men have you had up here, hmmm?” Loerzer asks, his other hand
groping between Goebbels’ legs, thumb poking at his asshole. “Speak
up.”

He
screws the thick digit inside, compassionate as a butcher inspecting
meat and Goebbels hiccups in distress.

“What?
I don’t-”

Loerzer
rams the wedge of his thumb and forefinger hard against against his
perineum, his blunt thumbnail digging inside him like a pincer.

“You
don’t know?” he asks with scorn.

“No!”
Goebbels gasps. “No, it’s… Göring is the only one who’s
ever…he’s the only one.”

Loerzer
sighs as though he doesn’t believe it for a second yet cares too
little for the exact truth to bother dragging it out of him. Goebbels
winces at the sound of it, panting for breath, blood rushing to the
surface of his skin followed by a flush of cold sweat; perspiration
beading on the small of his back and between his thighs, his buttocks
and the place Loerzer’s thumb is too easily twisting back and forth
inside him. He fights the urge to clench against the moist, squirming
sensation.

“Stop,
I’m not…this is all-”

Loerzer
pops his thumb out, ignoring his reedy protestations and slaps the
top of his thigh.

“Up
on your knees,” he says.

A
mistake, Goebbels thinks dizzily, all limp and useless words not
worth a breath. Loerzer growls so low he feels it buzzing in the base
of his spine as he braces himself on his palms and tries to push
himself up.

“Just
your knees,” Loerzer barks.

Goebbels
drops his quivering arms back to the bed. The sheets slip and ruck up
around his shins as he struggles to get his knees underneath him with
his face still pressed firm against the mattress. The pressure of
Loerzer’s hand on the back of his neck is painfully tight as it pins
him there like a snare. Goebbels fights the compulsion to fight or
flee, a panicked creature ready to thrash itself into suffocation.
Loerzer could wring his neck if he wanted to; he won’t, of course
he won’t, but
just the sense of it lies feverish inside his mind as he manoeuvrers
himself into the obscene position.

“Stay,” Loerzer orders,
squeezing his neck in a final warning before he takes his hand away.

The outsized dressing gown has
fallen back down over Goebbels legs. Loerzer lifts the hem and tosses
it over his back, barring his backside and covering his face. The
weak light from the windows blankets out, the thick fluff of the
dressing gown tickling his nose as his humid breath washes back at
him. A stark contrast to the cool air on his exposed genitals, his
most private places in mortifying spotlight; his limp little cock,
his asshole still sensitive from Loerzer’s fingers, throbbing in a
way that feels so disgustingly blatant.

He doesn’t try to move the gown
off his face. He can hear the muffled sound of fabric shifting
against fabric, imagines Loerzer’s fingers pushing his trouser
buttons through their buttonholes, prepares to feel them spreading
and prying inside him next.

They don’t. Loerzer’s hands fasten
around the tops of his thighs, pulling them further apart, holding
him in a steady iron grip that stops him from bolting even as his
hips lurch at the feel of the solid, hot press of Loerzer’s erection
against his hole. He blinks furiously in alarm that Loerzer might try
to open him up with just the wide head of his cock, a blunt, abrupt
stretch, his body unprepared and tense and dry apart from the sheen
of nervous sweat that’s gathered down the cleft of his ass.

“Wait, wait!” he sputters out
and for a moment it seems as though Loerzer is listening, shifting
back, the threatening heat removed and Goebbels exhales and wrestles
with his stuttering tongue. “Wait, please, I just need-”

Loerzer rams his hips forward and
buries himself to the hilt in one brutal stroke.

Pain explodes like a flare.
Goebbels howls as the tight little knot of asshole is wrenched wide
open. Unreal, unbearable, a molten metal stab deep into his guts that
burns and bruises all at once. His hole spasms, clamping down, trying
to close back up, his muscles convulsing around Loerzer’s cock in
aching involuntarily waves.

The air is still knocked out of
him, not enough time to gasp, as Loerzer pulls out completely then
punches every last inch back inside just as hard and just as fast,
ripping his clenched hole open again, forcing through the friction
with a grunt of effort.

“Stop! Stop! Wait!” Desperate,
breathless cries like a drowning man bobbing up for air. “No!”

Only now can he realize the care
that Göring had taken with him when they fucked, there had been pain
at first but this? This is something else entirely. Loerzer’s not a
match for Göring’s size but right now he feels doubly so, impossibly
long, ungodly thick, the way he’s boring him out. He snorts like a
bull with each jack-hammer thrust, pulling Goebbels’ hips back to
meet him, shoving into him at an awful angle that feels like it’s
pounding his insides black.

Goebbels tries to push himself up
onto his elbows, pawing at the bedspread, but Loerzer cuffs him so
hard on the crown of his head that he collapses in a sprawl, the back
of his throat stinging with bile. Loerzer’s heavy paw follows, the
heel of his palm grinding into Goebbels’ cheek as he throws his
weight into the jerk of his hips; if it were a wooden floor beneath
his head and not a mattress Goebbels is sure his skull would crack.

“Please,”
he begs, weak and slurred from the press of the hand on his face.

Loerzer forces his fingers into
Goebbels’ groaning mouth, stuffing a wad of the dressing gown inside.
The fluff that had been tickling his nose is shoved over his tongue,
stopping up his pleas, making him gag and drool as Loerzer batters
the resistance of his body; fucking him until he’s lax and broken,
his sore hole gaping open every time Loerzer’s cock pulls out with a
filthy, sucking sound. Goebbels doesn’t struggle either, just moaning
softly as his saliva soaks into the the gag of material in his mouth.

The
hollow sense of shame at being used like this balloons up inside him
until he can’t contain it, tears pricking at his eyes. He gives a
muffled sob, no catharsis as the tears roll hot and tacky down his
cheeks, no change in the mechanical pistoning of Loerzer’s dick at
the strangled sound. He’s horribly aware how his own cock is hanging
plump between his legs; the indignity of the half soft, swollen ache
of it, no real erection, just blood plumping up the genitals of some
lowly animal in heat. Worse, really, there’s nothing natural about
this.

Loerzer
doesn’t seem to mind that he’s fucking into a rag doll, hefting up
Goebbels’ dead weight in an inflexible vice, excavating bruises into
bruises at his hipbones. He sobs again as Loerzer’s cock punishes
him, wrung out, biting hard at the wedge of fabric in his mouth but
unable to fence back the pitiful whine that cracks high in the back
of his throat and Loerzer’s laughter peals blackly above him.

“You
do like it don’t you,” he says.

Another
hot flush fares beneath his skin, deepens the ache behind his ears
and the itchy blotch of his cheeks. He can’t get enough breath,
panting in the dark as his tears dry to tight salt streaks. There’s
air on his naked, shivering thighs, keeping him acutely aware of the
ungainly arrangement of his limbs, but not under the stifling
swaddling of the robe where he gasps and chokes and struggles
internally against the crushing pressure of his degradation. The
scent of Hermann’s cologne impregnating the robe swells thick in the
warm damp, leeching into his saliva, acerbically floral in his
gullet.

He
retches as Loerzer’s cock stabs into him hard, a fast, pistoning
flurry of jabs at some tender red part of him until the pain of it
wrenches his body back into desperate resistance. Wet wool squeals
between his teeth, he dips his back in an even more severe arch to
ease the awful angle, exchanging one ache for another; the slap of
Bruno’s pelvis sending jolts up his spine, his ass pushed higher in
the air as if he’s making an invitation. Loerzer laughs again and
Goebbels flinches, clenching down tight against the still burning
stretch of the fat dick inside him.

“That’s
it.” Loerzer sounds strained. “You know what you want. A damn
eager hole. That’s all you are.”

Small
grunts between each word, his sweat on the back of Goebbels’ thighs,
second-hand clammy heat like something from a sickbed. His palm
presses down on Goebbels’ face, harder than before, as if he’s
forgotten there’s even a person underneath the gown and he’s just
bracing himself against the sheets.  

The
pressure of  Loerzer’s hand compounds the way his temples are
pounding, the way he can’t get enough air into his lungs, the
atmosphere around him too hot and tar thick to be able to pull into
his body. An awful flash from his childhood when he was tripped into
the mud and someone’s foot on the back of his head had held his face
down there, his breath bubbling out into the dirt, laughter as he
scrabbled against them and the shameful weakness of his body.

It’s
more than the physical, these pressure points of vulnerability.
Loerzer’s pushing the worst, most craven emotions through him too.
Harder to excuse.

Loerzer
jams his hips forward, holding Goebbels tight in place as he finally
climaxes. The heat of his spunk filling him, three hard spurts. The
feeling makes him flinch and struggle weakly, involuntarily milking
Loerzer’s cock for all it has to give as Loerzer groans in
satisfaction, breathing rough and ragged through his nose. As soon as
he’s done he shoves Goebbels away letting him topple onto one side, a
quivering little pile.

The
bed shifts beneath him. Swallowing, Goebbels slowly creeps his hand
to his head and pulls the wet wedge of Hermann’s dressing gown out
from his mouth, then away from his face. Fresh air rushes over him
and he takes a greedy gulp, chin and mouth all pink and wet and raw.
Not as raw as between his legs. With tentative fingers, not caring if
Loerzer is watching him or not, he reaches down and gently touches
himself there, then draws his hand back quickly with a hiss of pain.

It
hurts so terribly and he feels so swollen and slick that his eyes
actually widen in astonishment when he raises his fingertips to his
face and sees there is no blood, just the glistening mess of what
Loerzer had pumped into him.

He
hears Loerzer chuckle.

“Sloppy
little tramp,” he says, seizing Goebbels’ wrist and forcing his
fingers to swipe over his mouth. “Still hungry? Come here.”

Goebbels
grits his teeth and turns his cheek but Loerzer’s strength is
superior and what little battle remains in him is a fractured,
foregone conclusion. Loerzer wrenches him up to face his sticky cock,
semen still oozing slightly from the tip, just softening.

“Go
on,” Loerzer says.

Goebbels
tries not to look at anything apart from the bare bedroom wall to the
side. For a moment he can almost imagine seeing some projection of
himself there, refusing, pushing Loerzer away.

He
isn’t opening his mouth to protest as he lowers his head. His tongue
frozen with a paralysed sickness just a breadth away from Loerzer’s
cock, his abdomen stone taught with the effort it takes to push past
that feeling and lap at the thing in front of him without the
contents of his stomach rising up too.

“Maybe
Hermann wasn’t all wrong,” Loerzer says, sighing with pleasure.
“Even the whores one pays aren’t always willing to do everything.
It comes naturally to you doesn’t it?”

Goebbels’
eyes dart up, mouth humiliatingly stretched full of dirty cock. He’d
felt like some mere object for Loerzer’s use but now he wonders if
there’s not some personal dislike in all this too. He can only catch
a flash of the sneer on Loerzer’s face before his eyes are tearing up
as two strong hands grab the back of his skull and force his lips to
mash against the sweaty mat of Loerzer’s pubic hair.

Loerzer
pats him brusquely on the cheek when he seems happy enough with his
efforts. He takes the time to dry his cock off in Goebbels’ hair
before he climbs off the bed, rearranging his trousers while Goebbels
scrubs his tongue against the roof of his mouth, swallowing over and
over to try and staunch the tide of nausea shivering up from his
guts.

When
Loerzer leaves the room he doesn’t command Goebbels to follow. He
doesn’t even turn to look at him.

Goebbels
sits very still for a while and then lets out a shuddering
exhalation. He surveys the minor agitation of the sheets, traces his
fingers over the little eddies and currents left over that (apart
from the wreckage of his body) are the only signs of what just
happened here.

There’s
a burst of laughter from the other room. Wincing, he slips his toes
onto the floor and pulls the dressing gown into as good a shape as he
can make of it on his frame. When he stands, the hem dangles
uncomfortable wet kisses against the backs of his legs. He sits back
down again.

He
isn’t sure how long he has been sitting there, one hand clasped
around his wrist, stroking back and forth with placid
lack of purpose while he studies the small imperfections of the wall
paint, when Carin enters.  

“Carin!”
he exclaims, along with an awkward flurry of movement as he pats down
his hair, wipes his hand against his mouth, sensing himself turning
crimson.

“Darling,”
she says as she crosses the room. “What are you doing just sitting
here on your own?”

“I…”

She
lowers herself gracefully to sit beside him and he shakes his head in
distress, torn between the urge to lean into the white floral scent
of her and the urge to scurry away like some dark thing exposed
suddenly to sunlight.

“What
is it, Joseph?” she asks. “Was Bruno that rough?”

The
back of her finger strokes down the side of his face, he can feel her
gaze on him acutely but he can’t bring himself to meet it.

“I
think I should be leaving,” he says quietly. “My clothes…do you
know where they went?”

“Oh!
You’re upset!”

She’s
touching him so gently that it’s setting all the fine hairs on his
skin on end; an almost tickling sensation, but in the strangest way,
painful too.

“Carin,”
he says, hearing the urgency rising in the timbre of his voice.
“Really this whole thing was a mistake, I need-”

“Shhhh.”

She
presses her finger briefly to his lips as she hushes him and then
brings her arm around him, drawing him in close to the perfect
softness of her body, her hands slim and elegant yet brooking no
argument.

“Hermann
and I understand what you need,” she says.

She
sounds so sure, a soothing, irresistible sense of absolute authority
that makes Goebbels’ heart ache and his body unwind toward her, his
tense little shoulders dropping until another peal of laughter from
down the hall makes them tighten right back up again. She hushes him
once more as he flinches at the sound, stroking him until he’s pliant
enough to allow himself to be prised from the bed and led back to the
family room.

The
conversation becomes more clear as they walk down the hall, Carin
taking small steps, graciously accounting for his ginger pace. He can
hear Loerzer’s deep voice as they approach the doorway.

“…where
they’d call it ‘failure to thrive’, better off culling the little
runts, what is this bizarre affection you-”

Silence snaps into
place as they enter hand in hand.

“Christ,
he looks shell shocked,” Hermann says after a moment, whistling as
he casts an eye over him before turning to raise his eyebrow at
Loerzer. “Hardly seems like you had a disappointing time there,
Bruno.”

He’s
relaxing in a deep chair opposite Loerzer, leaving the sofa empty for
Carin and Goebbels to settle down in together where she can continue
her careful handling. Goebbels has an itch in the back of his throat,
a barely contained entreaty for her to stop running her fingers
through his hair, knowing what Loerzer has only just been using it
for, but he craves the comfort of it too much and the thought of
admitting it is too deeply humiliating to put into words either.

“I
never said I was disappointed, Hermann. You pestered me for an
opinion and I told you; he’s adequate for purpose. More than that is
a different matter, he’s not my sort.”

Loerzer’s
beating time on the side table as he speaks, cigarette between his
fingers. It’s as close to his face as Goebbels feels like looking. He
would like that cigarette very badly at this moment.

“Oh?”
Hermann sounds gleeful. “What’s your sort then?”

“You
know very well.”

“Hermann,”
Carin interrupts, fond exasperation paired with a hint of warning.

Goebbels
can’t help but look up then. The way that Hermann and Loerzer are
staring at each other is some silent conversation he is completely
excluded from. A chilly sense of his unimportance passes without
effort through the huge fluffy gown, his flesh, his lungs.

But
then Hermann turns his smile upon him and, oh, there’s the
burn of the spotlight.

“You
were only his second though, Bruno, isn’t there something in that?”

Loerzer
makes the same snorting noise of derision he had when Goebbels had
professed it to be so.

“And
you actually believe that?” he asks Hermann.

“Why
shouldn’t I?”

“Rather,
you actually believe his ability to be sincere at all?”

Hermann
hasn’t taken his eyes off of Goebbels during any of this exchange,
still smiling inscrutably, small adjustments in the curl of his lip
or the creases at the corner of his eyes. Goebbels stares back at
him, watches as he shrugs a little, inclines his head to the side a
fraction.

“I
understand you enjoy the notion of such virginity,” Loerzer
says with a drawn out sigh. “So it must be true, naturally.”

“I’m
a romantic,” Hermann says, smile broadening into a grin, showing of
all those teeth.

“Romance?
This is about conquest,” Loerzer objects.

“Exactly
the same thing!” Hermann exclaims, finally tearing his inquisitor’s
regard away from Goebbels to shoot Loerzer a look of mock amazement
that he should have to point out such an obvious fact to him.

Carin
laughs delicately and turns Goebbels’ face to meet her own. Calm
eyes, beatifically serene he would have described at first. She sits
there, so close to him and something shifts. Not quite in her
expression he thinks, unsettled, but in his own apprehension of it.
Shades of other women’s faces, real and imagined, he’s laid upon her
own like an imperceptibly fine veil, stirred for the briefest moment
by a breath.

“Our
little doctor is being so unusually quiet, but you agree don’t you,
Joseph,” she says. “About conquest.”

“Romance,”
Hermann adds.

Of
course they are a perfect pair, he thinks as he glances between them;
his eyes widening and Carin’s nails sketching away on his suddenly
goose-pimpled flesh, a murmur of appreciation hissing gently through
her teeth.

“You
will tell us all
about your feelings about what it was like with Bruno too, won’t you,
Joseph?” Carin says.

His
voice is hoarse by the time he can manage to find the words.

“If
you insist.” A painful whisper, head turned into his angelic
captor’s embrace.

The
other three laugh as if it’s the funniest thing they’ve heard all
morning.