They always send Kurt to meet the Hitler Youth boys. For reasons, which he did not understand himself, they loved him so much. They liked the way he carried himself, stern and alert. They liked the sharp line of his cheekbones, those deep set eyes and how the corner of his lips subtly curved upwards, when they came running like a pack of young dogs. They loved the fit of his uniform. That belt, so tight in his waist, made his shoulders look so broad. And what a nice uniform it was, made of silky material so much more fancy than the rough black wool of their uniforms. They liked how he wore his hat, the angle of it and how crushed it was; it looked like the hat of a daring veteran, someone who was hard in his actions but warm in his heart. And they liked his many medals, which assured them of his great deeds. The bravery and the wounds, honour both in victory and defeat cast into delicate forms: eagles, swords, helmets, tanks and laurel. But above all they were drawn to his iron cross. That solemn Prussian design, so beautiful in its simplicity. All the little magpies wanted one for themselves.

The smallest and most daring of the lot asked quietly: “May I touch your iron cross, Herr Offizier?”

“Of course,” Kurt replied and he smiled shyly.

Everyone fell silent and watched as the boy traced the outline of the cross following the iron border with the tip of his index finger. He touched its velvety black core and finally after drawing the act out so deliberately, he gently stroked the swastika placed in the middle with the flat of his thumb. The boys did not notice how the officer shivered. To Kurt it felt as if it was not the medal being touched, but his naked skin underneath the iron and cloth.

The boy looked up at him again. His eyes were beaming with admiration. “May I kiss it, Herr Offizier?”, he asked. Kurt was caught by surprise, yet how could he refuse such a polite request? How could he while everyone was watching so expectantly? He nodded. The boy stepped closer and stood up on tiptoes, but they were still not eye to eye. Kurt wanted to bend down to close the distance but the boy would not let him. He stretched the last inch and gently placed his lips on the iron cross. Kurt saw the eyes of all the boys fixed on that kiss, everyone holding their breath. He was reminded of a painting depicting people and events he did not recognize, yet the painting’s meaning resonated deeply within him. Whether they were worshipping him, the cross or some greater intangible thing manifesting in him and that cross, he could not tell, but suddenly he wished it was him alone with an intensity he had never known in himself. The moment passed, the lips broke away and Kurt felt empty.

The boys would not cease their conquest. There had not been one coordinated approach, yet somehow they were all so close to Kurt now. Their bodies pressed into into him. He felt hot. An older boy, more of a young man already, held Kurt’s arm with the gentle gesture reserved for comrades. Another hand was placed firmly on his shoulder. A palm caressed his side. A finger gently brushed his hip. They were pawing at him, the little kittens. He thought that he must say something, that he must stop them. It felt right, but it was not right, it was maddening. If he had found a way to conceptualize this madness, he might have had the power to stop them, but he found no words and without words and concepts he was helplessly left to his senses, which demanded more of that touch and the heat and the worship.

“May we touch you, Herr Offizier?”, asked the oldest boy. Were they not already touching him?, Kurt thought and then he did not think anything anymore when the boy placed his lips on Kurt’s neck just above the stiff collar. His lips were rough but his kiss gentle, almost familial. The first touch sent shivers through Kurt again, but now half a dozen hands or more were touching him and they all felt the pleasure resonate through him. They were so fascinated by it. How nice he felt under their fingers, how curiously red his cheeks were, how handsome he looked with his lips slightly parted.

“Herr Offizier, are you not well?” A low giggle came from all of them. To Kurt they were just one mass of hands and heat now and their voices ran together into one. “Your heart is racing.” – “Are you hot?” – “Take off his uniform.” – “Hold him.” “Kiss him, kiss him.” – “Let me see.”

They were now taking Kurt’s silence as consent. Certainly such a daring and highly decorated soldier would know how to make them stop if he wanted. One boy took off Kurt’s peaked cap to wear it himself. Two boys fought him for it, while a third was more fascinated by Kurt’s hair. It was shorter than any of the boys – even the older ones – wore it, but still long enough that the boy could comb it with his fingers, his nails scratching along Kurt’s scalp in a way that reminded Kurt of the way his mother had soothed him to sleep as a child. The boy grabbed a shock of hair and pulled on it. He was delighted to see Kurt bend willingly with the movement, curving his back and leaning his head on the shoulders of the boy behind him. Another boy took the invitation and kissed his exposed throat. The taste of his aftershave was bitter, yet there was something intoxicating about the act. The officer reminded him of a statue he had seen in a church once, naked, bent, covered in richly coloured wounds and displaying the same longing expression. He remembered the silver wound badge on Kurt’s tunic.

“Can you tell us about your wounds, please?”, he asked. Their curious fingers stopped long enough for Kurt to snap out of his haze and run down his wounds as he had done so many times before. “A bullet from a Russian partisan penetrated me here, went right through,” he said pointing to his torso just below the rib cage, “Another time I was hit by shrapnel from a tank shell here.” He pointed to his shoulder. “And yet again artillery shrapnel cut my leg open from here”, he indicated the inside of his thigh just above his knee and then drew a line across his thigh ending near his hip bone, “to here.”

A murmur broke out. They liked that one. The stroked the line he had indicated, feeling no trace of the scar through the stiff gabardine of his pants, but just the thought of coming so close to it excited them and made them eager to touch more of him. They traced the seams of his uniform and followed the lines of his anatomy. Kurt’s body stiffened when they innocently brushed the front of his trousers. He became aware of his own arousal, hot and pulsing. His erection was pressed to his body, trapped under his rigid uniform, which he hoped would hide his carnal weakness from them as it hid so many weaknesses. Alas, they were keenly observant little black birds. Some of them giggled again. It was without malice, yet Kurt could not help but feel that there was something threatening about the boys now. Like the pups had grown teeth and would tear him to shreds, if he did not comply.

They had their unspoken plans. Kurt’s uniform had to go first, not entirely, they liked it of course, its look and feel, and the small details they would not miss – the leather gloves, the boots, the iron cross – but enough of it so they could have a look at what he hid underneath. They watched holding their breaths in excitement once more as the buttons were undone. Below Kurt’s protruding rip cage there was the scar just as he had said. A small white spot that was clearly visible for the lack of hair, that covered the rest of his chest and stomach and stood up around his bellybutton like the mane on the back of a wolf. That hair was so much more fascinating than the scar all of a sudden. None of them were quite as furry and none had hair that dark and none of them had that lovely trail down their bellies. It was like an arrow, they just had to follow it. One boy unbuttoned Kurt’s trouser and the officer was overcome by a sudden panic. For a moment they had to hold him, stroke his head and tell him how marvellous he looked. Kurt could not force himself to look at any of them, crouched and kneeling at his feet. Their compliments were clumsy, but the words did not matter as much as the sound of it. The low purr went right to his cock. Those cruel mouth, that would kiss his iron cross so devoutly but kiss his flesh so shyly. How nice it would feel to fuck them. He flushed red with the indecency of his thoughts.

The boys freed his erection from the constraints of his underwear. When it sprung out they laughed at how silly it was, trying to laugh away how nervous they were to see the size of it. It sounded cruel to Kurt. And it was cruel how slowly they studied him when he just ached to be be touched. They stroked the scar on his thigh up to the skin just under his balls, ran their fingers through the curls of his pubes and watched his cock twitch whenever they drew a little closer to its base. He pressed himself into the embrace of the boys, who still held him, but they would not kiss him again, they just stared, mesmerized. Voicelessly he begged them, or anyone, to kiss him, touch him, fuck him. Eventually a low whimper escaped his throat. That encouraged the pack. They kissed him to draw out more of those curious sounds. They kissed his mouth, his chest and his cock like you would kiss a pet on its cold nose, but he was hot and salty and they liked it because it reminded them of the way they felt after wrestling with each other.

They were quick learners. To make their pretty officer moan, they just had to lick the length of his cock or wrap their lips around the head and if they were particularly daring they would push it in their mouths. They were well-mannered about it, everyone got their turn. They made pleasuring him a contest, because they always did make everything a contest. Just like it was important to know who could run the fastest, they needed to know who could swallow his cock the deepest. Each boy held Kurt differently, some kneeled like choirboys, some held on to his hips, some prayed and some conquered. Each mouth felt different around his cock. Full and thin lips, teeth scratching and the tongues pressing, humming, the twitching of their throats, that wet sound when they withdrew. That repeated withdrawal was a special kind of torture. It was dizzying, painful even, to be so close to the edge over and over again. He wanted to push into them, fuck their mouths, but they wouldn’t let him. They just laughed like it was all a joke.

There was that boy who had kissed his iron cross. When he swallowed the length of Kurt’s cock he flushed red. Kurt saw that the boy had placed his hands between his own legs, stroking himself through the fabric. He felt him tremble and moan and gag around his cock and he felt awful for making him cry and wonderful and finally the pain dispersed and he felt only the pleasure and he came.

The boy swallowed obediently. He was quite proud of it, having thus won the contest.