The contrasting black of my baton flatters Peiper’s features, the dark eye sockets and pale lips. I stroke him with it, poke his face, pressing into the hollow under his cheekbone. He looks bored, demonstratively, but I can tell he’s getting so excited already, his eyes scurrying when the tip of the baton grazes his lips. Implication of fellatio. His breathing halts. I apply light pressure to part his lips, a fraction of an inch like a whore does it to attract her customers. Now he stares at me, cold blue, hard steel, judgemental, disgusted. Ironic. I’m not the one getting off on this.

I drop the baton down on his chest. Disappointment flickers over his face. Now now, not so fast, I’ll give you what you need. I draw a vertical line down his torso. No condescending look can hide the tenseness of his body. He once took out a tank by climbing on it and dropping a grenade down the hatch. Hard to believe now, him being so small. Finally I find a warm, soft spot to rest the tip of my baton. There is recollection in his eyes and then expectation on the verge of want.

Remember me now? I gave his balls a good whack some time ago and fondly remember the sound of him panting, muffled by the hood, when he rolled on the floor, cramped up around the pain. Might do it again if he misbehaves. Until they pop. I was a little disappointed he couldn’t keep our little moment to himself, the braggart. Had to tell everyone what a brave soldier he was. But I’ve seen his hands shaking then, I heard his voice breaking.

Did you miss me? Emphasized with a light tap on the soft parts. He jerks forward. The good officer is so eager to earn his wound badge. All the others already have their medals. Black eyes, broken ribs and broken teeth and occasionally strangulation marks and pissed pants. Fine medals. But this prisoner here is too precious to break. Not even that Jewish butcher will touch him. It must be so frustrating, waiting every day for your turn.

The way he looks at me. Defiant doesn’t even come close to describing it. But every challenge is also an invitation. He knows that. Strip. More invitations in the curl of his lips and the red of his cheeks and the discovery that his body looks entirely too boyish for a man of his age. A crescent moon of dirt under my fingernail disappears into the flesh of his chest just below a white, circular scar. His heart it racing. He wishes he didn’t want it so bad. Left unattended it will tear him in two, tragically. I’ll make you feel better.

The baton connects with his face with a meaty thud. Once, twice. A red line pours out from between his lips. Sorry, sir, he fell down the stairs, no, practically threw himself. You know how they are. Another blow to his thigh. He stumbles and falls and cowers from me like an animal, crawling away on his hands and knees. Where are you going? We’re not done here. He’s hyperventilating. Sounds like he’s in heat. His back is bent so that his vertebrae stick out like nails stretching the skin, like they could break through if I made them. One hit on his back drives the air out of his lungs. I count the seconds until he draws breath. Like a drowning man, half a dozen times and increasingly more frantic. When I hit him again, the rhythm breaks, his arms give out, his forehead smacks on the ground. I stop. I mustn’t break him.

With weak arms he raises himself on all fours again and coughs, blood dripping from his mouth, speckling the concrete floor under him. He looks at it and laughs and then turns to look up at me. He’s smiling wide, euphoric. His teeth are pink with blood, his eyes wet with tears. Didn’t think the sourpuss could be that happy. Suddenly my urge to hurt him wanes. I feel drained like after a good fuck. Lazily I kick him in the balls. He moans. I realize he does that just for me. Sickening. “Thank you,” he says when I leave.