Diary

7th May 2019 bunkerarchivesLeave a comment

Excerpt from Baldur von Schirach’s diary notes, written while in hiding, some time between April and June 1945

Started this marvelous bright day with a delightful breakfast. Bread and butter, some eggs and apples. A healthy diet, fresh air and plenty of sleep. Strictly medically speaking this is a blessing for me. I’m losing so much weight, much to Fritz’ dismay. He complains again that I’m so skinny looking (a blatant lie) and tells me how much more he likes me as “cherub prince”.

Later that day we met a young man, POW camp escapee. Running into him in the middle of nowhere gave us quite the scare, but he was a lovely chap. Recognized me I believe, although he did not say so. That night we shared a bottle of (disgusting) brandy he had kept for special occasions (bribery). We made it up to him the only way we could, having nothing but ourselves to share. He wasn’t satisfied until we were both wedged inside of him. Lovely chap.

War Memorial

7th May 2019 bunkerarchivesLeave a comment

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.

Job Interview

7th May 2019 bunkerarchivesLeave a comment

[insert your favorite nazi Schreibtischtäter here]

He was looking for a new secretary for his private office and she had just finished the typing course. It was perfect timing. She had put on her best clothing for the interview. She shortest skirt she owned, a beautiful new pair of tights with a dotted seam in the back and the shoes with the thin heel that made her feet look so dainty. The tapping of his nailed boots on the dark office floor was not unlike the sound of her own heels. He circled her, his face always in profile. She didn’t like Nordic types, because she thought they looked cold and distant, but she decided to like this man. She had heard a lot about men like him marrying their secretaries. There was want in his eyes but to say he was undressing her with them would imply he cared to see her. When he bent her over his desk he only lifted her skirt and pulled down her panties. He ripped her tights in the process. She made a mental note to buy a nicer pair from her first pay check. The expensive fabric of his pants felt cool on her bare bottom and it made her shiver. She realized that she had mistaken her anxiety for arousal and now found herself punished for her misjudgment. He had to squeeze his penis into her vagina inch by inch, like a dull blade. It wasn’t exceptional in size but through the clenching of her own muscles it seemed big enough to rip her open. He found some wetness inside of her eventually. It dampened the pain of his thrusts for a while. When the pain returned, she became tight like a clenched fist around him, every muscle trying to push out the invader. She experienced something like an orgasm, except she felt no pleasure, only the violent convulsions of her insides. He muffled her wailing with one hand and thrust into her for some more minutes before ejaculating. When he pulled out of her he left her wide open. Just as she had been unable to let him enter her body, she was now unable to stop the flow of ejaculate out of her body. It soiled her underwear before she could make it to the bathroom. Covering from its uncomfortably bright light she tried to scrape the last remains of semen out of her vagina. They clung to her sore skin and burned like soap long enough so she could still feel it when she returned to his office where she signed her contract of employment.

End of Days

7th May 2019 bunkerarchivesLeave a comment

(Göring in Nuremberg)

There are footsteps marching up the corridor. He can feel Goebbels now. In a way his little doctor is more real to him here than he ever was. In these tight sparse cells, scrutinised, caught under glass like some sort of insect or animal on the cusp of vivisection – memories are the only private thing he has left, the only things left to grasp at, the most vivid thing to cling to.

He knows about the suicides and the-

(children)

-the sacrifices.

In his memory there is a space where they can be alone in the dark and there’s not a damn thing (sanctimonious, smug or brutish) anyone can do about it. His dear visitors, Goebbels’ ghost, Carin’s, Emmy’s, Bruno’s…

He thinks of Bruno, how he would moan in that way he always did when appetite overwhelmed the starchy self control he tried to button up over his uniform. Lovely Bruno, he wonders if he will survive all this – oh he might live of course but what does that mean. Emmy’s perfume and her soft hands and the warmth of her laughter and how that smile will petrify like a scar as she repeats how she never thought a thing about politics and Carin…but he must stop there.

In this isolation he can feel the chill of their breath on his neck, the draught that drifts under these steel doors and over the concrete that brings whispers of his name

Was he surprised that Goebbels stuck to that bunker until the end? He always was a loyal dog; sat up and begged, did as he was told.

(was his hand shaking when he raised the gun, did he kiss little Helga goodbye, where are their precious spirits anyway, are they only being polite children and keeping quite and-)

But no, cling to hot thoughts, like how Goebbels would ride him hard, the way he liked to be ridden. Or squirm as he was pushed facedown on the couch, those features at once harsh and delicate ground into a well upholstered seat. The rough rub of the fabric might not be so different from his prison clothes he thinks as he folds them up under his pillow and dreams about Goebbels’ mouth, his skin. Sometimes these American jailers are dark-eyed boys with pale skin who reminded him of his sparrow but of course they never weep the same way.

He hadn’t planned this sort of ending. What were the last words they had even spoken to each other? He can’t remember now, just a muddled haze of boredom and rage, did someone insinuate the word ‘traitor’? But even when worst came to worst, he always though Goebbels was such fun sport. A worthy foe. It was foreplay wasn’t it? So much anger, such lashings of lust, all lace-corseted beneath the prim exterior Joe fought so hard to hold together despite his reputation. That dignity he killed, as it turned out in the end, to protect.

Emmy had asked him once, close enough it feels it like yesterday. How is Joseph? Still trailing at your heels, wistfully hoping you’ll throw him a bone? He’d suck you off a pfennig, you know. In fact he’d probably pay you for the privilege.

Poor lovesick Joseph. Searching for answers through kisses, hoping no doubt to smell or taste what would make him whole. He was disappointed, of course. Was there any more answer in the last kiss he gave Magda goodbye?

Perhaps. Or perhaps he’d like to hope there’s no truth to be found in some final kiss he hasn’t been granted permission to taste himself.

Goebbels never really did admit how much, how hard, he liked it. The leash he made of his hair, the marks he left with his teeth. Had Goebbels been his mistress, things might have been different between them. But that sort of behaviour isn’t up to scratch, is it, in a man?

It’s almost time to go. Being haunted has its attractions but he’s tired of ghosts, now, here, at the end. He craves touch but there’s not much of that to be had here, just the abrasion of hostile eyes and foreign whispers and the occasional dart and dash of longings too painful to contemplate.

When the glass crushes between his teeth the bitterness on his tongue reminds him of the way Goebbels used to speak his name and he knows; he is not haunted at all, just expected.

It’s been too long since we’ve seen Max Wünsche getting fucked up the arse.

5th May 2019 bunkerarchivesLeave a comment

It requires only a look, the intense fixation of hunger, and a cheeky smile in the corner of his mouth and without words Max knows to follow Kurt away from the other men.

Behind the latrine Kurt grabs him by the scruff of the neck and pushes him down on all fours; trousers at his ankles and a bit of spit easing the way for a quick relief. The pain he is used to, but not the smell of cock and old sweat and urine and shit.

Back in the garden the men laugh as if they could see him now and he winces and Kurt comes with a stifled grunt and collapses on his back, breathing heavy and hot on his cheek.

He must wait a while and then Kurt will get up and leave and Max can wipe the filth off his arse, fix his uniform and his hair and with some delay return with a wide smile for another round of beers.

@reichblr-ficathon

Spandau Ballet

5th May 2019 bunkerarchivesLeave a comment

Always with the solemn faces. The more you punch the Germans, the less they speak. And the looks they shoot you when they think you’re not looking. You’d think they won the war.

The only time I hear them talk freely is in the prison yard, when they think no one is listening. And then all they ever do is complain. If you asked me what the quintessential German characteristic was, my reply wouldn’t be discipline or barbarism, it’s moaning. They are never happy with anything and will come together like a couple of bored house wives, lamenting flaws in everything from the quality of food to the little amount of beating they received. To point out the shortcomings of reality itself was their preferred form of socializing, much like monkeys picking lice or cats licking each other’s fur. Kant, Schopenhauer, Marx and Nietzsche could only be the product of a nation of chronic complainers. Well, if history had told us one thing, it was better they just complained than made improvements of their own.

One time we found the inmates of cell complex A trying to communicate with cell complex B, which housed the officers, by scratching letters on the bottom of their mess kits. As punishment we put them all on bread and water for a week. I couldn’t believe my ears when afterwards I heard them moan not about the poor accommodation but the fact that we hadn’t done anything worse to them. To put it bluntly they thought we were wimps.

Maybe giving some of them a good whipping in the prison yard would have catered to their interests. They did like to publicly display the things us civilized nations did only behind closed doors. To them violence wasn’t something to be hidden but to be embraced and publicized. To fulfil that base desire they discretely showed each other their marks and bruises. Sleeves rolled up a little too high, so the blue badges of honour would peak out – enough to estimate the size of it, but not enough to seem desperate. One could of course not hold the head as high as they were accustomed to while also begging for attention. It was an almost neurotic habit, like a beaten wife, who covers up her black eye with make-up just enough to hide the vulgar ugliness of it and give the impression that she is indeed trying to hide it, but not enough to cover it so well that no one would take notice and pity her.

When I first got to interrogate them the were all black and blue around the edges, giving them more to show and less to complain about. Evidently their captors and guards enjoyed using them as punching bags, something I had to put an end to immediately. Not so much out of humanitarian reasons but to prevent an inconvenient hardening. I needed them susceptible to physical abuse and this sort of selfish random beating meant I would immediately have to resort to more severe means of torture if the need arose.

The chief prosecutor and I sit in a brightly lit office room with concrete walls and bars in front of the window. He kissed my hand with a smile that made my skin crawl. A disgustingly false personality is a professional necessity. He tells me all about the inmates, their history and command structure. For each of them he pulls out a single piece of paper with his name, signature, rank, company, the war crimes he was accused of and a mug shot pinned to it. Half an hour later 51 of these papers are spread out on his desk like a Nazi murder mystery game. 51 faces, young and old, mostly handsome, a variety of types too, mercenaries from all over Europe. The higher up you get in the chain of command, the more likely you could find a smirk instead of the proper military neutrality. I take note of a few ones looking distraught with eyes wide and chin clenched.

My first subject for interrogation had been neither distraught nor cocky. Frederick Berger is standing in the doorway of the interrogation cell with a black hood on his head and his hands tied behind his back. He is wearing a black Panzer wrap, the SS kind, with all the insignia ripped off. Maybe some lucky GI now uses them as props for his stories about how he killed those Nazi fucks. His pants are of a civilian type, grey, and tugged into a pair of American issue boots. I motion the guards to remove my prisoner’s hood and untie his hands. Another motion towards the door and they leave us alone.

Frederick is a good looking young man. He has high cheekbones, a strong jaw and thin lips. His hair is dirty blond or as the Germans say: straßenköterblond – street dog blond. I estimate him to be about 180cm tall, a little taller when he assumes the military posture. That is: head high and arm at his side, bend at the elbow, fingers together, thumb to the index finger with a slight curve to the hand like he’s begging for orders. That’s how they teach it to the SS boys and you can always tell an SS boy from any other soldier because he just can’t help but stand like that. And Frederick stands just like that, such a good SS boy, silently staring forward into nothing. I tell him to sit down. He glimpses at me surprised to find a woman in the interrogation seat and one speaking German too. I smile wide, teeth showing maybe a little too much, I never did get the hang of it.

“Your name is Frederick Berger, you’re 21 years old, the last rank you held was Sturmmann. Is that correct?”, I ask matter-of-factly.

“Jawohl.” Pleasant voice, not too confident despite the choice of military jargon.

I look up from my paper to muster him. He stares at me with unconcealed curiosity. These people have no subtlety. It is always all or nothing with them.

“I’m Edda Wolff and from now on I will be questioning you about the war crimes you committed.”

I have now thoroughly destroyed his curiosity. He does what they always do: shuts his mouth and stares ahead in demonstrative disinterest. Back to nothing. In this state I could ask him for hours and get nowhere. Of course I could slap him across the face and call him a dirty German pig, but from my experience that would hardly make him open up. Instead I opt for the friendly route, which comes with a sweet smile (no teeth) and hint of Bavarian accent. Germans can’t help but like people from the south. Not that unlike Americans I suppose.

“You were a Ladeschütze, right?”

His surprise confirms it. Well it’s not too hard to spot the Ladeschütze out of a crew of five. He’s the one with the thick arms and torso and the rough blistered fingers. The commander is equally easy to identify. Usually he is the oldest, sometimes as much as twice the age of the others. A proud father of four young lads. I never thought much about why it was that way. It wasn’t like the tank commander had an actual position of authority over the others. Did that perhaps mean that these old veteran commanders had climbed some burning tanks before, leaving their crew to die a horrible death? I shuddered to think about it. What a lucky boy this Ladeschütze was then, finding himself in my hands, not burned to a crisp in a metal box.

“Who do you share your cell with?”, I proceeded with my usual questioning.

He runs down four names and I carefully write them down. I didn’t know they cramped so many of them in one cell. I’ve seen one of those from the inside. They are tiny. Not to mention there is only one bed which is barely big enough for one adult man. Ah, how adorable.

“Four… Is that your crew?”

He shakes his head. Just his commander and three from a different battalion. Well, he got his commander with him at least, what a lucky boy.

“Are you happy to be with your commander?”

Some hesitation. He is questioning my motives.

“Yes.”

“Was he a good commander?”

“Jawohl.”, he says proudly. There is glimmer in his eyes and he can barely hide a smile. He must admire his commander so much. Oh, how could he not? To be encased in this steel plated coffin with no other purpose but loading shells, like a human machine. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t see, he couldn’t fight, he had absolutely no autonomy, just his commander’s guiding voice. What a wonderful tightly knit group such a crew must have been. Five men merged into one terrible war machine. But now he has been peeled out of his tank and ripped from his comrades. Just a boy with a neat haircut and the torn up remains of a uniform of a country that is no more.

“Do you like him?”, I ask with a warm smile.

He hesitates again, not because he is searching his feelings but because he doesn’t understand my questioning. His last interrogator must have been such a bore. How could you not savour these men?

“It’s a simple question. Do you like your commander?”

“Yes.” His feeble voice doesn’t fit his hard jawline.

“Does he like you too?”

“Yes.” Eyes down and up again in the flicker of less than a second. I wish he had put his hands on the table, so I could see them clench.

“Are you two in a sexual relationship?”

I have never see a man flush that red that quickly. He’s not just embarrassed but personally offended. “No. Please stop that.”, he almost shouts, stumbling over his own words. I take it that the commander is more of a father figure then and Frederick only sometimes touches himself while fantasizing about him. What’s the German saying? “Was nicht ist, kann ja noch werden.” What isn’t yet may well still be. He mutters something under his breath. That’s just rude no matter how bothered he is by my implication.

“Would you rather have me ask about your involvement in the hanging of the French civilians?”

That shuts him up. He’s still red and very agitated, but appears to be struggling with himself now rather than me.

“Good. Now is there anything you need?” He doesn’t understand. Of course he doesn’t, no one cares for his needs now. I elaborate: “Goods, something the Americans forgot” – air quotes – “to give you. The necessities.”

“We only have one blanket. And it’s cold at night.”

Oh no, the poor men don’t have enough blankets. I think about them clinging together for warmth, piled up on a bed barely big enough for one of them. It requires a lot of strength not to bug Frederick about it. I think if I did he would go back to pouting again and that would be a shame. He looks adorable now with the red still visible around his ears and his eyes flickering left and right, looking for a trap or an escape. I want to touch his pretty little face.

“You can have a second blanket if you let me do this.”, I explain and without further hesitation reach out. His eyes follow my finger tips. He’s completely frozen. Just a little closer. I’m stretched out over the table, the edge is cutting into my hips. Just a couple inches more. I break through some personal barrier and he flinches away like a wild animal.

“I won’t hurt you. Just a little something for me.”, I purr. I won’t mention his reward. He’s not stupid. When I reach out again he doesn’t flinch. The skin of his cheek feels harder than his age suggests, it’s clean shaven though just like the back of his neck.

If you really want to rile up the Germans, you refuse them access to razor blades. You could take their food, their water, their clothing and dignity and they’d just take it like it was nothing but you take their razor blades, or worse shave off all of the beautiful hair on their heads, and they will hate you with the force of a thousand year Reich. I do however like them looking neat myself, too much to ever inflict such shame on them.

I give Frederick some time to adjust to the sensation of my fingers on his skin, but it’s no use. He’s shaking in his boots. I hear them dragging on the floor. I’m too greedy to wait. I trace the hollow of his cheek, the narrow nose bridge. “If you allow me to do this we can skip the serious talk.” No answer is agreement enough for me. I follow the sharp line of his cheekbone to his ear where the stubble of his shaved hair begins. I tap along the lobe of his ear and then stroke him behind it, enjoying the feeling of freshly trimmed stubble. All the while he tries not to look at me, but I’m too close now to avoid. We make eye contact. “It’s okay”, I whisper, “I’ll take good care of you.” And then the most wonderful thing happens: he leans into my touch. It’s just a small, subtle movement but unmistakably he’s trying to get closer to me. I can barely hide my joy. Slowly I caress the back of his head. His boots are still shaking under the table but he is leaning into my hand like a cat rubbing its head on its master’s hand. So desperate for affection, he can’t even resists his captor, poor little thing.

He quickly becomes my whore. Over the following weeks I pay him in blankets, chocolate, and cigarettes. In exchange he lets me touch him. I know he craves my touch but the exchange of goods serves to make it impersonal.

One time I have him undress and I study every inch of his body. I make a mental map of his scars. So many burns. He’s cold and embarrassed.

I kiss him on the temples and ask about his childhood. We dropped a bomb on his sweetheart. Poor little SS boy. He cries and winces when I kiss him.

He is so pliable. He has no will of his own, but will put his heart into doing as he is told. Germans make for a good pets.

He is sitting between my legs. His face is buried in my lap. His nose is buried in my panties. Hands behind your back, no fingers allowed. Obedience secures his hands more tightly behind his back than any rope. And he tries so hard. Pulling and tearing at the fabric that’s between his tongue and my cunt. You can do it. Good boy. How eagerly he laps me up.

He bends me over the table and fucks me as I taught him, slow and deep. I love the way his thick arms squeeze my abdomen when he reaches around my body. I’m dripping wet. His fingers search and prod and slip in the mess he has made. Finally he crushes my clit under the flat of his thumb until I can’t feel anything but his cock buried inside of me and the feeling rolls over my body and into my head and I come slow and deep.

He doesn’t even get himself off. He just sits back down, ready to proceed with the farce of an interrogation. It’s a pathetic sight, that cock poking out of his pants, so wet and pink. This time I can’t help myself and jerk him off. It takes just a few strokes to push him over the edge. He looks so pretty when he comes. His eyes are pressed shut as if in pain and his whole body twitches with each spurt. The come gets all over his nice little jacket.

I think about him returning to his cell, his uniform stained and stinking like pussy and semen. They must know by now. How else would he be earning all of these nice things to share with them? The thought occurs to me that maybe he tells them he is seducing me. That he got into the head of the the ditzy American secretary, who couldn’t resist his Germanic charms. It doesn’t sit well with me.

Spandau Ballet 1

5th May 2019 bunkerarchivesLeave a comment

Always with the solemn faces. The more you punch the Germans, the less they speak. And the looks they shoot you when they think you’re not looking. You’d think they won the war.

“Your name is Frederick Berger, you’re 21 years old, the last rank you held was Sturmmann. Is that correct?”, I ask matter-of-factly.

“Jawohl.” Pleasant voice, not too confident despite the choice of military jargon.

I look up from my paper to muster him. He stares at me with unconcealed curiosity. These people have no subtlety. It is always all or nothing with them.

“I’m Edda Wolff and from now on I will be questioning you about the war crimes you committed.”

“You were a Ladeschütze, right?”

“Who do you share your cell with?”, I proceeded with my usual questioning.

“Four… Is that your crew?”

He shakes his head. Just his commander and three from a different battalion. Well, he got his commander with him at least, what a lucky boy.

“Are you happy to be with your commander?”

Some hesitation. He is questioning my motives.

“Yes.”

“Was he a good commander?”

“Do you like him?”, I ask with a warm smile.

He hesitates again, not because he is searching his feelings but because he doesn’t understand my questioning. His last interrogator must have been such a bore. How could you not savour these men?

“It’s a simple question. Do you like your commander?”

“Yes.” His feeble voice doesn’t fit his hard jawline.

“Does he like you too?”

“Yes.” Eyes down and up again in the flicker of less than a second. I wish he had put his hands on the table, so I could see them clench.

“Are you two in a sexual relationship?”

“Would you rather have me ask about your involvement in the hanging of the French civilians?”

That shuts him up. He’s still red and very agitated, but appears to be struggling with himself now rather than me.

“We only have one blanket. And it’s cold at night.”

One time I have him undress and I study every inch of his body. I make a mental map of his scars. So many burns. He’s cold and embarrassed.

I kiss him on the temples and ask about his childhood. We dropped a bomb on his sweetheart. Poor little SS boy. He cries and winces when I kiss him.

He is so pliable. He has no will of his own, but will put his heart into doing as he is told. Germans make for a good pets.

New Girl

5th May 2019 bunkerarchivesLeave a comment

Oh no

She feels it, deep in her stomach, barely understanding what it is that has her hair standing on edge, that makes her stiffen slightly in her seat.

Heydrich standing before the desk, his pupils pin pointed and blazing.

“Sir?” she asks.

“Get up.”

She does it almost against her will, desk chair squeaking a shrill note against the floor. Heydrich stalks toward her and she gives in to his momentum unthinkingly, before she knows it she can feel her body sliding and slipping against the wall as Heydrich invades her with his hands and mouth.

“I’m sorry!” It comes out as a squeak when he stops for breath. She doesn’t know why she says it.

Heydrich gives a shallow laugh and gropes at the back of her head, taking hold of the neat little bun she put in place this morning, tightening his fist until it starts to hurt. She’d thought he must be strong the first time she looked at him, so tall, so upright, now he’s grabbing the collar of her blouse and dragging her forward, shoving her down onto the broad surface of the table until her spine meets oak with a crunch, leaning in to kiss her neck, hands thrusting up her skirt.

“I have to…” she begins, as steadily as she can. She has to what? Finish typing up her report? That’s what she meant. If he understands that, he’ll stop won’t he? And she’s a good girl, she’s a good girl who’s here to work, she never listened to the rumours, she knew this sort of thing would never happen to her, she’s definitely, definitely, not getting wet as his fingers glide past her stockings to the soft, naked skin of her upper thighs.

Her head spins, she lies there, limp and boneless but Heydrich doesn’t pause for an instant.

“You’re quite a pretty one,” Heydrich says and something in his face makes her flinch. She turns her head away and he leans in and bites her neck hard until she can feel it bruising. Another bite, lower down, teeth sinking into the thin skin around her collarbone.

“Please sir-”

She’s dragged to the edge of the desk, spun round made to face the table as Heydrich presses in from behind to unbutton his trousers. “You should have a better idea of your duty, girl.”

She wants to plead but what? Injustice? Some deep, animal part of her melts against the desk as it accepts that if he says this is her duty then it must be so. There’s a hand pressing down on the nape of her neck and as it pushes down she feels her hips raise and gives a shamed little sob.

He flips her skirt up and kicks her legs apart. The chill of the air on her skin, the sudden exposure makes her panic and lays her palms on the table, tries to push herself up.

A mistake. Heydrich slaps her hard, open palmed but rigid, his large, soldier’s hand on the crease where her thigh meets her ass. Pain explodes in a sharp pink flash against her skin. He does it again, then again.

“Be good,” he says, and she’s trying but the stinging bruise of his blows are too much for her to lie still. She tries to kick her ankles up to save herself but then he just steps between her legs and forces himself against her so hard she can feel her hips bruising.

She can feel him, his erection, pressing against her. It feels impossibly hot. When he tugs her underwear to the side she whimpers even before he touches her. Her cunt is throbbing, any moment now he’s going to touch her and feel how utterly soaking she is, just the air on her makes her want to squirm like a whore.

The phone on the desk rings. Heydrich lets her underwear snap back into place. He reaches over her head to pick it up, grinding his cock against her.

A pause.

“You’re speaking to him.”

Then.

“I’ll be there at once.”

He puts the phone back down with a clatter, adjusts his uniform a little. He doesn’t bother to say anything else to her before he leaves.

Correspondence

5th May 2019 bunkerarchivesLeave a comment

Letter from Joachim Peiper to former colleague William Jones from September 30, 1973.

Dear William,

Thank you for the photos, they really brightened my day.

As for your question about the events at Malmedy and whether I had been abused in a similar manner as you have have heard from other prisoners’ testimonies. You have asked me before and I had previously construed the question as simple curiosity in a matter of some public debate, but I’ve now come to understand that you have asked out of genuine concern for my well being. I have decided to tell you the truth as you’ve been a good friend. I don’t want to lie to you and don’t like being evasive. I trust that you will keep the matter entirely to yourself as I have no intentions of bringing my experience to public attention.

Rest assured that none of the things that were inflicted on me could compare to the horrors I have witnessed on the Eastern front. I have seen with my own eyes the disgusting things the Russians will do to surrendered soldiers of the Schutzstaffel. We found corpses of German soldiers which were used for target practice, violated with knives, gutted like pigs or burned alive. You have seen yourself what happened to the German girls who were unfortunate enough to fall into the hands of the Red Army. Many Americans had no manners but they also had no malice.

Generally the behaviour towards me from the investigators, especially Mr. Ellis and even the Jewish prosecutors, was fair. They did not beat me during interrogations or ever threatened to do so. Their swords were purely verbal. They tried to undermine my character with trickery and lies. Some of these performances were at the expense of my subordinates who had to serve as actors in their plays. They were made to accuse me, beg me to lie or were simply displayed to me so I could see how low they had sunken at the hands of their torturers.

There was one incident of assault however, which I will describe to you in as much detail as I can recall. I will leave it to you to decide if you want to proceed reading. Read it all or none of it, it makes no difference to me.

One day in early January my prison cell was opened and four guards entered. This was at a time when I had been moved to a more remote but also more comfortable hospital cell. Usually one person would suffice to transport a prisoner to their interrogation cell. Another one might also come along to pick up a second prisoner, who would then be interrogated in the same or a nearby room. They did however carry with them at least one of the black hoods we were always made to wear on our way to the interrogation rooms. So I assumed this would be another one of those madhouse interrogation where I would now be made to see even more of my former comrades. But I quickly learned the guards had other plans. I say plans because whether the things they did to me were by order or by their own volition I can not tell, but they enjoyment they took in their actions suggested to me it was the latter.

I should mention that I had seen these guards before and they had always acted very harshly towards me, kicking me as I crossed the prison courtyard on the way to the interrogation room, shoving me up and down stairs and making liberal use of their batons. I believed them to be Slavic, maybe Polish from their looks and their accented German.

I followed the usual procedure of standing with my face to the wall and my hands behind my back in case they wanted to restrain me as the weaker guards sometimes did. I heard them walk into the cell and close the door behind them. One of them fastened the hood over my head. It reeked of blood. I can confirm this much from the other inmate’s accusations. He then removed the belt from his pants and tied it around my wrists, which you can imagine was absolutely not standard procedure.

Having restrained me in such a manner, he grabbed me by the shoulders and threw me on the cell floor. I managed to turn on my side so that at least my face didn’t make contact with the concrete. They insulted me in broken German. They called me a “disgusting pig”, a “dirty dog” and “degenerate queer.” The irony made me chuckle which enraged them more. One of them with a nasal voice, I believe he must have been the ringleader, said they would teach me humility. I refrained from telling them how any barbaric behaviour would have the opposite effect on me.

Nonetheless they weren’t satisfied with just verbal abuse. While taunting me further for not dying a warrior’s death, having been captured, not having followed my Führer, being at the mercy of them and the Americans and so forth they also started to kick me. First hesitantly as if they were testing the thickness of my skin, but soon hard enough to drive the air out of my lungs. Being restrained, blinded, surrounded and in increasingly more pain I had no way of protecting myself.

One kicked me in the stomach with enough force to make me throw up. They proceeded to kick and pummel me. Lying on my back I was unable to rid myself of the spit in my throat. The matter was worsened by the wet hood clinging to my face. I choked on my own vomit, wheezed for air and struggled to remain conscious. After excruciatingly long seconds I found myself turned on my belly and the hood pulled off my head. I could clean my throat and breathe again. I was panting for breath, dazed and disoriented. Although my body would later turn red and blue and black I felt no more pain, just a numb warmth swelling under my skin.

With the hood removed I could now get a better look at the men staring down on me. In their expressions there was no reason, hate or anger, just pure delight in the destruction of others. I can always tell a sadist by that glimmer in his eyes, the redness of his cheeks, the shortness of breath. I realised the gravity of my situation.

Two of them pulled me up by the arms into a kneeling position. The one with the nasal voice grabbed me by the hair and shoved my face into his crotch. He said something along the lines of “I’ll make you choke on something good” which elicited some dirty laughter from the other men. He asked me whether I was going to be a “good Nazi boy”. As I didn’t reply he slapped me across the face and asked again. This was repeated several times, but a slap wouldn’t make me budge.

I told him quite calmly that I was not afraid. This was partially true. At this point I considered myself a dead man walking, with a noose around my neck. My only concern was preserving my honour, that is to endure to my end with the dignity becoming of a Prussian officer. You will not be able to understand this but in a way the struggle was thrilling to me. The memory of the battlefield still lingered with me; a wild hunt through the night, the low humming of bombers overhead, a firework of muzzle flashes and screams. I’m not made for a comfortable life. The boredom was eating at my core.

The ringleader called me an “arrogant cocksucker” and said something to the others in Polish. To me he said: “Don’t try anything funny”. Despite centuries of Prussian occupation the Poles evidently had very little understanding of German dignity. One of the others, the heavy one who had previously tied my hands, undid his belt and freed my hands. He grabbed my tunic, trying clumsily to get it off my body. I took the matter into my own hands. I only had the clothing I wore on my body and did not intend to get any of their filth on it. Watching me put the clothing carefully under my bed seemed to amuse them. They burst into laughter and called me “kurwa”, whore.

I had to strip naked. They grabbed me by the arms, one man each, and pushed me face first on the bed. They spread my arms, each man pressing down on it with his body weight, so that I was bend over the bed and barely able to move. The heavy one stepped forward and hit me across the back with his belt.

Flogging is a matter entirely different from beating. There is only so many kicks or punches a body can take before it breaks irreparably, but you can whip a man for hours and only break his soul. It’s a completely different pain too. You will not grow numb, you won’t get used to it. Every hit cuts like a blade and rends you deep inside. The pain doesn’t fade, every hit with the belt just pushed the blade deeper into me. I counted to 40 hits when my brain stopped functioning. Everything turned white. I’m counting confirmed kills, prisoners, horses, gallons, miles. I’m being carried by now dead comrades, my back is dotted with shrapnel. I lie in the charred remains of my Tiger tank, my back is covered in burning oil. The blade has cut every nerve in my body. My thoughts turn red and then only black.

The next thing I remember is lying curled up on the bed, my back warm with blood. I was too weak to raise my body off the mattress. Still the flogging wasn’t enough to satisfy them. They took turns sodomising me. It was less painful than the belt. They became angry at my lack of anguish and tried find ways to humiliate me. One of them rubbed his filth in the wounds on my back. Another pushed it down my throat. They choked me with the belt. I thought of my brother Hasso who had come to me to cry his eyes out when something similar but less damaging had happened to him. I liked him, but he was too weak. I didn’t cry.

Once they had gotten their sexual satisfaction, the guards left me. I don’t think anyone was aware of what they had done to me. The doctors didn’t work at that time of the day. Four hours later a nurse returned to duty. She patched me up and didn’t ask questions.

My dear Sigurd knows of course and now do you. I expect neither pity nor sympathies.

I would like to talk to you about more joyful matters like the wonderful weather or the start of the hunting season but I have run out of paper. You know I try to avoid going to the shops, we are always short on the necessities here.

Looking forward to hear from you.

Sincerely,

Jochen

Cadenza

5th May 2019 bunkerarchivesLeave a comment

Goebbels returns to Carinhall to provide some lipservice.

Goebbels smiles bitterly to himself. He’s survived this long and seeing as he isn’t dead, he must be getting stronger – that’s what Friedrich would say, isn’t it? Naturally he can appreciate a slick mantra but there’s enough proof of Nietzsche’s fallibility right here with him now tonight. When Göring looks at him from across the room he feels as though he might evaporate in any particularly harsh light.

The goblets the staff are serving the wine in are ridiculously gaudy things, little golden buboes decorating each honoured guest’s stem. He’s only nursing his drink, careful of himself. He can see his profile cast on the wall, the movement of his arm raising the cup to his lips. He smiles at the pretty redhead standing to his left and his shadow shifts over the wallpaper too like a Peryton.

Lately everything has felt like minor puppet theatre, maddeningly inconsequential. Göring is charming some general and Goebbels is maintaining his smile quite excellently while what he aches for is to find himself in some dark, lonely corner of this hunting manor and hear the tread of heavy footsteps coming up behind him, the creak of the floorboards, that low, knowing chuckle.

He knows what Göring wants him to ask. He knew it well before the moment his car drove through the maw of Carinhall’s gates tonight. The difference between knowledge and action is his cowardice, casting its long shadow over everything.

It’s almost time to leave before he can bring himself to find the moment, the greater fear of another week strewing in purgatory propelling him on rather than some hidden reservoir of determination, approaching Göring without ceremony and affecting like it’s nothing, some personal aside, to entreat almost softer than a murmur – please.

–

“Let me see that pretty neck,” Göring purrs.

Kneeling between Göring’s feet, Goebbels fumbles with his neck tie. The expression on Göring’s face is exactly like the cat that got the canary. It suits him and Goebbels knows he should hate him for it, but that’s not what swells within him in response. He thinks instead with something like despair that Göring looks perfect from this angle, monumental really.

Would this be easier if it had been some waifish boy he lusted after? A delicate blond of indeterminate sex or even one of those fine soldiers, statuesque and emblematic of all they believed in – to make love to an ideal would perhaps be understandable. The rumours of his intentions toward Harald were vile things, but what of this? Göring’s erection is an obscene bulge in his periwinkle trousers, so blatant, he’s blushing to look upon it but he does look, doesn’t he?

“Open your collar for me, Joseph,” Göring says and Goebbels closes his eyes and undoes the top two buttons of his shirt.

The heat from Göring touches him a moment before his hand does, followed by the cool metal of the rings he’s wearing – especially for him it seems as

Göring

strokes his face roughly with the backs of his knuckles, a hard press of gemstone and bone. He pats his cheek; once, twice, like he would a pet.

“Kiss it,” Göring says, stentorian.

Goebbels looks at the ruby stone presented to his lips, Göring’s crest emblazoned there in silver. The theatre of it is is absurd but is it theatre? Göring’s stare has both the chill of drawn steel and the blue heat at the heart of a flame. He kisses Göring’s ring once, hesitantly, then again, slow and damp and lingering. His cock throbs with a deep, leaden fullness between his legs.

“Hermann,” he’s begging already, lips still pressed against the ring.

“Ask for it, my little sparrow.”

“Please…”

An aspirated plea that fades away, he clutches Göring’s knee and looks up at him, entreating, wide eyed, utterly hopeless. Göring’s crooked smile, the aristocratic arch of one expectant eyebrow, fills his mouth with cotton – the words seem so impossibly filthy to him, he shudders.

“Let me,” he says and kisses Göring’s ring again.

Göring takes his hand away and trails it over the tight, serious knot of his face, one finger down slow behind his ear and to the hollow of his exposed throat. He makes a mocking, chiding sound and Goebbels clenches his fists at his sides.

“Anything you want,” he says, in a small, constricted voice and Göring sighs, unimpressed.

He’s trying to compose a speech to excuse himself, his head is muddy with rhetoric.

“Please let me have your cock,” he whispers. He can hear how weak he sounds, hear the vacillation in his voice, and it sickens him. Göring will swallow him up, deserves to, even as he’s the one who-

Göring unfastens his trousers and as if from very far away Goebbels can hear the noise he makes, the whimper, as he watches his cock spring out, larger than he remembers or maybe it’s only that he’s kneeling before it now, a supplicant. He flinches back a little but doesn’t look away; the weighty fullness of Göring’s erection points toward the floor, thick as a club, still swelling. Goebbels thinks of bulls, of animals in rut; the male musk of him is heady, sweat and sex, the broad head of his cock shining wetly, just peeking out of the wrinkled folds of his foreskin. Goebbels has never seen another man’s erection this close in his life.

Göring’s large palm cups his skull and brings him closer, pulling him in, not to his cock but to the hefty purse of his balls. Goebbels inches forward on his knees, the marble floor is unforgiving and his right leg twinges slightly, the premonition of an ache. Steadying himself with a hand on Göring’s thigh he thinks of the scars that must be hidden just out of sight, he wonders if Göring would let him kiss those badges of honour and rubs his thumb over the seam of his trousers back and forth as the heat from Göring’s cock presses against his cheek like a glowing iron.

“Show me how hungry you are,” Hermann says.

“Hermann…” He breathes the name and his mouth moves against the thin, velvet skin of Göring’s balls and the sweat damp blond thatch of his pubic hair. I can’t, he thinks, bleating seriously to himself as he puts out his tongue and laps meekly, hesitant, at Göring.

“Marvellous,” Hermann clucks, holding him there, strong fingers on the back of his head that make him think of a clenched fist. “Just right.”

He means to say he is right in his place, Goebbels thinks, his head swimming dangerously at the thought of it; his mouth full of the flavour of salt and degradation. This lowliness of the act feels like peine forte et dure; he wants to smear himself against the floor, rub himself against it, his skin is boiling. He licks at Göring with less reserve, longer broader strokes of his tongue.

“God,” he gives a little moan and wets his lips and turns his head to reach where Hermann’s sack isn’t yet spit slick from his attentions. Göring’s cock slides across his face as he does it, it’s such an intimate defilement. He groans at the thought of what Hermann is seeing and then again when he spreads his knees to dip his head lower still and the stretch of his trousers pulls against his own erection.

A little longer and Göring pulls him backward with a wrench and he pants there on his knees, dazed while Göring smooths down the tacky ruffle of his hair. Looking up at him, his eyes are such a clear blue that they seem to reflect nothing, only pierce through into him and Goebbels senses at once the predator lurking beneath his jolly dimples and fluffed up plumage of medals, feathered hats and fur. It’s the most disturbing and arousing thing he’s ever seen.

“You want more don’t you?” Göring says, hand around the base of his cock.

Goebbels nods his head and bends his head to kiss Göring’s ring again where his fingers are curled holding his wide girth up before Goebbels face, so eager his teeth knock against the stone.

“Tell me,” Göring says.

“I want more.” Goebbels exhales, leaning back, eyes on the floor. “Reichsmarschall.”

Göring does chuckle them, that throaty jovial sound that has been haunting him now for what seems like an age.

How long has he wanted this? Goebbels can’t tell; the register of his desire has shifted to another pitch here in this moment, but it’s the culmination of so many more stains upon his conscience; his sallow romances, the pages of his notebooks cradling unpenned significant silences and outbursts of mania and despondency, the gradual curdling of his body and his mind.

“Do you think my prick is beautiful, little sparrow?” Göring asks with a lazy grin.

He looks at it, so large, so proud.

“It’s beautiful,” he says.

He stares at the tear of precome forming at the tip and the flutter of revulsion in his stomach is as frantic as the beating of his heart.

“Please,” Goebbels says, and then. “Let me suck you, let me taste you.”

He’s ashamed of the quaver in his voice.

“Are you going to cry, Joseph?”

“Please….”

“You can kiss me,” Göring says.

His voice is cloyed with magisterial magnanimity, thick as treacle. It makes Goebbels shudder and he feels as though he’s moving through a kind of golden tar too as he leans in slowly and then presses his lips to the head of Göring’s cock, a perversely chaste press of his lips that makes Göring scoff.

“Now, now, that’s not how you like to kiss, is it Joseph? Kiss my prick like it’s one of your pretty starlets.”

A choppy little glottal noise emerges from his throat as he kisses Göring’s cockhead again, mouth open, lapping up the glassy wetness pulsing from the tip with the twitching of his prick. The loving, desperate fastening of his lips there, with Göring’s words all he can imagine is the raw, pornographic framing of the moment on the big screen, softened perhaps with a vignette.

Göring pets his hair as he plasters more kisses, sloppy and sucking, down his shaft. The brush of fingertips next to the fine hair of his ears fills his head with a kind of white noise static of desire and cloistering heat, his touch hums like the murmur of a far off thunderstorm.

“Good boy, good boy,” Göring says, dragging him away again. “Now open your mouth.”

And he does, jaw open, tongue hanging out in what feels like excruciating accommodation and Göring merely looks at him for a long, long moment before pulling him down onto his cock.

Goebbels gasps mechanically as Göring fills him. He tries to ratchet his mouth open wider, tremulous over the idea of grazing Hermann with his teeth but already his jaw is aching.

“Look at me,” Göring commands.

He meets Göring’s gaze while his mouth is forced open, that’s all he can do really, look up at Göring with wide pleading eyes that are still not as wide as the stretch of his mouth around Göring’s invading prick. He thinks of the columns of red Veronese marble that line the banqueting hall here, it feels impossible to close his mouth by as much as a millimetre, as though he were swallowing that same unforgiving rock.

He feels it pressing at the back of his throat and he tries to unlatch something there in a panic as Göring doesn’t stop, merely drives harder, battering at his throat. He’s intoxicated by it, by his size, by his brutality, by his force and hardness and strength but there’s still so much of his length to take, so thick and there’s not an ounce of mercy in how Göring is jamming it into him; as though he’s less than a man, not even a woman, not even a person, just a lucky little hole.

His eyes start to burn, fill up as the pain in his throat increases and the awful, humiliating noises of his gagging reach his ears, as it becomes hard to harder to breath – he presses them shut and Göring pulls out, leaving him drooling and hyperventilating and then the sharp crack of Hermann’s hand slaps him across the face.

“I told you to look at me,” he growls.

Goebbels screws his eyes up, blinking away the tears, still burning he tries to keep them open, fixed on Göring. His body is failing to live up to any standard he has set for it, his cock so hard he’s pawing at it even as Göring presses angry fingers into his jaw and starts fucking his mouth again. His tongue flaps uselessly as Göring presses thumbs into his temples, holding him still, choking him, ravishing him and he can make as much noise as he likes, hidden from the sound of his own depravity by the cock stopping up his throat.

Göring spills wedged so deep inside him he has no choice but to swallow. It slides down his throat, a syrupy contamination that sticks to his tongue, the roof of his mouth, his teeth – he tries to lick his gums clean of the taste and almost gags again.

“Lovely.”

He thinks he hears Göring say it. He’s trembling, his cock still stiff.

Göring reaches for his cigarette case. His movements are languid, slow. Goebbels rests his head against his knee feeling like a jumble of glass shards. He wants to touch himself but he can only weakly rub the inside of his forearm against his thigh, both palms planted on the cold floor and his head bowed.

Göring lights two cigarettes in his mouth and hands one to Goebbels, blowing a line of smoke straight up toward the ceiling. Goebbels’ cigarette burns down between his fingers into a line of serpentine ash.

“Don’t worry my sweet,” Göring says. “We’ll retire to the bedroom soon.”