Röhm’s favourite
pub is an aggressive punch to Hermann’s senses and perhaps it’s that,
the dark buzz murmuring through the bittersweet air, black tables
sticky with a varnish of stale beer and shoulder jostling against
shoulder, that his nose is attuned at once to the story Ernst is
telling him, while Goebbels is at the bar grinning from ear to ear
and patting the entourage of SA lads surrounding him on the back –(a story that
unwinds as thus: Goebbels ambling up, all pensive frown and
exaggerated concern, informing Röhm very solemnly he has it on good
authority that Röhrbein is a homosexual – a
fact he seems eager to make clear is complete news to him and well
what would he know
about that sort of thing anyway)–
Röhm’s knowing smirk as he watches Goebbels too and Hermann’s
nostrils flare as a dozen scraps of whispered rumour settle into
place and the view of little Joseph beaming there, such obvious
prey amongst a pack of predators, ignites a fire in his belly; easily
sparked from the cocktail of drugs coursing through his system and
months of stoking glances at a dainty neck and elegant wrists.Naturally
Goebbels tries to protest when he corners him in the bathroom,
latching the door behind him (though a significant glance at a good,
loyal boy standing outside is enough to guarantee no disturbances)
but Hermann has no doubt now to what degree the whore has been
spreading his legs and tells Goebbels just as much as he throws him
down on the tiled floor and fights him out of his trousers; pushes
into him, deep, in a single brutal stroke, leans down to use his
mouth on the stretch of neck being offered up to him, thrusting as he
does it, working up to a swift rhythm, fucking him with such bruising
force that Goebbels’ slight body slides a hand’s span on the tiled
floor each time he slams into him.Snapped
buttons from Goebbels’ collar rattle on the floor, Hermann rips his
shirt to the side to bite again, harder, one animal holding another
in place
– Goebbels’ spare sounds of pain echo off the walls but the way his
body arches seems to be making a present of itself and Hermann’s
hunger to press his teeth into his flesh is more immediate even than
the need to keep squeezing his cock into the exquisitely tight clench
of his arse, so he stays there buried to the hilt, savaging him while
Goebbels’ hands clutch at his lapels and he trembles and keens like
something brought down in the forest.
exhaustion
After three days sustained only by coffee, chocolate and pervitin my dear Standartenführer collapsed right where he was standing, one moment in conversation about strategy with a younger officer, the next his body just dropped like a marionette with its strings cut and his pretty face slapped on the frozen ground and it split his lip open, which I very much blamed on me and my poor reflexes as I was so close that I had nearly caught him mid fall but only nearly. With the assistance of that officer I carried him to the nearest abandoned house, where we laid him down on some straw and I alone watched over him like a keen guard dog remembering all the times he had patted me on the head just like one. And like a good pet I kept restraint for a good hour but when he awoke from his deathlike sleep to one less deep, shaken by dreams and murmurs and occasional moments of clarity, where he called out to me with a husky voice dripping with need, and when he twisted on his bedding like a diseased harlot and tried to tear off his uniform as if the warmth it provided was a great burden for his weak flesh, I could not hold myself back any longer, so finally, greedily, I gave his emaciated body some release, which he thanked me for with fluttering eyelids and soft sighs.
sharing body warmth
It was cold outside, not Moscow cold, or Siberia cold but Aachen cold, which was still cold enough when you slept out at night and had only the clothing on your body (a Landser uniform, worn and probably died in before, the holes fixed again, the whole assemble still too big for his teenage body, shoes reappropriated from the corpse of an American found by the side of the road and earmuffs from his mother stuffed under his cap because it too was too big anyway). When he was lucky they found not just a hole in the ground, a crater or a trench, but an abandoned home or at least a barn – no fire of course, so they had only each other for warmth. Each man or not quite man picked himself a mate for the night to share a blanket with and that wasn’t all that bad, not the worst of the war, more like a sliver of home found in the close embrace and sometimes, he didn’t mind, also in hot breath on his neck and fumbling hands.
Göring’s unnaturally huge and meaty cock.
You came through the corridors of
Carinhall as the moonlight struck silver on a cluttered succession of
gilt frames, the last a painting of Andromeda chained to her rock on
the coast (oils describing the thick, twisting body of a sea serpent
rising out of the foam, it’s neck corded, glistening, bent toward
her) and you think this bed may as well be a shoreline; you cannot
move from beneath Göring’s piercing regard, the bulk of him casting
a vast shadow over your naked bodystronger than any sort of chain, the rumours echoing in your mind and leading your breathless, apprehensive gaze to fix on the knot
holding his robe togetherHe unveils himself and apprehension
shifts to panic, awe, a tremble zippering down your spine to the
insides of your thighs as he shifts them apart with ease and rears up
between them – his cock jutting up utterly, unnaturally massive;
that broad, broad head peeking from pink folds of foreskin and
gleaming wetly for you, the shaft bulging even wider below it, so
thick you hear yourself whimper at the thought of what it could do to
you…what it will do to you
as you lie crushed helplessly under his heavy flesh.You
want to be the willing sacrifice and worship him, follow the slide of
his fist up his erection (even his own fingers unable to meet all
the way to the tip), the hot throbbing ridge of the vein along the
underside, your lips parting without thought at the sight of clear
fluid glassing his head – but he would prefer a slow, implacable
impalement of your quivering body, pushing inside you inch after inch
as your thighs grow clammy with a sweat and shake from bearing such
appalling pressure, until you’re at full stretch and the pain is
devouring your from within, eating up until it clamps down on your
throat and you can only silently mouth please over
and over.
Against the ice cold metal of the panzer
They got that one
detail wrong about hell: it wasn’t hot here, it was fucking freezing,
too cold even for snow fall; the only heat in this frozen wasteland
came from artillery fire, and it you did your best to stay away from
that, and, in this particular case, the breath of his comrade, short
and laboured against the back of his neck as he pushed him against
the icy metal hull of their tank and kicked his feet apart. It wasn’t
the first time this happened and it would certainly not be the last,
unless of course his comrade froze his dick off by courtesy of an
extra-cold gust of wind straight from Siberia or was taken out by a
well-aimed shot from a hostile weapon, which were both reasonable
enough things to hope for, out here at the Eastern Front, but Günther
didn’t want to get his hopes up. So far he had not been that lucky,
and his comrade seemed eager to prove himself an embodiment of the
three virtues the Führer had demanded of them, be tough as leather
(who in their right mind would expose his genitals at this
temperature), hard as steel (the quality of his erection left nothing
to be desired) and (thankfully) also fast as a grey hound (in that he
never lasted particularly long), and like all the times before
Günther closed his eyes, thought of his sweetheart back home and
hoped for it to be over soon.A comrade kisses
the frozen blood staining his chin in the half light, crouched near him on a spread
of canvass meant to keep the cold from out their bones amidst a graveyard
cluttered with the stink of oil and rust, stray pieces of machinery
and, what terrifies him most, that gentle touch he knows is a debt
that must be paid back.You’re so beautiful, Günther
hears it murmured against his still, so still body (please, in his
stillness let him leach away to an architecture of nothing, to the
abandoned guns, to the slaughtered, splintered landscape of dead
trees and frozen arms of fallen men that may as well be branches of
the same) and he
knows the price he will pay for hearing that confession; predictable
when it is his gentle whisperer who ratchets
his body off the ground by a rough thrust of fingers, shovelling snow
and ice deep into his ass, ignoring his screams and weak thrashing,
grinning at the other men.Until
he breaks and begs, fuck
me, (any scrap of warmth to sooth the aching, cramp inside him) the
words barely it past his chattering teeth, proving who has been
at fault here all along.
“It hurts knowing that I can never see you again”
She puts her chubby hand up to the thick divider, her tiny palm print enveloped by his own – although enveloped is the wrong word; is the word he yearns for since it implies touch, implies one warm beating pulse able to press upon another for even a moment.
They are not allowed such things.
She doesn’t understand that as she bats her fingers against the glass and stares up at him and does her best to not wail or cry because she knows, daddy will be home soon and if she’s been a good girl he’ll give her an extra lap around the garden on his shoulders.
Do you feel the noose around your neck?
“Do you feel the noose around your neck?” Kurt whispered into Max’s ear when he closed his hands around his neck and lifted him right off his feet. Jochen couldn’t help but smile at the sight of it, Max whole body stretched out, toes extended, just about touching the ground, the muscles of his torso and his legs standing out from the intense effort of it and his fingers twitching, out of his control, the entire machinery of his body on the verge of snapping in some place; it reminded him of the way Max looked when Kurt was buried in him to the hilt. Kurt must have noticed the resemblance too, “do you want to fuck him like that?” he asked and Jochen considered it for a moment when he saw how Max rolled his eyes in protest, but he decided against acting on a whim, he lit himself another cigarette and stubbed the old one out on Max’s chest.
rich bitch Hermann Goering getting fucked
He’s lounging in his room, half the champagne bottles are already empty and toppled over on the floor and when the Danish lad comes in to talk about the ‘terms’ of his display he just grins a little wider and stretches himself out on the bed.
Certainly he doesn’t flinch when a hand is placed at the top of his thigh and then creeps up, further and further; he stretches and spreads his legs wider and looks up innocently at the ceiling and the only thing he’s interested in, the most important point, is to ask:
“But I get to keep the plane, yes?”
An offer you can’t refuse
There
are so many kindnesses he has to endure; Himmler’s considerate,
enduring smile, the hand resting at the small of his back, the
fatherly advice that echoes off the stone as they climb the spiral
steps together and remains unwinding from Himmler’s mouth as they reach Peiper’s room – so there is no hope of disentangling himself, so he can only lead the
way inside as always and nod numbly at the offer of help with his uniform.Peiper’s
father had not had the same slithering ingratiation in his fingertips
as the Reichsführer does when he would undress him as a boy (those
touches had an immediate confidence of ownership that Himmler has to
build to every night, one accidental slip after another) but the
way he looks at him is just the same, so much love, oh they do love
their Jochen very dearly don’t they?Himmler
breathes soft, encouraging noises against his ear as cups his hand
between Peiper’s legs and squeezes the limp little package of his
genitals; cooing his pleasure over what a marvellous, vital lad
Jochen is while worming fingers between cotton and skin to stroke him
until he’s had his fill – leaving Peiper with a damp kiss on the
forehead and the tears he refuses to let spill over, staring
unblinking and unmoving at the back of his bedroom door, until he’s
sure it’s safe.
Bent over a desk
Wünsche drags Peiper by the hair like slain prey and there is nothing Peiper can do about it, not when Wünsche sweeps the desk clean with one motion of his arm, sending papers and pens flying, not when he throws his plunder on the table (it tries to flee, crawling away from him and searching with its hands for something to fight him with, a letter opener maybe, but he gets it by the ankles and drags it back) and not when Wünsche flips him on his stomach and bends him over the desk and holds him down hard with one hand on the neck and with the other rips down his pants. Peiper’s legs are kicked apart, he struggles again, but swiftly Wünsche is on him, bigger and heavier than he is, the adjutant’s little body entirely covered by the grinning beast, one hand on Peiper’s mouth (in its mouth, fucking its mouth), the other in Peiper’s hair pulling back his head, forcing his body to arch (don’t snap its neck just yet), and his cock on Peiper’s arse, thick and heavy and terrifying. With one brutal stroke Wünsche thrusts into him (it yelps and shudders and shudders more when he pushes deeper, squeezing another inch into its tight hole) and fucks Peiper like he owns him (it’s impaled on his cock, rammed against the edge of the table, it’s bruised, bleeding, dripping come, it’s his).
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