Goebbels’
self-conscious, skittish displays of reluctance beg for new, rough
seductions each time; to have his jaw pried open for Göring’s tongue, to be
forcefully wrenched down onto the bed and restrained where his restless, solipsistic
neediness can finally find a match in the equally unquenchable force
ofGöring’s own selfish demands – laid bare
as a pretty thing to be fondled, an aid for Hermann’s relaxation, just like the pills he swallows once he’s tied the last knot and settles down amidst the silk and overstuffed pillows to find his serenity once more.It may be hours
and hours until that event and by that time Goebbels’ stiff bobbing
cock will be burnished deep-red as a ruby, drooling precome in thick
silver strings and his body all aglow with sweat (his lips chapped
from licking them over and over once he’s given up begging, given up
gasping even, since Hermann doesn’t like to use a gag, prefers to
feed him the salty mess that’s pouring from his prick or listen to how his
arguments for release break down – Goebbels has a lovely timbre to
his oration even when he’s pleading and besides, Hermann can see how
it only torments the little doctor further with arousal to hear himself beg
and be ignored) all hope of mercy lost and his whole world
concentrated in the agonising pulse of his untouched shaft, hard for so long and denied even one firm full stroke that would give an ounce of relief from the deep, bruised feeling radiating from it with every breath.Göring
likes to
trace a very slick, feathering touch (just the pad of one grazing
finger, the barest hint of friction) around the corona of Goebbels’ desperately throbbing cock head
and exhale slowly, peacefully, waiting until the frustrated member has stopped
twitching toward his hand (mere millimetres away) then tap
the sweet spot right underneath until there are tears streaming down
Goebbels’ cheeks and he can recline and watch the light dazzle in
them as they fall, rolling Goebbels’ heavy, tight balls in his palm with a
contented sigh, his scent, what a rich, animal
smell, mixing sweetly with the perfume of the linens.
skinny dipping
Goebbels wonders at first, as he lights his cigarette and thinks of wildfires
(the warm paper settling in the warmer V of two fingers, skin bone
dry and the brief flare of the matchstick almost unbearable in the
sticky heat) if Göring is going to press the
issue and bully him out of his buttoned up shirt, insist upon his invitation to disrobe and slip into the cool, deep waters of the lake alongside him with the brute force Goebbels knows he is both capable and willing to use.Instead
Göring shrugs and rises from his deckchair, undresses without
apparent care and stands there with his hands resting on the shelf of his
round hips, unabashed, surveying his domain while a bead of sweat
rolls down Goebbels’ temple and he fidgets in his seat – even in
Summer he’s usually so cold, but perhaps all of Göring’s attentive
persistence that he stays
well fed this weekend (his, finish
your plate, Joseph, ah now don’t fuss, his,
come
here you need to try this, his,
of
course you have room for something more and these came all the way from
Paris) has
stoked his little furnace more than usual.Tentatively
Goebbels stands and after a breath begins to methodically work his
tie loose, staring at the rough planks before his feet as he removes and folds each
item; acutely aware of the breeze as it caresses his bare skin and
the feel of Göring’s eyes there too, quite sure it isn’t sunstroke
making his cheeks burn before, finally, naked as the day he was born, he turns a nervous, toothy smile
toward Göring who touches him briefly, gently on the hip and helps him wade unsteadily into the lake, laughing fondly at his sigh of pleasure as the water laps up his body and oh
it really does feel like bliss.
Dirty and reeking of horse
They called themselves kazaki, cossacks, proud and swift horseback riders, some fought for mother Russia, some for Germany, but all of them always fought for themselves, a brutal bunch, knights of the steppe, Mongol hordes who knew no chivalry as the steppe knew none, they couldn’t afford to foster ill-placed ideas like dignity or mercy (they learned that quickly, the Germans and the Russians alike) and they always smelled like horse, whether they still rode them or not, that smell wouldn’t wash off them, but that was the more pleasant aspect, worse was the stink of their clothing, beautiful, fancy clothing, with many buttons on them and fur hats, drenched in sweat and blood and sweat again.
They found young, innocent Hans, who had pretty blond locks under his helmet and who had never even shot a man, hiding in a hole in the forest, covered with branches and mud, and they didn’t bother to drag him somewhere else before they tore down his pants, sending the buttons of his suspenders flying and in that moment – strange thoughts that you sometimes have in these horrible moments – he thought he’d never find them again, the buttons being as brown as that barren ground and how would he march then and hold a gun while holding up his pants?
The silly distraction was instantly wiped from his mind when the first man broke him in, the pain of it so sharp he could not have imagined a bullet to the guts to feel worse, but his imagination was limited and his knowledge of pain small and he learned that when they rode him, one after the other, and he smelled them then, unbearably intense, like sick horses left to themselves for many weeks, wet fur and rancid blood and mixed into it all the smell of their filthy dicks, sickeningly sexual, on him and in him, the sticky clumps of their semen and the smell of his own piss and his shit, which he couldn’t escape no matter how hard they pushed his face into the mud.
PTSD
It all seemed normal at first when Wilhelm stood in front of her door again as if he had never left, only he was a lot skinnier and dark around the eyes and the grey uniform he had left in two summers ago was much brighter now, the wool worn down paper thin and there were small holes in the fabric where the insignia used to be, but something was off about his wide smile, something his wife could not quite grasp until one day it occurred to her that his smile crept up only to his cheeks and while the lower half of his face was amused by every little anecdote his eyes were mucky green pebbles with no joy in them, not even sadness, they were simply dead like the eyes of a fish on the butcher’s table.
They did not talk about the war, only occasionally the topic was grazed like when she asked if he knew what had happened to the neighbour’s son – “no” – and if he ever got that Christmas letter – “no” – and if the Russians had been good to him – “no”.
Sometimes he woke her up at night, because in his sleep he cried like she had never heard him cry, a high-pitched wailing like a wounded animal, but if she reached out to touch and calm him he flinched and when she woke him up asking if he had had a bad dream he only shrugged and said he could not remember.
“They don’t appreciate you like I do.”
“They don’t appreciate you like I do,” the old Obersturmbannführer whispered in the cadet’s ear, leaving tickling warm breath on the back of his neck, like a kiss, and he buried his nose in the cadet’s stiffly combed back hair, drawing in the smell of pomade and sweat and some cheap aftershave on his neck and on the cadet’s breath the sour note of wine, heavy red wine, the perfect mix of sugar and alcohol to go to the cadet’s head – no, he didn’t need it to make him pliable, the boy adored him so, he would do anything for him, but it helped with the minor hurdles along the way, getting past those ethical concerns, making him just a little more slack in his arms and a little more hungry for touch and love.
The cadet giggled nervously when the Obersturmbannführer’s heavy hands wandered down the front of his uniform, stroking the cheap thing as if it was as nice as his own, the unblemished body under it as worthy of affection as the Obersturmbannführer’s scarred hide – he couldn’t find fault with such a flattering approach by his most respectable superior, so when the Obersturmbannführer said “don’t tell anyone you’re my favourite” and “you’ll make them jealous” his cheeks became just a little redder and he pawed only weakly at the man’s hand when he slid it under his waistband to wrap his fingers around the boy’s stiffening cock.
He had only just started playing with him when the cadet came breathlessly gasping his dear Obersturmbannführer’s name, at which point he pulled down the boy’s trousers and shoved two sticky fingers in the boy and the boy howled with pain and struggled to get away from the man, but he was much too drunk and there was no use calling for help all alone in the man’s own dark office, and so the Obersturmbannführer wrestled him to the ground and got on top of him, all the while still finger fucking him, pushing the boy’s spunk up his tight little ass, working him open for his own impatiently throbbing cock, and calling him by his first name and calling him strong and pretty and brave, and he did a good job: when he fucked him, grunting like a pig and thrusting into him like one too, it hardly hurt the boy anymore, at least he did not say so, laying there flat on his stomach, sprawled out with his pants at his ankles and drooling on the floor, his eyes not fixed on anything but staring vaguely in the direction of a portrait on the wall.
Find a realistic sex position in, on or around a Messerschmidt Bf-109
When Galland lands his Emil two men come running and climb on the Messerschmitt to help him out of the cockpit, or so he thinks exhausted as he is, sweating, sometimes hot and sometimes cold and still riding the end of that wave of ecstasy he could only get from the chase; actually the two men have no intention of letting him out of his little prison box just yet, but they do open the top of the cockpit and in front of him Galland recognises Hans, one of his mechanics, sitting on the plane in only a pair of shorts, one fuzzy leg on each side of the bird. Before Galland can even strike a charming smile and compliment his mechanic’s good work the man behind him puts a sole on the back of his neck with enough force to push him forward and he only doesn’t hit the plane’s control panel because Hans stops him by planting his foot – his naked foot, sweat and oil and bits of grass between his toes – on Galland’s chest and then without any further hesitation puts his foot on Galland’s face, rubs the dirty sole over his cheeks and lovingly strokes his moustache before he rests his toes on Galland’s tight lips. The man behind him laughs and Galland recognises him without a doubt: Mölders, that snappy little terrier – it’s all just one of his pranks then, another hilarious joke that Galland has to take because Vati Werner is also his Vati, and Galland tries to smile when Mölders, giggling like a little boy, tells him to suck Hans off nice and wet, and it almost looks genuinely jolly the way his lips curl around the dirty toes shoved in his mouth.
Frozen
By the side of the road, just a few feet away, like an animal that had been run over, picked up and thrown aside to make way, lies the body of a soldier. When he froze to death, in the madness where the cold was burning him like fire, he must have taken off his clothing, piece by piece, as he walked and stumbled and then laid down to sleep and he still lay there as if only sleeping, beautiful like the dead look only in paintings, his skin more brilliant than the snow, his body without a scar, velvety soft, and his hair crowned by ice crystals. No one could be moved to bury him and day after day the men passing by had to see him there and not one could avert his eyes from the promise in his faint smile, to one day die no more.
SS Vampire AU
Capt J’s men found the German hiding in a chicken coop, snow on the roof and feathers around his feet. Hiding may not have been the right word, the men later said, exchanging nervous looks – nervous about what? He had simply stood there, they said, still, waiting.
Like all of the bastards before him he looked miserable, dirty and tired, but a little more rotten too. Something aristocratic about him. Dark hair slicked back and the widow’s peak of a man twice his age, skin like wet paper stretching over blue veins, hollows of sickly purple under his deep-set eyes and those eyes – predictably: blue, but a blue of a dull and foggy kind like the rattlesnake’s before the shed. Of all the gaunt, hungry, utterly consumed looking men they’d taken prisoner so far this one looked particularly cadaverous.
He was an SS officer and didn’t mean to hide it. He could have easily dropped that cap with the sinister little skull somewhere by the side of the road and torn off his collar tabs (funny ones those were, like rotten, grasping hands – not like anything J had ever seen before), but they were all too proud for that, weren’t they, those fucking fanatics. You could see it in their eyes, dull and cold like iron and stone, incapable of expressing any emotion but pure unfiltered hate. As far as J was concerned they were barely human.
The German’s lips (white, not a shot of blood in them) remained a condescending line as J ran down the usual questions: his unit, their strength, their position. Not even his name he would give, J had to take it by force, pulling the identification papers from the pockets of a heavy leather coat that was stained as if the man in it had been literally wading through blood.
“Wolf-Heinrich?” J read the name off the document, butchering it with American pronunciation. “Some proper Nazi name you got there, momma must be proud.” Chuckles around. Smell of sweat, bodies strained for release. They wanted to see the prisoner hurt.
The German smiled like a snarling dog. His gums were as white as his teeth and of his teeth he seemed to have a couple too many. For the first time he spoke, voice like smooth bourbon, tickling the hair on the back of J’s neck, but a haughty bastard still. “Wolf-Heinrich Siegfried Hermann Wilhelm von Kleist,” he said in a tone as if schooling a child.
Oh, that got to J.
Sudden memories of teachers and their arrogant little smiles. Sadistic, withered up hags with their powdered faces and their hair tied up so neat and their backs straight like they got something stuffed up their ass, always looking down on little J no matter how tall he grew. Continental accents – Oh, you don’t know that, you idiot, you inbred hick, you stupid dog? And the ruler across his fingers (howling like a dog indeed) and his pants at his ankles in the headmistress’ office.
J hit the German square in the face, closed fist, and he dropped to the ground unconscious. A glob of blood ran from his nose, dark and thick like machine oil, unnervingly slowly, like a fat leech squeezing out.
J could have the prisoner sent down the line, let someone else handle it, put him in some camp by the shore and let the intelligence squeeze his secrets out of him – and all the other dreck that would come floating up with it.
“He strikes me like the type who’d know important stuff,” he said into the silence of held breaths and swallowed coughs, “would be better if we keep him though. Intel down the line is too slow. Could crack him here.. I know I can. ” Hesitant nods all around. No one had asked and no one would object.
The German was still unconscious when he was thrown in the back of J’s truck, blindfolded with his hands tied behind his back and tied also to the seat on such a short leash that once he came back to it he could only wiggle like a worm. J would have gladly also stuffed his mouth had the prisoner raised his voice, but he was too proud to object and merely laid there, quiet and motionless, trying to look dignified when not thrown about by another bump in the road. In the rear-view mirror J could see how he opened his mouth then as if hissing, but through the noise of the engine the sound did not reach his ear. He did like taking the bumpy road.
They had picked up the German at dusk and a few hours later the night was black except for a gravid rising moon. Not a star pinned to the sky, not even the light of a plane or muzzle flash to be seen. They’d made good progress and for J and his men an abandoned farm house was a good as any to hole up in for the night. Not intending to make his prisoner’s life any more pleasant and as a way to soften him up for further questioning come morning J considered leaving the German out in the cold, but as frail and pale as the man looked J feared he might not survive the night. His men also were not always to be trusted with an item as controversial as a Jew-hating, kid-killing SS officer, so J at last decided his precious catch would have to stay with him for the night and he had him dragged to a room in the basement. The room he had chosen for himself because it wouldn’t be leveled by artillery in an instance and because it had a door that actually shut.
He left the prisoner blindfolded and with his hands tied behind his back, he didn’t trust the man not to try to murder him in his sleep and there was a certain psychological benefit to putting him in such an uncomfortable and helpless position to ponder over all night.
J was lying on his back with one hand on his pistol, staring at the ceiling and a slit of light cast by a narrow window up high, waiting for the embrace of sleep when from his subconscious it struck him that the prisoner was watching him. He turned to check. In the darkness of the cellar it was hard to make out any object clearly, shadows blending together to more unnerving shapes. He found the outline of the prisoner where he’d been dropped, but it seemed he had curled up now like a cat. Just a dark spot in the corner of the room, but yes, facing him, with his eyes covered, yet undoubtedly, the white piece of cloth making it much easier for J to see it, the German was looking right at him and like a droning noise that his mind had blocked out all the while suddenly breaking through into conscious awareness, he could hear it then, when he held his own breath, the other man’s heavy breathing, deep and labored like from great pain or great pleasure, and then it stopped and he heard the man sniffing like a dog taking scent and then it was quiet again.
Clutching his pistol J listened and waited for a long time. The cube of moonlight cast by the window wandered across the wall, but the noise did not return and eventually the blindfold seemed just a blindfold again, not those inhumane eyes, the German probably sleeping soundly for a while already and so J too fell into a restless sleep.
In his dream the man in the corner was no longer man but the monster that had haunted his childhood; a tall figure, all black, standing at the foot of his bed and J in his room again, a little boy too weak to move a man’s limbs. With the flicker of a cinema projector the shadow grew hair like a wolf and eyes glowing like snuffed out charcoal buried in ash and long teeth from rotting gums, many of them, dripping with thick, gooey spit. From the foot of his bed – so very far away it seemed now as he was boyishly small again – the creature came forward, not walking or crawling but slithering like a snake, the whole body like one strong muscle, gently, caressingly sliding up his leg, grinding sensual pleasures, and settling on his chest, so heavy it pressed the air out of his lungs, stifling a scream stuck halfway up his throat. Face to face now with the creature J could see it was man and owl and wolf all the same. The drool dripped out of its mouth and on J’s face and it was warm and smelled of hunger and sick. With its long prehensile tongue the creature licked his face, it forced his mouth open with its beak and drew him into a tender kiss.
When J woke up the German – still bound and blind – was on top of him, straddling him. His mouth was at J’s throat, biting and licking and sucking on it with a wet, sexual slurping sound. He heard himself whimper and it occurred to J that he was being assaulted and that he should be terrified, that he should struggle and fight for his life. There was still the gun in his hand. He might be able to tilt it just a little bit and muster enough strength to pull the trigger. The German rose and J felt a sudden jolting hot pain in his neck as spurts of blood shot out of it in the arcs of a fountain.
The German’s mouth was smeared with blood, it had soaked his blindfolds, it was dripping from his lips, it was running down his neck and pooling under his collar. He swallowed down a gulp of it. He seemed to look at J and joyful now, healthy and strong, he smiled bearing a row of awfully mundane, human looking teeth.
“Tu das nicht,” he said, soft buzz under J’s skull, and J obeyed and he let go off the gun entirely.
The German bent down again to commence his feast and with the succulent touch of his tongue the pain of the wound faded away into numbness and black and then J felt very light, very warm, relieved of a heavy burden. Falling asleep to the sound of water dripping in the distance. The leaky faucet at the back of the barn that daddy never did fix. The house creaking, breathing in the night. Time stretched and compressed. Doves cooing in the attic. The warmth of sunrise coming over corn fields and under him a cooling puddle of piss, and little J is lying in his wet bed so very helpless and yet also content in this place and moment in time wishing it would last forever.
Something with Werner Wolff
Bronze sheen of sweat on his bared chest, and the eyes of boyish innocence, merely a reflection of the sky above, bright, so very bright, glaze of drug mania melting into eyeball whites. He coughs up a bit of blood, wheezing like a cat struggling to get out a hairball. “You’ll be fine”, Peiper says (his hand in Werner’s, kneeling by his side) and Werner smiles with blood speckled lips and grape juice stained teeth and he calls him Jochen under his breath as if the medic wasn’t allowed to hear.
the wound is the place where the light enters you
A flash of light, the snap of a gun. Scalding heat like blades of the sun rips through cloth and punctures your skin. It settles, a ball of pain in your guts, and through the gaps you run out red-hot. Much too bright, the boreal whites, blinding your sight, and your ears drowning with the chiming of bells, their distant little whispers. Your last breath is stuck somewhere between larynx and tongue. And quietly you dissipate into soil.
Bunker Archives 