The first blow comes as a surprise, it wipes the smile off Max’s face leaving only a comical disbelief, childlike, a boy who had his sweets nabbed from sticky fingers. Before Max can beg to know why he deserves to be beaten (he surely must deserve it) Kurt hits him again and again, heavy handed slaps to the face, cold precision that makes his cheeks burn and his ego sting. All too quickly he finds himself crouching at Kurt’s feet, staring up at him with tears in his eyes and snot dripping from his nose, waiting for Kurt to smile again, to laugh and pat him on the head and to tell him that all is forgiven, but no, not yet, he will have to endure a little longer.
revenge
My favourite guard is as tall as a giant. His hair is the palest blond. His eyes are tiny grey pebbles. He smiles like a shark and his nose is crooked. Sometimes I imagine stories for him: what music he listens to after work, what his first kiss was like, what happened to his nose. None of the others pay attention to him like I do. Blind to beauty when it strikes them all they do is work and sleep and moan. But I know what it means when his nostrils flare and he lets his baton slide through his fingers, in and out. Someone will get a beating. Tip-tip-tap, two to the head and one to the groin.
Me, me, me, do me, I want to scream but I am good and I don’t. I work. I am quiet. I obey. And I hope that despite it all one of these days it will be me who gets the baton.
I think maybe he spares me intentionally. He’s so clever, he knows that I want it. Sometimes I think he’s looking at me and his lips raise to a snare. I must be daydreaming. I’m so hungry. It’s hard to think and not think of him. Dreams become tangible. Boots on the floor, a familiar pattern, the slight limp. I wish I was a little ball of meat, soft and squishy and his to use.
He never does hurt me. And then they come and free us, Americans with their clean clothing and fat cheeks and loud anger and wide smiles. He doesn’t run, he’s not the type. He stands there, strong and tall with his head high and his nostrils flare but now we have the baton and the Americans won’t stop us; they watch like visitors in a zoo.
Tip-tip-tap. He screams just like we did. And then he screams worse, shrill and wild. It’s hard to hear the sound of his cracking skull over the cheers and the grunts and the laughter. In the end he looks at me, just me, always just me, and I’m sure in his last moments he regrets having toyed with me like that. Cruel men find cruel ends. I’m free and life goes on.
Gerhard Roßbach perverting Ernst Röhm — or basically anybody :)
Röhm watches as Roßbach puts his hand on the soldier’s neck and the lad suddenly becomes slack, his features soft, the eyes lowered, and to Röhm’s surprise (a curious tingling sensation under the skin, spreading warmth, arousal) he twists his lean body into the demeaning hold, stretching like a cat begging to be pet.
Roßbach looks at Röhm, looks through his uniform, has him completely figured out, and he’s smiling (tipsy but not unrestrained). ‘I’ll let you in on a little secret,’ his dark eyes, twinkling under bushy eyebrows, seem to say. He applies just a little more pressure and the soldier who should be strong enough to withstand, the brat who wouldn’t take this from any other comrade without socking them square them in the face, that wonderful proud creature just drops to his knees without a word.
“They like it rough,” Roßbach says but he’s not looking at that treat at his feet, he’s only looking at Röhm, studying, and he grabs the lad by the hair and pulls his head back. It’s painful, you can see it on his face. The obedient little soldier’s eyes roll up to look at his commander in a poor imitation of one begging for his life, the expression likely snatched from the faces of the men that he had slaughtered himself. His mouth drops open, his wet tongue darts out, he licks his lips. He knows that he will not be spared and he loves it.
“Can we please keep him?”
At first Berta doesn’t understand the childish request and in the silence as she is staring at Ursel over the rim of her glasses the little nurse looks up at her with tears in her big brown eyes clutching the older woman’s hand with her stubby fingers.
“Yes, I suppose this one time we could”, Berta says after some hesitation, the words coming slowly over her dry tongue, leaving unspoken what for Ursel deserved such a favour and many other things she prefered not to say.
Very swiftly (comparisons to butter would be in bad taste) Berta cuts through the pretty soldier’s tendons. Snip, snip, the strings are cut. Despite the anaesthetics he moans, quietly like the dreamer in a nightmare. Goosebumps crawl down her back. The ugly little nurse holds his hand and Berta is close to tears at how beautiful a sight it is.
joseph goebbels/leni riefenstahl – hate sex or noncon or a guilty pleasure moment or goebbels being shot down or femdom or just wherever your heart takes you basically
It was a clever tactical decision, he
thought at first. To take this seat, to rest his hands at the ends of
its arms, magisterial. That nagging knowledge that she would be
taller than him if they both stood on their own feet couldn’t be
ignored, so why not make her stand on ceremony like a supplicant
while he reclined?Now that he’s staring up at her he
doesn’t feel so sure. And the uncertainty is burrowing into his
chest, making his toes squirm in his shoes, while Riefenstahl
seems completely unaffected.And
now she’s talking to him, lecturing
him, explaining
why she made the decisions she had about certain cameras, certain
anglesIt’s
what makes him curl his lip and insinuate that perhaps she is she’s
spending more time fascinated with the male form than is really
necessary.And
she slaps him.Hard,
across the face.And
he can’t speak.Something
rises up in him, pushes the hairs on his body to stand on edge, makes
him shudder, it’s a numbing, intoxication, he can’t speak, he can
only stare at her and her hand and shudder in a handful of breaths.And
while he’s half suffocating, staring, Leni looks down at him,
completely unsurprised and says, “you’ve been in this chair before
haven’t you?”And
somehow he understands what she means, that even though this had
never happened before, that this fantasy had already played out time
and time again in his mind, just waiting for the woman who would put
him in his place and it leaves his speechless and boneless and
yet….….while
he’s staring up at her with his hair all on edge, mouth half open and
panting, desperate to feel her hand on his cheek again, she shakes
her head and walks away.
Peiper and a bottle of Hennessy
:: visions of Peiper laid out with uniform undone under a tree in the
dappled shade on a rare day of rest from battle ::Visions of Jochen laid out with his uniform undone under a tree in the dappled shade on a rare day of rest from battle. Distant memories, the smell of dry wood and rotten fruit and the taste of his hot mouth meeting mine as we roll in the grass like children both eager and anxious to get each other out of our uniforms. When I hand him the bottle of Hennessy he smiles at me like he knows what I’m thinking about, his sweet boyish smile, but that day couldn’t be more distant now; there are dark circles under his eyes, his lips are chapped, his skin sore from the wind and the cold and when he drinks from the bottle, untypical greedy desperate gulps, I think maybe he’s drinking to forget.
Himmler x Röhm
Himmler loses his glasses somewhere in the process of being pushed to the ground face first with Röhm’s fat hands around his neck. The bathroom disappears, the closed door, the stalls and urinals disappear, only the cold tiles of the floor remain, his face pressed into them as he collapses under the crushing weight of Röhm’s huge body. Now for lack of other distractions the smell of the man, breathing on his cheek, stinking of sweat and beer and aftershave, is more unbearable than ever.
Very softly, without a hint of brutality, all the more menacing for it, Röhm says, “You’ve been wondering about it, haven’t you? Wondering what it would feel like, you on all fours and a nice fat prick up your arse.” He leans in closer and Himmler feels his cock then, the bulge of it pressing between his buttocks, hard and huge and terrifying, and he forgets to breathe for a moment, the thought of what Röhm could do to him running wild in his head, every outcome of it with him filthy, humiliated and crawling back for more.
“I can take it slow if you want me to, Heinrich, I can make it feel good”, Röhm says and with one hand he is stroking Himmler’s cheek, gently like he’s one of his boys, and with the other unbuttoning his own pants, slowly, taking pleasure in the way every button opened makes the man under him hold his breath. “But you don’t want that, do you? You want to be defiled, debased, violated.” And under him Himmler winces at every word. Now he’s pale as a corpse and Röhm is no longer on top of him, he’s standing over him, lazily stroking his cock but Himmler doesn’t move, doesn’t try to get away, and Röhm ejaculates on his back and leaves him lying there, waiting.
Learning to be a perfect SS wife at the Reichsbräuteschule.
First they learned how to cook a meal to win his heart; they stirred and baked and fried all sorts of delicious things under the watchful eyes of their teacher and the dame tried them all, just a bit on the tip of her finger held to her pale thin lips and Gretchen watched nervously how the little crumb of chocolate cake disappeared into her mouth and she smiled brightly when it was to the teacher’s satisfaction.
Then they learned how to dress for the evening, feminine and elegant, strict yet inviting, and what music to pick for the occasion and what drink went with the food and the teacher poured Gretchen a glass of red wine, filled to the top, and to demonstrate the effect of such excess on a frail woman’s body she made Gretchen drink it so quickly that Gretchen spilled wine all over her stark white blouse.
Gretchen felt the heat of the wine in her cheeks, the weight of her eyelids and the teacher’s hand on her knee, her long fingers on her thigh, pulling up her skirt and tearing at her tights and just as the teacher had warned them she was helpless, even worse she did not object, she willingly opened her legs like the perfect wife should and her teacher made her squirm and moan better than any husband ever would.
Sigurd and Hedwig keeping each other company
Opposites attract, they say, but where it mattered Hedwig found Sigurd and Jochen were very much alike – they both had that emotional distance, a sternness easily misunderstood as coldheartedness if one didn’t know any better, all the more fun to melt it with an honest word at the right time, the right smile, the right brushing of fingers or kiss on the neck. And how much they yearned for it, soon Sigurd lay curled up on the couch, her head resting on Hedwig’s legs and she cried and she talked about how far away her husband was now in body and in spirit and how the words in his letters were hollow and how she only remembered his eyes empty and his hands withdrawn. While listening silently Hedwig stroked Sigurd’s hair and she traced the line of her neck with her fingertips, a hint of manicured nails running down her spine and sliding under the collar of her dress; and very peculiarly Sigurd shuddered just like her husband and just like her husband she drew closer and pressed her face between Hedwig’s thighs begging with opened lips and hot breath for her to lift up her skirt.
lethal injection by a deceptively kind doctor
How much they suffer, the poor little things, those miserable starved creatures who stare at him with their bulging wet eyes, and in those dark ponds he sees his own reflection: a kind smile, a white coat and so much life in him, they’d eat him whole if they could, rip their saviour to pieces, those nasty crows. He picks one out of the flock (or is it a murder now, or a swarm or a plague?) and it musters a wide smile showing him its rotting teeth up to the pale gums. When the woman is tied to the operating table – for her own good – she still smiles nervously and he smiles back at her full of benevolence and so very selflessly he takes off one rubber glove to put a hand on her filthy cheek stroking her gently as he pushes the long needle of a syringe into her chest and she stares at him, suddenly terrified, the eyes all white sclera and black pupil, and she realizes only then, as the syringe is already feeding acid into her heart, in what form salvation will come to her today.
Bunker Archives 