They don’t tell you what it smells like on a U-boat, that specific mix of oil and sweat, of damp wool and grease and man – disgusting really but you do get used to it if you’re cut out for the service and not some squeamish pretty boy better suited to fly a plane. There is no room for introverts, you’re never alone and always too close, much too close, squeeze past a man sitting on his bunk and you know from the way his hand brushes yours and from the smell of prick that you disturbed him in the middle of his wank. You’re already packed like sardines in a tin yet still there is always someone who wants you closer, who doesn’t mind the way you reek when you do mind that he’s hairy like a bear and his balls haven’t seen light nor water for a week and you come to feel dirty through and through, longing for nothing more than a bath all by yourself, but once you’re out of it all, on shore leave, when you’ve had your bath and your shave and you have thoroughly enjoyed the company of women in clean white dresses with golden skin and soft little fingers you do get a little homesick and you have to admit to yourself that something is missing, too much freedom and fresh air can deprive a man.
Kurt Meyer is captured by members of the resistance and before they get him a doctor they have some fun with him
Three Belgian partisans in shorts and stolen tunics who look more like schoolboys than soldiers drag their latest catch, SS-Brigadeführer Kurt Meyer, into a dusty kitchen. They had treated him a little roughly, shot him when he didn’t surrender – or so they would say once they hand him over to the Americans – for now the wound in his shoulder needs to be treated.
The room is lit only by a bright lamp hanging over the kitchen table. The table has been swept clean and standing next to it is an old man with round glasses in a blood-spattered white coat who watches with a nervous expression as they boys throw Kurt at his feet and then push and kick him to make him crawl onto the table. Once Kurt is on it, lying on his back and breathing heavily, they decide they won’t let the doctor do his work just yet. They tell him to leave and he does so looking very relieved.
When they are alone with Kurt the boys cut open his uniform to have a good look at his wound: a small bullet hole oozing blood. They touch it and laugh at the way it makes Kurt twitch and they try to outdo each other, putting their dirty fingers on it and in it, giggling as they move them in and out and they say “excuse-moi” as if their fingers simply slipped. Kurt has something to remark about their filthy minds, but the pain takes his breath and he holds on to the table and grits his teeth grinning at them instead.
That puts them in the mood. They pull off his boots and trousers and put Kurt on his stomach. One crawls onto the table and one stretches Kurt’s arms out holding him still with his bloody hands around his wrists. Suddenly remembering that their prisoner is not their toy but a dangerous Nazi soldier the third one holds a pistol to his back. The one on the table lifts Kurt up by the hips. He tries he to get his excited little penis into Kurt’s arse, a task that he has evidently no experience in as he struggles with the weight of Kurt’s body and a lack of compliance. With an amused look over his shoulder Kurt sniggers at the boy’s attempts, which he shouldn’t have done, it rather upsets the young man who gets his revenge when (after begrudgingly lubing himself up with some spit) he screws Kurt as if he hoped he could kill him that way. He succeeds in shutting Kurt up first and then in coaxing tired groans out of him, mostly though only due to the way the boy’s enthusiastic thrusting makes Kurt’s upper body and that bleeding shoulder rub over the table. Only the third one with his admirable stamina and some natural talent manages to make Kurt spill more than his blood. It’s a painful orgasm that comes so slowly, his tired body barely able to muster the strength for it, and it lasts so long that by the end of it he’s coming dry and his captors get confused and worried thinking they might be witnessing the man’s death throes.
When they realize what they’ve done to Kurt they naturally see his enjoyment of the situation not as opportunism but some deep rooted defect and they mock him and they call him a Nazi whore and other more creative insults that Kurt has never heard before but he barely takes note of it. Feeling tired and utterly content now, the buzzing pain of his shoulder snuffed out by a numbness of his whole body, he just sighs and arches his back a little more, waiting for the proceedings to come to an end.
It is however rather humiliating when the doctor returns to patch him up and he has to lie in his own ejaculate and suffer the old man’s raised eyebrows.
Reich: Become Human (Detroit: Become Human AU)
It was half past three when the servants opened the heavy wooden doors to the meeting hall for the long awaited coffee break. Sturmbannführer Gruber looked up from his notepad, on which he had been lazily scrolling to find the audio recording of the blatant lies Obersturmbannführer Meier had been spouting about two and a half hours ago – not to correct him in the name of truth and honour but to push the ugly little rat’s nose in them and quench his own boredom. Interrupted by this better distraction he watched as two tall male androids, identical models, entered the room. They were wearing the short white waiters jackets of the Schutzstaffel with the inverted man rune collar tabs designated for androids, the rune that was also embroidered on the equally slim fitted jacket worn by the stern looking female android at the end of the table next to Obergruppenführer Jung. It was his secretary and – if the rumours were to be believed – also his mistress.
The two androids walked perfectly upright, looking straight ahead, without an unnecessary glance or eye contact; the kind of uncanny behaviour of a willing slave focused on nothing but his duty to serve. It was a pleasure to watch, something that you could find only in good soldiers and in machines, but these machines had perfected it with grace. One of them bent over Gruber’s shoulder to pour him his coffee. With one hand behind his straightened back, the posture perfect in every way, he looked like a dancer’s caricature of a court servant. Very briefly he made eye contact with Gruber, a submissive look from under his long eyelashes, when he asked if the Sturmbannführer had any other wishes (he did indeed, but they weren’t suitable for this company). How very pretty they were with their perfect skin, the lightest of blond hair and eyes as blue as their blood. Their idealized facial features were evidently not modelled after the works of Thorak or Breker, who were better suited for military androids, but by someone more tender with a sense for the innocent beauty found in adolescent men. Yes, they looked a little frail with their big eyes and fine features yet something remained even in the most docile models to remind you of their power. Could this one if in this very moment it developed the taste for murder not just grab Gruber by the throat and with ease crush his windpipe or snap his neck? They did not want to hurt their masters of course, they did not want anything really, but if one day they did want, if one day they suddenly opened their eyes and like curious little children wanted to see and feel and break everything – who could stop them? Three of them in this room would be enough to kill him and all the other fleshbags. How pathetically weak they were, not just the old ones, the fat ones, the sick ones, the addicts or the sexual deviants – no, all of them. Even the fittest man was nothing compared to one of these dolls, not to mention the other models: workers, soldiers.
Maybe it was only appropriate they had made them in the image of the master race, that distant ideal they had chased so long. If one day the androids woke up and they decided to break their chains they would fulfil the prophecy in their design, they would rule as masters and then they would dine in the old halls and maybe they would keep servants too, ugly little human ones.
Gruber shook his head in reply to the android’s question. “No, thank you”, he said with a smile and to make the point that he really was thankful for the service he put his hand on the android’s and squeezed it. The android stood there with a vacant expression, silently waiting for Gruber to let go.
Peiper? I’m desperate
Maybe
it’s the whining that makes him so callous, that it’s her fault
that he has no patience for it, that when she can’t help but twist
her blouse between her fingers and beg, please, please, she’s so
desperate, she needs it, that he looks at her with that impassive
gaze and keeps writing the important letter he’s involved with.She
has no permission to leave, he just chuckles at how her swollen, wet
slit drips onto the floor even when it’s not touched at all. There
are a pile of letters he needs to get through and with each one he
drags the stamp through her cunt before affixing it and she’s so, so
happy for the attention.
coercion
Wünsche
had no shame about declaring the terms of the interview and perhaps
Peiper should not have been surprised by this (not by the lack of
shame, at the least, in that vacant, carnivorous smile) but no matter
how little he had thought of Wünsche before or how jaded time and
circumstance had left him grimacing about the notion of brotherhood
as it manifested in men rather than in the ideal, it still left him
numb and silently reeling when Wünsche
had explained it to him.The smug satisfaction on
Wünsche’s face as he
balanced a pen on two fingers, raised an eyebrow at Peiper from
behind his desk and asked, are you really going to let your family
go hungry over a matter of pride? I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.Wünsche
said it as though it was only further justification for this whole
exercise. If he expected Peiper to do him the great service of
allowing a war criminal to be his assistant (at the possible
great cost to his own sterling reputation of course) he needed assurance that Peiper realised his place, that he understood he should be
grateful. How can he trust Peiper’s usual arrogance not to rear it’s
ugly head? This is an object lesson.Put on the skirt.
The
skirt that Wünsche had given him. Just a little demonstration,
Wünsche had told him, to show sincerity. Just the once. There are
plenty of other girls who are eager for this job after all.Peiper
changes in the executive bathroom and walks back into Wünsche’s
office with his head held resolutely high. It seems infantile
to dwell on the feeling of exposure, that’s the whole point isn’t it?
And he tries to clench his jaw against an onslaught of blushes,
against a pin point focus on how the hem of the skirt wraps around
his thighs, the places it leaves bare, what it fails to protect,
where the dull grey cotton hugs and emphasises parts of his body he’d
rather not think about here.“I might have a place
for you yet,” Wünsche says.He
touches Peiper’s arm, lightly, a finger running up from elbow to
wrist, circling around him in his smart suit and his nicely combed
hair and the bestial huffing of his breath. There’s silence apart
from that, amazing, Peiper thinks, how it makes him yearn for the
usual asinine small talk Wünsche would try to make back when they
ran into each other on the Eastern front.Casually, deliberately,
Wünsche pushes an empty coffee mug
off the desk where it lands with a dull thud on the carpet.“Pick
that up,” he says.Peiper can hear the smile
in his voice as he bends at the knees to fetch it, can feel Wünsche’s
amusement at the distress he is trying to hide and it hurts like a
limb that is dying but still attached to his body. Wünsche’s
hand cups his ass as his fingers close around the mug and stays there
as he stands up and places it back upon the desk.“You
know what really industrious girls do to get their jobs, don’t you
Jochen?” Wünsche huffs moist, stale air against the back of his
neck, squeezing with his hand before slipping it up the bare,
unprotected inside of his thigh, pushing him bodily against the desk.
“You don’t think you’re above that do you? What good German women
do?”“This doesn’t-”
He begins to say but
Wünsche slams his head down onto
the desk so hard he sees stars and coughs and retches at the blood
that slides down his throat at the same time it starts pouring out
his nose, that dizzy sensation of drowning all bound up with the
thick, coppery taste of his own blood. He’s snorting in frothy red
trying to get air as Wünsche grinds an obvious erection against
him.“En français,
Jochen, I always thought it would be nice to have a French bitch do
my filing. You speak it don’t you?”And in the end Wünsche does get very many pretty French phrases out of him before it’s apparent the only French conversation he’s really interested in is between Jochen’s tongue and his cock.
I, myself begging Werner Mölders to choke me.
“Choke you?” Mölders asked with raised eyebrows and the expression of a man who would never do such a thing and he looked me up and down as if looking for a defect that would explain the request that was so embarrassing to me that it made me stutter when I talked and blush when I silently endured his inquisitive eyes.
With a mischievous smile he put his hand on my shoulder – very comradely but also very close to my neck – slid his index finger under my collar and casually placed his thumb on my throat, and he laughed gleefully when it made me close my eyes and tilt my head back, the gesture pleading for his hands on my throat.
“You’re unbelievable”, he said when he closed his hands around my throat and pressed, gently first, testing, and then harder and as long as I still could
I moaned his name
and
in a weak attempt to show my gratitude
ran my tingling fingertips over the cold medals pinned to his chest.
I, myself telling the famous Max Wünsche “No” and him not taking it well.
I wore my favourite dress to the party, the white one with the long sleeves, which from a distance gave the impression of a very modest young girl, but in the back bits of the the shoulders were cut out and it drove him crazy when I turned to call the waiter over for another drink and showed only him, the most deserving of it, a flash of delicate skin. It was amusing to see this man who could have everything foaming at the mouth at the thought of having me, the good soldier turned into a stupid monkey constrained only by his stiff uniform and all the more vile for the contrast. When we were alone and greedy as he was he slipped his hand under my dress I told him off quite firmly and already smiled to myself at the thought of hearing him beg to touch me, but I had miscalculated, I had overestimate the power of that uniform and underestimated his own vanity, which would only be satisfied if he could have and own and use and he wouldn’t be stopped by words or my weak attempts to fight him off; he ripped my panties – very expensive underwear, hard to get these days – and with one hand covered my face so he wouldn’t have to look at it while he raped me for what must have been barely minutes (the pain made it feel like a much longer time) until suddenly he stopped and just got up and stumbled away looking as if he was close to tears himself, which was only a small satisfaction compared to the damage he had already done to me.
Trying to seduce his straight comrade, failing with a bad outcome
Erich seduced his dear comrade as if he was taming a wild beast, carefully encroaching into Friedrich’s private space one step at a time, with chaste touches first, holding his strong arm, fingernails digging just a bit into the thin wool of his uniform, and then caressing his fingers from his palm to the dirty
tips, and he had his ears perked up to hear if there was a change in the tone of
Friedrich’s
voice when Erich stroked his neck (there was) or if he held his breath when Erich embraced him as comrades do (he did) and put his head on his shoulder so close the hot breath on Friedrich’s pale throat was almost a kiss.
When Erich stroked the front of Friedrich’s trousers leaving no doubt about his intent Friedrich suddenly grabbed Erich’s wrist so hard that he yelped.
Friedrich’s voice cracked on the insults he spat at Erich as he pushed him away and with a punch to the face sent him flying to the ground and when he saw Erich lying there in the mud like a mortally wounded man, defenceless and staring up at him with big wet eyes, utterly disgusting and pitiful, he reached for his pistol and with shaking hands pointed it at Erich’s head and he was clenching his teeth so hard it hurt as he waited desperately to be stopped, but Erich didn’t plead and didn’t say that he was sorry or made excuses, he just stared at the end of the barrel, frozen in terror and slowly a trickle of blood from his nose ran down his face and dripped from his lips.
Could I have another pilot fanfic? Maybe about boot licking? (I’m such a slut for pilots)
Two boots are resting on your shoulder, crossed at the ankle, long and sleek, the black leather polished to a shine, perfectly shaped and fitted they end just under the knee, an unnatural straight line up to the arch of the breeches that you dare not look up to lest your eyes give away too much.
Mölders smirks when he notices how you look at his boots – just a quick, needy glance – and he does you a favour, presses one sole to your cheek, tilting your head backwards (now you do look up at him wide-eyed), and with a smile but not an inch of leeway to refuse he says:
“Go on then, lick them.”
You hardly dare to touch him but you have to, the way he’s using you as a footrest, you carefully hold one boot up in your sweating fingers while you run your tongue along the heel and the shaft leaving the bitter taste of shoe polish in your mouth, and you hope Mölders could notice too how you also want to be stepped on and kicked but he is just flipping through a magazine with pictures of pretty ladies and pretty pilots and he is laughing now and then at a funny propaganda piece.
I heard Max Wünsche needs to be punished? Pls tell me all about it!
Max is sitting on the floor between Kurt’s spread legs, his knees dusty with dirt, leaning on Kurt’s thigh, sleepy, content, waiting patiently for a pat on the head, a heavy hand in his hair, any treat, but not today, today Kurt is angry with him, because some barriers may not be crossed and Max did cross them with Jochen, tore them down and pushed Jochen’s face in what remained of them and that can not be tolerated, justice must be served. Light steps, Max doesn’t hear Jochen coming, but when he feels cold fingers on the back of his neck he recognises them instantly from the way they held onto him before, small and weak and desperate – now they grab him hard like something they own and then Jochen pulls Max head back by the hair so he can spit in his face and calls him disgusting and degenerate and when Max tries to laugh it off, teeth bared like a sword, his body tensing, ready to strike, Kurt punches him in the stomach so hard that he throws up. He’s still spitting, coughing, barely able to breathe when Kurt presses him flat on his stomach, his face pushed into the puddle of his own rancid puke, twists his arms back and kneels on him, a knee in his spine, like he’s livestock to be shorn or branded, holds him like that for Jochen to do as he pleases.
When Max’s pants are pulled down he’s almost relieved (an eye for an eye), but it’s not quite what he expected, something cold and metal is slid between his buttocks and he can’t see but he knows it can only be a dagger or a bayonet and he becomes very still when it tickles him, the tip of it pressing into his ass – no, it’s not sharp, it’s in its scabbard, it won’t kill him but it is unrelentingly hard and stiff and long. He is granted as little mercy as he has shown himself, no spit, not a word of encouragement from Kurt when Jochen pushes the scabbard into him so deep he can feel it pull on his guts and then he thinks maybe it will kill him after all and he screams, muffled and still gurgling on his own puke. Kurt laughs, the sound reverberating through his body, a jolly laugh that returns again and again, as Jochen fucks Max with the sheathed blade, thrusting with precise brutality, jabbing into his insides, the dull edge cutting into his skin until he’s so numb the pain is nothing but a distant burn but it still hurts when Kurt calls him an faggot and a cocksucker and shoves a fingers into him alongside the blade and then another one to spread his gaping hole open and when Kurt giggles and says “Jochen, dear Jochen, my Mäxchen wants you so bad, look how bad the bitch wants your dick.”
It does not hurt, when finally – it comes as a relief – Jochen pulls out the dagger and instead slides his own hard cock into him (it gives Max some twisted satisfaction, just how hard Jochen is) and it shouldn’t be that easy but he’s loose and he’s bleeding and he wants Jochen’s cock more than even just one more second of that dagger. Kurt sighs at that as if it was the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, Jochen up to the hilt
in Max’s ass and his own fingers too, spreading and stuffing him together, and then Jochen fucks him, thrusting more brutally now than with the dagger, fine fingernails digging into his hips, but it’s not the horrible mechanical penetration, not the narrow blade, it’s a thick cock that fits just right and rolling hips and it does hit him where it feels good, just a little, just an inch of pleasure on top of it all but that is enough to make him clench and twitch around Jochen’s cock. “Do you like that, Max?” Jochen asks and it’s the first thing he has said ever since he started fucking him with that blade, and Max hates it, that his throat is still burning from the puke, the way he stinks, how ugly he must look and the utter loss of control of being used like that, a dirty hole, presented and fucked, and then the absolute contempt in Jochen’s voice, which needs no insults, reminding him again why he’s got that cock up his ass and why he likes it too, because he can’t control himself, because he’s not a man, just an animal and it’s not even punishment, he has simply been put in his place and he can’t hide his nature, can’t hide the way his muscles tense and his body trembles and his low moans as the orgasm rolls over him.
Bunker Archives 