Ernstel had peeled himself out of his oil stained overall and straddled Galland, two strong hands on the pilot’s wide chest, digging into the blue fabric of his uniform as he rubbed his sweaty body on him, needy and undignified like a beast in heat. The pretty mechanic had lips like a young girl, plump and pink with a lovely arch to them and he licked them wet when he breathlessly begged Galland to fuck him hard, already panting from only the feeling of sitting on the fat bulge in Galland’s pants and imagining the dull pleasure and the pain of riding his cock or better still to be flipped on his stomach, held down with a hand on his neck and fucked like daddy’s little boy. Something came over Ernstel then that made him say that too, he called him daddy and he whimpered with tears in his eyes that he’d be a good boy and tell no one, and Galland raised his eyebrows at him and slowly, determined but careful not to hurt him, he pushed Ernstel off and when he pulled the young man up to his feet and dressed him again he was visibly disgusted but whether with Ernstel or with himself he couldn’t say.
your secrets are safe with me
He’s tapping his cigarette box on the flat, metal table, he’s counting out one, two, three and with each tap he looks at
Max Wünsche‘s face and he knows the smile on his own face (it’s his face that’s pleading, not Max’s, his face that is blushing, bashful, that can barely meet Max’s eyes) is ingratiating and Max isn’t looking at him either, he knows the best he can hope for is that Max will look at the cigarette between his fingers with desire (never him) and how it makes his hand tremble as he tries to formulate his questions.
At some point they leave them alone together and when that happens he gets down on his knees and rests his face against Max’s thigh and apologises over and over and over, he brings a square of good chocolate out of his pocket and tells him how the Russians will never take him away, don’t worry, says he’s sorry and still Wünsche looks down at him with disdain, with disinterest, with mild amusement.
He knows where Max was when the massacre happened, no one else has worked it out so far, no one has put the time lines together; Max hadn’t meant to give it away either but he had despite himself and how his stomach had lurched when he’d heard Max let the detail slip that gave the game away – but he’ll never tell, all he can do is beg forgiveness for his country winning the war.
Reinhard “punishes” Schellenberg for disobeying his orders. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
The reason for the punishment was incidental, what mattered was Heydrich’s foot on Schellenberg’s back, the heel of the boot just about fit between his shoulder blades, the weight of it – of him – was enough to vanish all hope of getting away and worse he pressed the air out Schellenberg’s lungs silencing the onslaught of hectic excuses and apologies (a misunderstanding, he had not meant to, never). He liked it of course, to be hit and thrown and bruised and used, it made him giddy with excitement, like he was to star in a thrilling movie where the hero, preferably a spy, always gets to have a rough time before eventually saving the day and wasn’t Heydrich the best beloved adversary he could wish for? Unfortunately he was to be the only damsel in distress at the end of this punishment, the bulk of it consisted of Heydrich kicking the few soft parts on Schellenberg’s slight body, working himself up in such a frenzy that he eventually jumped on the surrendered body as if he needed to wrestle with it still and while covering Schellenberg’s eyes and their terrified expression with one big hand he raped his little subordinate so uncouthly that Schellenberg even began to struggle and kick a bit, but to no avail.
Goebbels as a predator
With calculated words and jolly smiles Goebbels coaxes the pretty officer out of his uniform, each promise (a model, a movie star, fame, money and duty, duty to the arts, the German people) a button unbuttoned, rewards dripping from his forked tongue trickle down the young man’s bare chest and collect as gold dust on the dark hair leading down his pelvis.
No, I must see it all, I politely insist, every scar, every inch, no need to be shy.
Now the man is lying on Goebbels’ couch entirely nude, white skin clinging to red leather, with his hands crossed on his chest and his head thrown back as if he was suffering from great torment and it’s a good image, classical, Goebbels says with a pang of jealousy and reaches for the camera.
The era accurate version of ‘no homo’
A hand mindlessly placed on the top of Erhard’s thigh where it connects to the hip, touching him as if it was nothing, not any different from any other caress, just like the hair tousling, the pat on his shoulder or the way Hans strokes his chest: brotherly and
chaste. He holds his breath, seconds pass, the hand becomes hotter, heavier, now Hans must feel his pulse as loud as
Erhard
hears it in his own ears. “Do you miss her?,” Hans asks as his fingers absent-mindedly wander, step by step down the Apollo’s belt and he doesn’t look at
Erhard, not in his eyes, not anywhere, and he is humming a Zarah Leander hit about love when he strokes Erhard to orgasm.
You never kiss a whore on the mouth
It
wasn’t something he ever meant to tell Kurt, there were things you
could take to your grave, lots of things really, men did that all the
time, and for a time (time is a thing that goes on and on, you can
stretch it as small or as long as you like) it seemed more sensible
to do that anyway, a tactical decision based on a theory he had
cobbled together in his bed alone at night, that if he buried this
long enough inside himself, without oxygen or light, it would
disintegrate to nothingness, a memory that was no longer real, just a
faint smudge, residue like the grease spot from a dead body that’s
been moved, out of sight and out of mind, the idea is limitless –
move as many bodies as you like, stamp over the freshly trodden earth
and enjoy the sweet scent of pine, nothing is moving beneath your
feet.It’s
been so long but there’s no way he could forget the
promise/threat/insinuating impregnation of heat that comes when Kurt
lets his hand rest on the nape of his neck, the way Kurt smiles, two
fingers stroking where they could be pinching, right where his hair
becomes fuzzy and light and delicate and those two fingers might as
well be digging at the back of his throat where his gag reflex is
delicate and then he vomits it all up, this confession, what they did
to them, those English, what he begged of them – some of these
things he had forgotten, but now the sluice-gates have opened they
keep pouring forth, on his knees, sitting pretty, begging them to
piss on him, it’s more than he deserved, oh god please let someone
stick their cock down his throat because maybe then they’ll stroke
his hair for a moment and he can imagine he’s a person again, not a
urinal, not a thing, he’ll whimper eagerly if they’ll only look him
in the eye but they never do.And
after all this dirtied gauze has been unwound from his wounds, for a
moment he feels relief, and the expectation of absolution (it was so
hard to strip himself bare, perhaps he can even be called brave for
doing so) makes him hopeful for the same sort of touch Kurt had given
him before the end of the world, but Kurt has drawn back, his brow
furrowed, he seems to be considering, and at the last moment he
actually laughs, disappointed, and says you should have let them
shoot you before pressing his face into the mattress so there’s
no worry he might be kissed while he’s fucked.
Peiper breeding at Lebensborn
Jochen first saw the girl’s husband (Gerda was her name, he did not know his nor did he care to know) when he dropped her off one day, maybe the fourth meeting, he could not recall, but it looked more like she dropped him off, put the little boy in the car’s driver seat where she left him to play with the wheel or the console (to keep him entertained as Jochen was entertaining her, again and again, until he could give no more and she lay next to him on stained sheets, sweaty, panting, with a blissful smile on her smeared lips), and that was of course the reason she came to Lebensborn – in contrast to his tall blonde wife the man was lacking in all racial assets: dark hair, dark eyes, mole-like features on a stout little guy who was nervous like a mouse and in height but not in circumference smaller than Jochen who wasn’t particularly tall himself, a rarity in these establishments where blond giants towered over him (he would have felt inferior had he not understood then already that race was more than the quantification of bones and expressed in deeds and bearings as much as the colour of your hair).
Like a mouse the guy was nosy too, eventually he dared to venture out of the safety of his car (or she let him out) and into the little villa with the discreet Lebensborn sign by the front door, where once he had begged his way inside he awkwardly stood around, looking here and there, down empty hallways, at white walls and at every so very superior young man that passed by, which is how he spotted Jochen too and watched him with unconcealed jealousy, while Jochen stood on the veranda, back in his uniform, his hair slicked back, looking neat as ever and smoking as he watched the birds in the garden, unconcerned with his own observer, and inside just a few rooms away the little guy’s wife had two fingers up her pussy to stop the cum from running down her thighs.
When he next saw Gerda’s husband it was coincidentally also the last times she came to use his services (he had done his duty, already visibly so when he stripped her out of her conveniently loose fitting dress, and she could not come up with other excuses to see him again), the encounter was by coincidence: Jochen had left his gloves on the nightstand and went back into the bedroom to fetch them when he found the man kneeling at Gerda’s feet his arms around her like a slave pleading for his life and his head between her thighs up to the nose in her wet folds eagerly drinking the bitter swill dripping out of her, then he understood what that jealous look had been about and he considered reporting the man but he did not, he thought the sobbing creature with its greedy little eyes was punished enough by its own existence.
an unexpected present
Goebbels
is rubbing the back of his hand against his mouth, pensive, over
and over; behind his knuckles there’s a long, down-turned scowl and in
fact his entire face aches with the intensity with which he’s glaring
at the small (oh but it’s not so small really, is it, how could it
be?) wooden box on the table and eventually he slaps his hands down
on either side and pushes himself up from his seat and makes a
limping circuit of the room, checks the door is locked for the third
time that hour and returns back to his desk and touches the brass clasp
on the box, then the brass face of the rotary phone besides it, the
first number to get through toGöring, already half composing the
stunning invective he could unleash upon him, each perfectly pointed
barb and the sharp satisfaction that would shatter in an instant as
soon as the static silence was broken again by Göring’s indulgent
chuckle and what would come after, such a temper, little sparrow,
they’ve had enough ‘interesting conversations’ over the months
for him to know how he’d be left debrided of all his indignation, his
tongue disarmed, red faced and aching.He
unlatches the box for the third time (boxes, locks, cigarettes chain smoked, all done in sets of threes), flips open the top and touches the…object inside:
how, he wonders, as ifGöring
doesn’t have an unnatural knack
for getting his hands on anything he desires (a slight shiver at
that, phantom pains, the recollection of finger-points of pressure on
his skin) and now this bespoke…marital aid (he shouldn’t have shied
away from a more vulgar term, the euphemism makes him blush harder) a
beautifully carved, deeply burnished wooden replica of Göring’s
erect cock, nestled in a bed of green velvet – he picks it up,
hefts the weight of it in his hand, smooth, heavy as a bludgeon,
closes his fingers around it in a fist and strokes from the base to
the tip and then glances up guiltily, eyes darting around the room as
though he’s afraid that someone might be watching.On
the floor and stripped from the waist down (another rattle of the
door handle just in case) he’s got two oiled fingers slowly working
inside of himself, eyes closed and the thought ofGöring’s
conversational tone when he had asked him earlier that week how often
in the day does he think about being put on his belly, spreading his
legs for him, and he’s on his stomach now, cheek rubbing against the
carpet as he tries to find the right angle to push this wooden cock
inside him, panting, frustrated, crawling up onto his hands and
knees, so much pressure, the oil makes his hands slip on the wood and it
won’t fit in and he gives a little sob because he needs it, wants it,
must have it filling him all the way up inside but all there is, is
this bruising pain as he pushes and pushes and nothing gives way and
his fingers slip again and he stops, sweating, cursing, tugs sharply at his
own hair and then grabs the things and sits down on it with all his
weight where with a blinding pulse of pain that completely takes his
breath away, he’s left wide eyed and slack mouthed and and clenching
around the unforgiving, thick shaft of wood stretching him open.
leaning on his shoulder
You’ve been carrying heavy ammunition cases for miles now in total darkness except for the occasional flicker of enemies in the distance, you’re exhausted, physically weak, mentally frail but you hold on, you do your job, you need to follow your leader, it’s the only way to survive and even if you don’t survive, Peiper needs you and you follow.
Finally a break – you put the heavy weight down, look over to Peiper and see him talking to his adjutant, and when coincidentally your eyes meet, in a moment like from a dream, you see that he’s making a motion, calling someone closer, but there is no one there but you and he nods at you again, come here, and you follow, come trotting to his side, confused and more confused when he sits down and invites you to sit next to him like friends.
He gives you a pat on the back, a sip of whiskey and his shoulder to lean on and you thankfully accept all of them, feeling very warm from the alcohol or maybe it is the feeling of your head on his shoulder, his body so comfortingly close, and his breath on your forehead hot against the freezing cold of the night and his hand on the back of your neck, holding you there as he tells you how proud he is of you all and you specifically, but as you nod off you tangle with stray thoughts and you wonder if he’s really rewarding you or this is just another form of service to him, but you will do it gladly, very gladly.
Gorgeous Peiper’s big cock, Beautiful innocent girl…
They had told her the Germans were barbarians, huns, horrible monsters, ugly inside and outside, but the young officer she found in her father’s stable (stroking her favourite horse’s nose as if it was his own steed) was anything but that: in contrast to that stern uniform he looked so young and so gentle, the faint smile on his lips, the depth of his blue eyes and a ray of sun from the window that fell on his face made him look angelic – only the intensity of his gaze gave her goosebumps, no man had ever looked at her like that, there was something dangerous about it, a dagger with delicate ornaments still had a blade and any blade could cut.
He had noticed how nervous she was when he put his hand on hers (how could a soldier have hands that soft?) and stepped closer, closing the distance between them, breaching the space that was socially acceptable for strangers to keep, the shiny tips of his boots nearly touching her tiny shoes, so he spoke to her encouragingly in soft words, French and German too because he saw that she liked that, not knowing what he said, just looking at him, caught by his eyes like a pretty bird in a net, and she wanted to see more of him, take off that uniform, see him, touch him, feel his body against hers; he waited patiently for her to lean in for a kiss.
He was big, much bigger than she had thought from his slender frame, jarring really how fat and heavy his cock lay on his stomach, pink on white, bits of the straw they were lying on already clinging to his skin, his gorgeous body finally for her to see, yet she couldn’t help but feel fear welling up when he placed her hand on his cock, to make her feel the weight of it and how much he wanted her, and suddenly she remembered what the others had said, the Germans were conquerors after all, not brutal ones, polite neighbours, but conquerors nevertheless and it was only fair if it would hurt her a little – and it did, despite how wet she was for him, she bled when he pushed into her, slowly, very slowly, coaxing her body to submit while he kissed her neck and pressed his hand on her mouth so her parents wouldn’t hear her cries.
Bunker Archives 