They called him Ivan, not because that was his name but because it amused him, the irony of it, to hear his Germans stutter the name they had chosen as surrogate for all of their hated enemies from the east, those Mongolian hordes, and to hear them say it with desperate affection, begging Ivan not to be terrible, begging him to please be good and please be kind and please don’t send them to Russia, anything but that.
He kept them in the basement of the little villa he had seized for the duration of his stay in Berlin, two or three of them in each room, they needed some company after all when he was gone for the day, he was was no monster, he took good care of his boys, especially the young ones in their little shorts, they were the first to get some blankets and he brought them big cups of warm milk every time he came to play with them – he really did feed them well, better than any of their comrades outside, who were fighting over scraps of food like wild dogs, by comparison it was a comfortable life, he thought, they lived more like their wives and sisters who made pretty eyes at their liberators and that was a luxury for men who should rightfully be in Siberia providing food for mother Russia.
He had quite a zoo assembled in those cold cells, besides the Berlin boys there were two East Prussian SS men, brothers that looked like twins (he could make them do all sorts of fun things to each other), with them he kept a scrawny young officer of the same company, then he also had three jolly Bavarians, Gebirgsjäger who were brown like Italians, a group of drab looking and very damaged nobodies he rarely visited, a tall Swede with hair almost as white as his skin and deep-set blue eyes (no doubt an eager volunteer with those splendid racial assets), also a man from Alsace with long brown eyelashes who was good with his tongue but wept at an annoying frequency and his personal favourite: a stern and bitter old officer with a crooked nose who had once – before Ivan took them – worn nearly as many medals on his tunic as he had fencing scars on his cheeks; but all good things must come to an end and eventually the harem had to be disbanded, the young ones he let go first and they ran away into the ruins of their city like little mice, most of the other Germans he sent to the Siberian camps, a blinded one from Hamburg he brought to the train station so he would find his way back home, the Alsatian he gifted to a friend in the French occupation zone,
before he had decided what to do with the Swede that one had managed to slit his wrists and bled out down the drainage, and the arrogant old man he took along to Moscow where they hanged him for war crimes.
von Stauffenberg doesn’t take being hurt too lightly
He looked at himself in the mirror, naked with his bandages removed, standing in the pile of his dress uniform; his wife stood behind him in her light nightgown. She had her head on his shoulder, one slender arm around his stomach and the index finger of her left hand gently pressed to his empty eye socket, more so pointing out the flaw than hiding it, the tip of her finger dipping into the hollow space. “Have you been crying again?” she asked as she ran her finger over his dark eyelashes and pressed on the reddened skin of his eyelids with the sharp edge of her nail; shamefacedly he turned away from his reflection and pressed his lips to her forehead in a plea for forgiveness.
SS officer with a pregnancy kink (not mpreg though)
How pretty his wife looked now with her
swollen
stomach, swaying from the weight of it as she walked, her skin was stretched thin, marbled red, and her breasts too were fat and heavy and her nipples large, red and so very sensitive when he licked the pre-milk off them. He hoped she would bear him a boy, who would grow big and strong and become a defender of the Germanic people like his daddy was, but it was not just that anticipation – there was an element of power to it too, to know his seed was growing in her, his child holding her body hostage, so she didn’t get any funny ideas when he was away for so long. He could not wait to see her again in another couple of months, to hold his son in his arms and at night crawl into her bed and tell her that she was ugly now, unbearable, and breed her so she could soon be pretty again.
Peiper, von Westernhagen, and Pervitin
One of these nights, their shared sleepless nights when Jochen is high on pervitin and Heinz is suffering from the insomnia that has afflicted him ever since the head injury, Heinz takes Jochen’s hand with familiar tenderness, holds it for a long time while staring at Jochen out of his bloodshot eyes before he raises the hand to his temple, places Jochen’s fingers on the thick ridge of his scar and calmly as if giving a factual report he says: “this is where the demons came in.”
It was of course not demons that got in but brain fluid that leaked out and metal that pierced his frontal lobe, irreparably damaging the parts that made Heinz fully human, that made him want to sleep and eat and fuck, and Jochen knows that, has seen it and now sees it in front of his eyes again, that very moment when Heinz lay there with his skull cracked open, eyes rolled back into his head, the whites staring at Jochen and that pulsing pink slit where his brain was laid open – pulsing like the blood flow under his fingertips as Heinz presses Jochen’s fingers harder on the scar and with pleading eyes mutters that Jochen must take them out, get them out, let them out.
Jochen can’t get himself hard, no matter how much Heinz in his well-meant attempts to assist pulls on his limp cock, digging nails into the sensitive skin, and kisses and licks and bites him, the pain hardly registering as more than a tickle, and Jochen gives up on it, has no time for that, suddenly his heart is beating fast and he’s thinking fast and he can not wait; with a bit of spit and blood scraped from the roof of his mouth he shoves two fingers in Heinz’s arse and fucks him like that, hard but rhythmic, and Jochen can almost believe what Heinz said about the demons when he begins to tremble and then his head and limbs convulse and Jochen has to hold him so tight as he clenches around Jochen’s fingers and drools spit on Jochen’s neck, the come trickling from his soft little cock like urine and his eyes roll back into his head for an unsettling long time.
sadistic medic
Isn’t it peculiar in which circumstances deranged obsessions long incubated come to light and although dormant for many years they suddenly take hold of you with overpowering force? A small body lies in my arms, a good soldier, and I cradle the man who would be considered a boy in any other time and he too is holding on to his broken form as blood and life run out of him, unstoppable, and what good would it do to stop it – he has no eyes to see, no legs to walk, his hands are twisted claws but he still has a tongue and he can whimper and cry for his mother like a little boy. I stroke his hair and kiss his cheeks and overcome by an inexplicable urge I drop my spit on his open lips and he licks it and swallows it like wine or maybe mother’s milk.
B E A S T I A L I T Y
The hotel lived up
to its name; a terminus marks a boundary, and this Terminus marked
the very boundaries of hell, a place where cruelty reigned with
blowtorches and glowing irons, boiling water and electroshocks, where
bones were broken and men skinned alive – but torture comes in may
forms, you can break a human with less than brute strength; you can
for example teach your dogs some neat tricks, and it turns out, they
might repeat it on other terms too, not quite like you expected, but
that’s how it goes sometimes.See, Kläuschen,
his captor says when they let the huge German shepherd off his leash,
your dog knows what to do when you get on your hands
and knees, naked as the day you were born, you trained him
well, look at how eagerly he sniffs your balls and licks your
twitching little hole, he needs no more
incentive than that for his plump red cock to
come out of his sheath, look how impatient
he is to fuck your virgin ass, such a good
boy, he really loves his
master – he must have waited so long for the
day when he’d be allowed to mount you.And
mount him he does, this hellhound with a taste for rape (it’s not his
fault, he just does what he’s been trained for) and he isn’t gentle
as he shoves his large wet red dog-dick into Kläuschen’s tight ass
and Kläuschen would scream if they hadn’t gagged him, he would
scream like all the men and women and children he tortured, but alas,
his captor can’t allow him this relief, it would upset the poor dog
and we wouldn’t want him to be unable to perform, would we?After that first time he thought the worst thing he could feel was the dog’s spunk leaking out of his ass, not even the ruined ache of his asshole itself or how they held a mirror up there and fisted his hair to the roots and made him look at what a disgusting canine cunt had been made of it, but the shame of feeling it slowly drip out of him and the urge to actually dig his fingers in there and spread himself wide to just get rid of it all in one go, so he wouldn’t have to feel it anymore – they don’t let him bathe, when he’s lucky he’ll get a quick hose down with cold water but nothing that could wash the filthy, primal shame of this off of him.
It’s awfully naive though – this was merely a subtle prologue to all kinds of tortures; a drill set against the exposed nerves of a plucked out tooth, industrial irritants pumped into his bladder and plugged up there, splinters of wood pushed deep into his nail beds and tapped on like piano keys, metal brands heated until the air around them grows hazy and pressed into his flesh where they sizzle and spit and he thinks he can see his fat bubbling, not possible no, but the clear weeping fluid and yellow mess of the wounds left behind terrify him.
So in time he comes to plead for the dogs instead and when they smile and tell him, well then, he better be an enthusiastic bitch and show his studs how much he appreciates them, give them a kiss, he almost doesn’t hesitate to open his mouth and let the hound lick inside, trying not to gag as he laps his own tongue over the yellow, frothy fangs and making the most appreciative noises he can manage, strained, unconvincing whimpers as he swallows down dog slobber and listens to the laughter of his captors.
When they let his dog in (out of kindness or malice he could not tell) Klaus sat in the darkest corner of his cell curled up, covered in his filth and his blood, weeping without tears, his small body shaken by sobs, but the dog still recognized the sorry creature and came trotting to his master, slowly wagging his tail, unsure if he was allowed to be happy. He sniffed Klaus’s face, nudging it with his big wet nose, and that was the first time in days that someone had gotten so close to Klaus without wanting to hurt him, it made him smile and when he showed his dog the gums where his teeth used to be the dog licked his face with his long tongue, licked off the blood and the tears and the puke and he licked his body too, making him clean, so soothingly soft on his wounds, and he didn’t spare a spot, when Klaus opened his legs for him like he’d been taught the good dog licked the piss off Klaus’s shrivelled up little cock and his swollen balls and he got very excited, tail wagging, lapping more eagerly and prodding with his nose when he tasted warm semen oozing from his master’s torn up asshole. The dog’s cock was already out of its sheath, Klaus could smell it, but he did not mind, he patted the dog on the head and called him a good boy – the poor dog, he had never meant to harm his master, would have been gentler when he mounted him had he known how he tore him up, and how good he was to Klaus now, his only friend, Klaus wanted to be good to him too and he got on his knees and he would have presented his fuck hole, his canine cunt, had it not been so brutally used just now, so he crawled under the beast’s belly and found the big red cock already hanging heavy and wet, dripping clear liquid like water from the blade of the tip that he gently put in his mouth and although he had never taught him that trick the dog knew what to do and pushed his entire long cock inside Klaus’s mouth and down his throat and he put his paws on Klaus’s back, nails scratching the purple flesh as he mounted Klaus’s face and humped his mouth rubbing the huge knot on his gums until it was swollen to full size, wedging his mouth wide open, then the dog stood still spilling endless amounts of liquid down his throat for many, many minutes and Klaus swallowed it all or he would have drowned on it; when he heard the door to his cell open again, followed by the uncontrolled laughter of his captors, he ignored it, instead stroking the dog’s flanks and smelling his lovely soft fur.
In which Peiper teaches Werner Wolff a thing or two
Werner was a bit like a school boy who threw little paper balls at girls he liked, on one of them he’d write ‘I love you’, you simply had to pick up the right one, it was just boyish incompetence in expressing his feelings, he was essentially good at heart, obedient and kind and he had to be, as Peiper’s adjutant he was his shadow by day and his bedmate by night and he was a sweet, innocent bedmate, once given permission he drew his superior’s smaller body to his chest and held him tight and he never did follow up on his arousal in those moments, fearing if he tried to touch him indecently Peiper would swat his hand away and he wouldn’t get to hold him again, so it came as bit of surprise when one of these nights Peiper grabbed his hand, put it down the front of his trousers, and pressed his palm on the hard bulge of his cock telling him – in a tone not unlike a command but Peiper’s command weren’t usually sharply spoken unless they needed to be – to take care of that, now, and he did, gladly, sucking up every quiet moan and stilted breath he was given in return.
Unspeakable things were better conveyed by acts than words, one of the following nights Peiper grabbed Werner by the scruff of the neck and he pulled him down on his crotch rubbing his adjutant’s face over the front of his trousers, until he was hard and Werner could feel it, feel Peiper’s cock pulsing through the fabric and he made sounds like a young dog, begging with scratching fingernails to get him out of his trousers; he had evidently not fully understood, when he was finally given permission (he pulled down Peiper’s trousers and the erection sprung up, the pink head wet on his lips), he suddenly was no longer quite so bold, he placed kisses up and down the length of his cock and on Peiper’s belly and his thighs and when he let his tongue dart out it was only a grazing touch.
Do it right, Peiper told him with a slap on his cheek and it was only a gentle slap but there was something about the way Werner apologetically smiled up at him (the expression certainly benefiting from the cock across his face), that made him hit him again and harder and like a good servant Werner only smiled wider as Peiper hit him again and again until his cheeks were swollen red and tears welled up in his eyes and the tears ran down his abused cheeks when Peiper pushed his fingers in Werner’s mouth, shoved his slender hand in as far as it would go and two fingers – one of it with the ring Himmler had given him on it – down the lion’s throat (he did not dare bite), fucking the wet, retching gullet with murmurs of approval when Werner managed to calm the twitching of his throat and with disappointed sighs and brutal jabs when he did not, until his adjutant had learned to hold still and not to gag and he was only choking on his own thick drool, so much of it, spilling over his lips and running down his face;
Peiper
pulled him on his cock and made use of his sore throat and he used him many more nights and taught him many other tricks until one day the bright young man was taken away from him.
The SS and feederism
She fed him well on her mother’s cooking, all the good German food: potatoes and pork swimming in butter, roast meat, thick sauces and pastry, chocolate and pie – don’t forget the cream, dear, and the sweet milk for your coffee and do take another slice, I don’t want to throw a thing away. She watched how he began growing, swelling, soon he was too big for his uniform, so they opened up the darts and that made a little more room and the uniform didn’t look sharp any longer but he looked happy, her plump little husband. Eventually even that wasn’t enough and new clothing had to be made to fit his Rubenesque shape, twice the fabric consumed, and new boots for his fat thighs and how he was sweating to get up the stairs now, sweating even in spring sun (the heavy black fabric certainly contributing too), and his face was strawberry red all day long as he sat at his desk and breathed heavily, crushed by his own weight – oh, dear, don’t talk about the war now, you’re entirely unfit for services, don’t be silly, and who will make your favourite cake then and who will cut your steak, no, you stay with me, you helpless little thing.
first time
Hermann didn’t understand what prompted Bruno to change his mind about the thing (being fucked up the arse), but he wouldn’t argue, no, Bruno knew what he wanted, more importantly: what he wanted Hermann to do, and the mere mention of it, the way the words came over his lips with a frown – “I have decided that you may penetrate me, now” – like a legally binding obligation, it made the blood rush to his cock.
His riding crop was still on the table when Bruno braced against the edge of it and he was in full uniform, buttoned up to his chin, only the hat he had left at the door, and like a disobedient cadet bracing for a caning he pulled his trousers down just enough to allow Hermann to push his fat cock between the slim thighs (their slimness did not hinder the friction as Hermann could make up for it with the size of his cock), and Hermann wanted fuck him like that first, slow, intimate and gentle – while he collected spit in his mouth to rub on himself for lack of lube, again and again, no amount of it seemingly sufficient to cover his entire length, but Bruno would not settle for less. “you wanted to sodomize me,” he said, “now do it.”
Bruno’s cock hung flaccid between his legs, he was holding on to the edge of the table, his knuckles turned white, he was trembling and with every fraction of an inch that Hermann managed to squeeze into his arse, he got tenser, tighter, biting his lips harder, sweating cold from the pain of it, and the horror of the feeling, to be so very stretched, his insides incapable of making space for that monster, it felt like a stake was being driven into him and it looked like that too, and Hermann felt so very sorry, he placed kisses on the back of Bruno’s neck but Bruno shook them off, slowly like a dying man would swat flies and through gritted teeth he snarled at Hermann to get on with it and fuck him like he wanted to be fucked himself.
Röhm with a blond beauty of an SA man with a lovely ass
What a lovely lad he was, proportioned like a young god, the way flesh and labour had made him further flattered by those tall laced boots, the tight cinch of his belt (the soft skin of his belly was sore under it, thin fur growing out of red roots) and although he’d never had a horse’s back between his strong thighs his breeches were cut like those for riding, hugging his knees, bold in shape and provocatively tight on his lovely ass, and although he was quite a bit taller than Ernst he somehow always managed to look up to him, all things that could be ignored as mere vanity, but the way he ran his fingers through that blond shock of hair, sculpting it back in shape – you want me to pull on it, don’t you?
Ernst bought him a beer and three hours later they were in his living room and the lad sat on Ernst’s couch, bend forward with his legs spread wide, elbows on his knees and hands on his chin, listening as Ernst played Wagner for him on the piano, something grand and boisterous, a chorus of men’s voices resonating in each note, and although the notes sang to God’s glory to the lad it was a cupboard’s street brawl and he dreamed with tears in his eyes of boots hitting the ground and skulls cracking – and rather undignified given the great German master’s presence in the room he stroked his cock through the fabric of his trousers and stained them too.
For the benefit of the neighbours, who didn’t enjoy a boy’s moans quite as much as he did, Ernst put on a record, Wagner of course, and with some jest to it he made the lad bend over the piano and took it on himself to pull down those very flattering breeches as far as the boots allowed, and because a fat ass like that really deserved it he went down on his knees, spread the lad’s cheeks (quite a handful) and licked his tight little hole until it was a dripping wet cunt and the lad begged – literally, verbally begged Ernst to fuck him in the ass, please, god, please, in as many words as he could get over his lips without choking on them, and Ernst drew it out, fucked him only with his tongue and with only one measly finger, just to see how desperate the pleading would get before he finally stuffed him with his cock while holding him by his pretty blond hair; the lad almost groaned louder at the sound of Ernst’s belly slapping on his ass than the feeling of the fat cock fucking him open, either way he quickly shot his spunk all over the shiny black surface of the piano.
Bunker Archives 