Jedem das Seine

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(part two of Lerne leiden ohne zu klagen)


When Prieß finally turns to look at him it’s still no release. Muster would be the more appropriate word to describe it, as if he was surveying a landscape of his own, equally observant as unaffected, taking in every little detail from the hard line of Jochen’s lips to the tensely curled toes. That sort of gaze could strip a clothed man and peel the skin off one already nude; like layers of an onion, unravelling and tearing, down to that hidden core and then in a sudden bout of primal urge crush the small thing between his teeth and taste its sweet water.

The thought tickles the back of Jochen’s neck and makes his hair stand as if someone had gently placed a kiss there or not so gently ran fingers through his hair whispering in his ear of private matters. 

If only he wasn’t so romantic about things. Such trivial thoughts.

“When I see you in your uniform, out there,” Prieß says, “I am always reminded of a little boy playing dress-up in his father’s clothing.” And taking a step closer he does not fail to notice the effect he has on his subordinate, who holds his breath and raises his chin higher in a laudable but failed attempt to cover weakness with pride. It wouldn’t be seemly to ask Jochen if he was scared, to humiliate a man who had already delivered himself up. A true nobleman hates slavery in every form, most of all, that which could emanate from himself. Jochen recalls reading that line once in a book on a cold Sunday evening in Berlin, and it resonated with him then, such an idealistic thought, one that would never hold up to reality, as he suspected then and knew now.

When Prieß stands in front of him – quiet, composed, yet undeniably menacing, not like wild beasts, fire and iron but like bleak prison cells and scaffolds and the drab grey of his uniform – he doesn’t have to say it, even unspoken the question is on his lips, that uncontrollable smirk, which mocks and hurts Jochen yet brings him some joy to see too, marvellous as it is, enviable and so familiar, he can almost feel it on his own lips. Jochen can only answer the unspoken question in the affirmative by the common and commonly understood gesture of lowering his eyes, the innocence of that gesture so very jarring for one who just yesterday washed the enemy’s blood off his hands (under cold running water, the filthy sink filling up pink as endlessly he scrubbed under his fingernails not quite managing the get them clean but in his vanity also refusing to cut them to a more practical brutish length).

Disregarding the order of things, ranks, names, deeds, forgetting the war and its benefits and unpleasantries, stripped naked and toe to toe with Prieß the differences between them are painfully obvious: Prieß’ age, his composure and less complicated, more immediately demanding attention, his towering height. Jochen is staring at the collar of Prieß’ uniform, looking through it and waiting for a sign, for an order or a touch. It comes with a stroke of the fingertip along the scar on his arm. 

“I think I prefer you this way,” Prieß says. 

His touch is gentle but not without pressure, like the touch with which one would inspect for wounds a skittish animal. It wanders along Jochen’s arm, stomach, hip, finds traces of battles, pretty and not so pretty ones, red and white and purple. Under inspection the feeling of objectification returns inevitably but now, strangely, the feeling is welcome.

How little separated him from the abysses of the human condition. If he was to be the servant – the pet, the slave, all the same, what did it matter? – he would not be subdued against his will. Would that make it better or worse? Still the thought is exciting, how easy it is, like flipping a coin, one moment master, the next slave, if everyone played their part.

Prieß’s hand remains on his hip, a firm hold, and his breath on Jochen’s forehead, tickling and warm. Jochen does not look up at Prieß, has been neither forbidden to nor allowed, is left hanging in between and the moment stretches, and to his surprise he finds his arousal growing, entirely out of his control, cheeks reddening, breath quickening, and he knows it’s up to him to put an end to it, he won’t be ordered, this is his choice, he wants this, twisted as it may be (and how twisted it was, he knew that).

Prieß is waiting patiently, more statue than man, while Jochen debates the options of proposing a course of action, such as suggesting he could be trusted to keep quiet if Prieß wanted to use him again, like last time, or any other way, as he wished, he wouldn’t mind if it was going to be an unpleasant experience, no, not at all – and hoping he would be understood with phrases that in their childish vagueness embarrassed him, yet were still easier to assemble than to say out loud how much he craved Prieß’s cock, to touch it again, to taste it, to feel it inside of him and to suffer.

A graphic image forces itself onto him, bestial filth of the lowest kind. As if watching from a distance he can see himself, naked as he is now, on all fours, writhing and moaning, and Prieß on top of him, mounting him, and the two of them copulating like animals. In that grotesque scene they are one, like man and wife or two parts of the same. This is what he wants more than anything else now and it’s a relief, the way being defeated reliefs one of the struggle.

He looks up at the familiar face. It seems comforting in its lack of emotion. 

“If you want to fuck me in the ass,” he says, pronouncing the ghastly phrase like he’s holding filth at an arm’s length, “I think I could enjoy it.”

Prieß pats him on the head in a fatherly fashion. He takes Jochen’s hand and guides it to rest on the closure of his trousers and Jochen can feel that this time Prieß is hard already, waiting to be served. It gets to him, that silly, womanish sort of pride to please and to be desired, teacher’s pet, sunny boy. He drops to his knees, eyes up, asking for approval, given with a silent nod. Eagerly, like he would want it himself were he in the reverse position, he mouths at the hard outline of Prieß’s erection, bitter taste of wool on his lips. Before he can lap at it Prieß grabs him by the hair and pulls him away.

“Wait,” he says and Jochen waits and watches, staring, as Prieß opens his belt with a clink and very slowly unbuttons his trousers and then finally pulls out his erect cock. The musky smell of it so strong it’s revolting.

“Open up”, Prieß says and Jochen opens wide, stretching out his tongue. The tip of Prieß’s cock is glistening wet with precome. He wipes it on Jochen’s tongue. “Swallow,” he says and Jochen swallows the fluid that tastes like nothing first and then salt and urine. He feels like throwing it up again, emptying the contents of his stomach at Prieß’s feet just to rid himself of that taste.

Prieß smiles at the apparent expression of revulsion on his face. “Do you withdraw your offer to serve?” he asks.

Jochen clenches his teeth. “No.“

Prieß yanks him by the hair and Jochen wishes he did not, but he follows the implicit order, opening up again. Prieß slides his cock into Jochen’s mouth all the way and then some, tightening his hold on Jochen’s head, pulling him closer, adjusting the angle to push his cock in as deep as it can go and as Jochen gags on it Prieß only pushes deeper, sliding down his throat. Then he fucks his mouth. Jochen can’t breath and he can’t stop gagging. It’s worse than before, deeper, more brutal and he can still taste it, salty, filthy, going down his throat and his own spit is sour from the acid welling up with each stifled gag. The invasion is ruthless, nonstop. After a painfully long while his throat stops twitching, he is opened up. He feels lightheaded, hears only the wet slurping sounds of his throat being fucked like a cunt, and he feels nothing. Prieß pulls out and lets go of him. Jochen slumps to the ground. 

As he’s lying there, coughing, dizzy and without drive to even wipe the spit from his mouth Prieß is standing over him, his engorged cock in one hand, the tip of it is grotesquely red and covered in thick yellow mucus, the other hand opening the buttons of his tunic for ease. The image is banal and Jochen can’t look away.

“Do you want me to stop?” Prieß asks. No, he does not, not now. I am yours if you want me, it echoes in his head. How very naive. 

Prieß bends down and flips Jochen on his belly. Jochen lies still, listening to the rustling of clothing, knowing very well what was to come, nervous anticipation sinking into his stomach. Prieß gets on top of him, his full weight resting on Jochen’s hips as if he hadn’t voluntarily submitted and required to be wrestled down. Some fumbling, readjusting, and he pulls him up by the arse, stroking and squeezing the firm cheeks for a while before spreading them to slide his cock between them. 

“You’re beautiful,” he says, “as good as any girl.” He sounds different, the lust in his voice is crude and obscene. 

Holding his erection in one hand, and holding Jochen still with the other, he still struggles to squeeze the slick tip of his cock into Jochen’s tight arsehole. It doesn’t hurt yet but it feels like it would any moment, the hard thickness of the erection pressing in, to rip into him, to split him open, like a finger through the eye socket or a bayonet through the abdominal wall. In a sudden rush of panic at the intrusion Jochen tries to jerk away but he is held firmly in place. 

“Calm down,” Prieß says and it’s no reassurance, It’s an order and an insult, and he leaves Jochen no time to calm down, forcing his cock into him with a brutal stroke. Jochen cries out in pain. Now it does hurt and it feels foreign, not sex, no union, just an awful assault, stretching and aching and on the basest level, most shamefully he just feels like he needs to defecate. 

“I thought you were used to this,” Prieß says but it doesn’t feel like it, the ways he’s clenching around his cock, tight pink ring around the base of it, he can barely pull out. “Fuck, has no one ever had you like this?” he says not expecting an answer. He covers Jochen’s mouth. He pulls out and thrusts into him again and again and harder and faster, breaking him in, until he is loose enough to be properly fucked. And Jochen learns to arch his back and he hates how it feels, offering himself like that, taking that cock deep, but only for the pain, only so it wouldn’t hurt so bad, wouldn’t leave permanent damage. Muffled screams die down to a whimper. Jochen is crying and he’s glad Prieß can’t see it. The pain won’t subside. He can’t move, Prieß is lying on him, the heavy weight of the man crushing him, making it hard even to breath. His thrusts get more rapid. Like a humping dog. He grunts into Jochen’s ear. He holds him tighter, fingers digging into his hips, hand hard on his face, pulling and twisting it back, so close to snapping his neck. One last thrust and he’s buried to the hilt in Jochen’s arse. His cock twitches, pulses and he ejaculates deep into him with a satisfied groan.

Some seconds pass with Prieß just lying on Jochen’s back, the older man spent and exhausted, his cock growing soft. Then coming to himself he begins to fuck him again with slow rolling movements, pulling all the way out of the puffy red hole just to see it gape open and twitch, before thrusting his cock in again. Jochen lies still, trying to ignore the wet slurping sound of it and waiting for it all to be over. The burning fades to warmth. He feels like he urinated, warmth spreading under him and he realises with helpless revulsion that his cock is half hard and leaking come. He tries once more to get away from Prieß but the man won’t let go of him. He fucks Jochen until his own cock is too limp to force it back into him.

Then he gets up. He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes himself clean. Too weak to stand up just yet Jochen crawls back to his uniform. Prieß throws him the handkerchief. Jochen looks at it with disgust before picking it up to wipe the sticky mess off his arse and off the floor. Prieß watches him while he buttons his trousers and tunic back up. He looks unaffected. 

“Did you enjoy that?” he asks matter-of-factly.

“No.”

“I got a different impression,” Prieß says and

cruelly

lets the silence hang between them. 

Jochen pulls up his trousers. Prieß’s come is dripping out of him again, forming a wet spot in his underpants. 

“Will you report this?” Prieß asks.

“No, of course not,” Jochen replies.

Prieß nods and leaves him without any further word, like nothing happened.

Jochen closes the last button of his uniform, then the little clasp that tightens the high collar around his neck. He slides back into his boots, walks over to the window and looking at his reflection fixes his hair. It is like nothing happened. He feels whole again and clean.

Lerne leiden ohne zu klagen

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(sequel to 

Das lebhafteste Vergnügen, das ein Mensch in der Welt haben kann ist, neue Wahrheiten zu entdecken)


The lack of agreed upon rules makes it hard to determine what is and isn’t allowed. They haven’t negotiated a language of their own, no contract was made when afterwards Jochen sat panting at Prieß’ feet asking only for a pat on the head. So when he meets Prieß again it’s like nothing changed and Jochen’s offering wasn’t any different than any of his other services, leaving no mark on Prieß’ impeccable bearing. They are still soldiers foremost and the distance in rank between them does not allow for camaraderie even if Prieß was willing to extend it, and Jochen admires that he does not.

It shouldn’t make any difference, it is his duty to serve, sentimental attachments belong to the home front. And to expect favours in return, even of only an interpersonal nature, leaves the sour taste of prostitution in his mouth.

All of his feverish fantasies wiped away by Prieß’ unchanged, cold demeanour Jochen proceeds as he did before, finding small pleasures in standing to attention under his uncaring eyes (or maybe there is a hint of amusement in the corners of his mouth), in the prim salutes and the ever unconditional affirmatives of his orders. And then in the rare moment of privacy again in helping Prieß out of his coat and out of his boots. Only when he’s kneeling at Prieß’ feet, hands clutching the leather shaft of his boots, does it overcome him, an unseemly desire to drop on all fours, to crawl and to beg with his tongue and watch his own reflection in Prieß’ cold eyes. It’s only a flicker of lust and he does control it, merely glancing up at Prieß, submissive in so far as the lowered position makes it seem that way and in that he can not help the sadness in his eyes.

His eyes meet Prieß’ and he realizes that he has been watching him intently. “Haven’t you had enough?” Prieß asks and it sounds like an honest inquiry but it still hits Jochen like a slap to the face, his attempts to control the sickening twist of his stomach visible only from the clenching of his jaw. Now all the tension is back and he needs to carefully choose his words, but there are no words that could save his face when he’s been called out so pointedly and before he can form a sentence Prieß speaks again.

“I can’t allow it. You are well aware of the legal situation and the ethical implications, especially in my position. If we are seen and, when put to the test, you lose your temper, I will hang for it.”

The words come as a surprise but also a relief. Jochen knows he’d never incriminate his superior and it’s easier to refute this idea than any implication about his own desires. “I don’t lose my temper,” he says with slight indignation, “I offered myself to you of my own accord and if questioned I will take all responsibility on myself. Anything else is beneath me.” His unwavering return of Prieß’ stern look seems to convince him of his sincerity if Jochen reads the softening of his expression correctly, so he tries, adding, “I am yours if you want me.”

Prieß smiles at that, a strange sight, equally disconcerting as it is gratifying. “Lock the door,” he says and Jochen does so, slowly to keep his impelling anticipation in check. When he turns around again Prieß is standing by the window looking outside, the pale light casting shadows under his cheekbones invoking the image of a death mask. Straight and proud with his hands crossed behind his back and like in thought still or in observation of the outside he doesn’t turn to look at Jochen when he says, “take off that uniform, I don’t want to see it.”

The prospect of following that order is unsettling to Jochen. Not being nude, that isn’t an issue per se. He isn’t dainty about these things, as a soldier you can not afford to be and it isn’t becoming to any German to be squeamish. The body is a tool and first and foremost just that. But to slip out of the uniform and the protection it provided, discarding the very thing that justified his obedience to Prieß, that makes them alike, is another issue entirely.

His hesitation is clear to Prieß from the long silence in the room, only filled by the occasional sound of water dripping from the roof and downstairs doors closing and steps in the mud.

“If you can’t do it, you may leave,” Prieß says.

A gracious promise, and what should Jochen do then, lose himself in fantasies completely, tie a shoelace around his neck one day and never come back from it? Pathetic. Retreat is not an option. He takes off his uniform. Belt and tunic and shirt accompany his cap on the floor. He folds them carefully as they have been taught in training, the collar tabs displayed, and before he proceeds he halts and for a moment looks at the neat little patch declaring his rank and he finds some comfort in knowing that taking off the uniform doesn’t strip him of his rank.

The boots must come off without help and while he gets out of his breeches, socks and underpants Prieß doesn’t look at him once and Jochen thinks maybe it would be easier if he did pin him down with his eyes, the intensity of his order visualized. But he is on his own and regardless of his bearing it makes the simple act of undressing feel seedy.

Now he’s standing naked in the dim light of the window, his pale body beautiful but like an eyesore, out of place in the dark, sparse room. He has the build of a swimmer thanks to his favourite way of spending a summer afternoon and despite not having had that sort of entertainment in a long time. His torso tapers to a slim waist, a pronounced Apollo’s belt and a patch of thick dark hair, which proceeds in a thin line over his stomach up all the way to meet the hair on his chest in the deep dip of his sternum. The veins shine under his skin in a cool shade of purple. He looks worn out, lean like a hunting dog and entirely lacking in softness. He is standing like a soldier, hands at his side, eyes forward, but he feels like a slave on the market square.

Das lebhafteste Vergnügen, das ein Mensch in der Welt haben kann ist, neue Wahrheiten zu entdecken

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(sequel to Seine Pflicht erkennen und tun, das ist die Hauptsache)

Fate, or rather strategy, prevents him from seeing Prieß for a while yet Jochen can’t stop thinking about it; again and again that moment invades his thoughts, the feeling of kneeling between Prieß’ legs, the awe that made him hesitant to even put his hands on his superior, made them twitch to find a better place, like bound and twisted behind his back. And then comes flushing back the shame for having that urge, for thinking just once of himself as a slave not a servant.

If he doesn’t find a distraction, something to stop himself, he can still feel the weight of Prieß’ hand on the back of his head, and the weight of Prieß’ cock swelling on his lips and his own pathetic pride when he tasted the first salty drops of precum on his tongue as if just one drop of it was better than any of the medals earned with sweat and blood.

When Jochen finally finds some time for himself it’s the feeling of choking on Prieß’ cock he recalls. Drooling spit, dripping down his chin and running down his throat, and his undignified wet gasps for air silenced when Prieß thrust deeper and it took all his willpower not to panic and gag and instead he pushed forward, nose buried in Prieß’s coarse pubes, sliding the cock as deep as it would go, suffocating on it.

He’s kneeling on the floor of his room one hand around his cock stroking himself and the other holding the back of his head, gently running fingers through his slick hair and the hand begins to wander, down his face, brushing his lips. Shortly he considers pushing his fingers into his mouth to feel the weight of them on his tongue, but he can’t endure how infantile it would be. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, it happens on its own, the fingers wandering down to his neck and his strokes getting harder when he thinks about they way Prieß held him suddenly so tight and stiff and silent and how the come filled his mouth and his troat, thick and bitter, and how Prieß held him there so long that Jochen got dizzy and light and empty, in a remote place where there was only that cock in his mouth, thick and pulsing, his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, his aching cock and the distant image behind closed eyelids of high cheekbones and thin lips curled in a sardonic smile. He tries to get that moment back, he closes his hand around his throat and chokes himself. It’s not enough, not enough at all, but it will have to suffice for now.

you’re useless

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You’re useless. Can you lift anything heavier than a pistol, pretty boy? Can you move the rubble, drag the corpses? Can you build a house, or plow a field? What did they teach you all these years, just to polish your boots and press your shirts, to clean your nails and part your hair, and to bark and to crawl? You wander like a lost child with eyes glazed over. You sit alone with your knees drawn to your chin, rubbing that spot on your uniform that just won’t come off. This is all your fault. I wish they’d taken you to Russia.

@reichblr-ficathon

Interbellum

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Having extensively studied a map of Berlin that Karl bought at the train station he had found the road Erwin lived on. It was in the middle of what they called a working class neighbourhood or what he would call the KPD headquarters if he had dared to raise his voice.

Karl had to cross four backyards to find Erwin’s house. Walking past pale children, who played games he did not recognize, through buildings that all looked the same, dirty and grey, and all smelled the same, like potatoes, people and sewer. They welcomed him with large open doors leading into a damp darkness that made his hair stand, and then back out again into another backyard with another group of children, which could very well have been the same children and the same backyard, so little different were they. He heard them whisper then, white faces in dark windows, old women, the child-rich poor mothers and unemployed men. He was wearing his most civilian suit and had ditched his beloved boots for low ankle shoes, which felt awkward, but his gait was too stiff, his shoes too clean and his face too hard. They could see that he didn’t belong. By the time he stood in front of Erwin’s flat, he was so tense the opening door almost made him jump.

You could tell the time passed since the end of the war from the length of Erwin’s hair. While the stubble all around his head was still kept at the same length that they had sheared it down to in the trenches (to keep away the fleas and lice) a small brown tuft of hair, like a swirled brush stroke, now also sat on it. He looked smart, very smart, when he opened the door of his miserably small flat on the fourth floor, just below the attic. He stood there, entirely out of place in his silk slacks and a starched high collar shirt with an excessive amount of buttons on it, framed by a warm glow of light and a welcoming smell of old things.

Erwin lived like a king in a cupboard. Every wall of his flat was covered with shelves filled with books, wooden boxes, tin boxes, bottles with indecipherable labels and ominous dark liquid in them, round glasses with preserved amphibians next to glasses filled with pickled cucumbers. There was also the dagger that Erwin had taken off the American officer, who had shared his last drink with them, that bittersweet moment in late 1917, and also Erwin’s old Stahlhelm with the bullet dent, a sight that still made Karl queasy, to think about how close it had been. Most of the shelf space was taken up by books though. There were a few new ones, thin and colourful as they printed them now to make up for their grisly contents, but most of them were heavy, old ones, with brown spines. They must have been what gave the place that pleasant organic smell. Erwin’s home was much too small for his belongings but that gave it a cosy feeling like the tunnels they had slept in at the front, deep underground with the pictures of their family hung up on the mud; their little dens, where they curled up together into piles of prickly grey wool and dusty bronze skin.

The kitchen stood out in that the number of books was much smaller than the number of pickles and oddities. There was a small oven with a kettle on it and a sink in one corner and a table with two modest chairs in the other and between them a window letting in some of the afternoon light. The table was drowning in sheets and scraps of paper, most of which seemed to be covered in densely squeezed tiny ink letters. After pushing a few of the papers to the side Erwin motioned Karl to sit down with a grand gesture, which carried his trademark irony that had got him in some trouble with his superior officers, who did not appreciate that kind of humour and had themselves found it much more humorous to subject him to excessive disciplinary measures until he had finally outranked or outlived them.

Erwin offered Karl black tea and served it in small glasses with golden rims. He thought they were made for schnapps. “Turkish custom,” Erwin explained. Karl felt rather silly when he held them, like tiny children’s cups in his crude hands, but they warmed his fingers being so thin.

“What brings you here, Karlo? Business?” Erwin said peering inquisitively at him over the brim of the glass raised to his lips.

The pet name did not fail its intended effect. Karl felt very warm and could not attribute it solely to the tea.

“You could say so.” It was often better to be vague with Erwin. He liked to play games.

“I did not take you for a travelling salesman, it does not suit you” Erwin said. He put down the glass and reached under the pile of papers, feeling for a pack of cigarettes, which he then pulled out, careful not to shake the foundation of the pile, which looked like it could crumble and scatter if any load-bearing paper was removed. “You still don’t smoke?” he said as he lit his cigarette. Karl found himself staring at his fingers when he did so. They were slender and just a little too long for Erwin’s small frame, now carefully manicured and much paler than he remembered, the lack of dirt and sunbathing clearly having some effect. He heard the question but forgot to answer it, being too preoccupied with studying the way Erwin rested his fingers on his lips when he sucked on the cigarette. Memories were attached to those fingers, intrusive thoughts, that did not belong in this place and time. Erwin smiled at him with that expression in his eyes that said he knew everything and cared for nothing. Karl became aware then how much he had missed him and oddly how intensely he missed him still. It felt like looking at a photo of a long lost friend.

“What are you selling then?” Erwin asked, ignoring the lack of reply.

“I’m not selling. I’m buying.”

“And what do you want to buy from me? I could offer you some books I’ve grown to despise, or maybe a war poem?” He pointed at the pile of paper.

Comrades, Karl thought, but “men” he said and regretted the clumsy choice of words instantly.

“Men, Karlo?” Erwin leaned back, looking very decadent when he blew a puff of smoke, one corner of his lips raised. He reminded Karl of the fabulous fox and if he was the fox, that made Karl the wolf and therefore always the butt of the joke. “For what kind of man do you take me?”, Erwin said with mock offence, “I do not have any men to offer you and I am personally not in such dire need as to sell my own body.”

It was his usual sting, but Karl was particularly sensitive to it now. He brought an end to the charade. “I’m looking to recruit old comrades for the Marinebrigade Ehrhardt,” he said dryly.

“Of course you are.” The wit and spark was gone from Erwin’s eyes. In the dim blue light of the kitchen they looked almost black, entirely flat and dull. “I didn’t think they’d make a civilian out of you so easily.”

It sounded hard in tone, but there was something flattering in it to, Karl thought – or hoped. “How do you do it?”, he asked, eyes lowered and fiddling with his empty glass.

“Do what?”

“Live like this.” He didn’t dare look up, scared to see anger or hurt in Erwin’s eyes.

“I write.”

“And that is enough, do you never want to…”, he looked for words that could describe it, encompass all of the things he yearned for, the thrill of the storm, giving yourself into God’s hands and the hands of your comrades, knowing they were always there for you, always someone there to catch him when he fell, always a pair hands pulling him up when it dragged him down into despair and that constant weight of them too on his shoulders that pushed him on to do better, to be there for them also; he looked for words that could describe his utter disgust with the civilian life, the faceless masses who never cared for anything but stuffing their bellies, who spit on his flag and spoke of Germany like an old whore. He could not find the words, so he just said “Do you never want to put the uniform on again?”

Erwin looked at him silently for a long time. “I can wear my uniform any time,” he then said pointing to the door, where Karl now realized, on the back of it hung Erwin’s old uniform, not the formal one, but the one he used to wear on the attack, with rough wool and leather patches on the knees and elbows. It looked small there, smothered by the shelves of food and spices. And then he saw the hole in it right where the medals should be, an open gaping wound. He understood what had happened. He had seen it done to other men, when they returned from the front after the armistice and these people, the ones, who had stayed at home because they were too young, too old or too cowardly and the women too, came and tore them away from each other, swallowed them into their mass and spit them out again, sullied and beaten and all their ranks and medals stolen.

It was painful to look at, impossible to imagine Erwin like that. He quickly turned away. Erwin had observed him coolly, like Karl imagined him looking at a specimen laid out for dissection, one of the creatures swimming in alcohol on his shelves, but there was a hint of sadness in his features too, carefully hidden away in the corners of his mouth and it was tearing at Karl’s heart even more so than the sight of his uniform. He grabbed Erwin’s hand, which lay flat on the table, covering it with his own. “I’m sorry that happened to you,” he said. The touch was gentle and intimate and it brought back more of those memories Karl has tugged away, knowing he was attributing entirely too much meaning to them.

He remembered all of those cold night in winter when they were on watch, sitting huddled together under a tiny wooden roof, sheltered from the falling snow, listening for intruders while watching the stars and occasionally the flight of the flares fired to dissuade nightly raids.

He remembered that one morning when Erwin’s hands were so cold and pink and Karl rubbed them between his hands, blew on them and kissed his fingers, from the knuckles to the shaking tips and Erwin just watched him, a curious look on his face.

He remembered that night shortly after when Erwin came crawling down into their little den, lay down and huddled up to him like he always did, so close he could feel the warmth of his breath on his back. He remembered how Erwin ran his hand over the front of his coat like he had never done before, up and down and under his coat, under his tunic, into his waistband and down the hot skin of his belly and Karl panicked and turned away, pretending to be turning in his sleep and Erwin quietly withdrew, never to touch him like that again.

Erwin pulled his hand out of the hold. “You needn’t be sorry,” he said, “it’s just scrap metal.”

Karl did not believe it was scrap metal at all, but it was not the right thing to say now. “You still have your name. The men remember you. They worship you. If you’d join us you could draw in hundreds. We are going to go to defend the borders. It could be like before.”

Erwin sighed. He flicked the stump of his cigarette in the sink and lit another one.

“It’s never going to be like before, Karlo, nothing will. The time of guns and glory is over, welcome to the world of dollars and paragraphs. I don’t want followers, I have nowhere to lead them unless you need to know the way to the soup kitchen.”

His words came like a slap in the face and they stung particularly because they rang true, mirroring something that Karl knew deep down, covered by naive hopes and longing. It was the final statement to end their conversation on that topic and politics altogether. They talked for a little while about the rent and the weather and how Karl’s family was doing back home, but Karl felt sick to his stomach and heart, crushed by a sudden feeling of irreparable loss, that stuck with him even after he left Erwin and would stay with him for many years, sometimes a deep blue feeling, cold in his bones, and sometimes the red hot rage of a rifle butt crushing a skull.

Belated

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October 29 he spent the “saddest birthday of my life.” Not only did Magda give him a “very frosty” birthday greeting that morning; Hitler was also very cool, sending him just a “short, frosty telegram.” He did, however, derive some comfort from Göring’s “extraordinarily kind and comradely telegram.” – Goebbels: A Biography by Peter Longerich

–

There was nothing particularly subtle about the invitation he’d left written between the lines of the telegram. Though in fact Goebbels might have felt fondly towards something more cryptic, a little puzzle for his keen wit, Göring lacked the patience to pen it. More importantly, he suspected Goebbels was just as likely to talk himself into believing there was nothing there at all as he was to ferret out a well hidden signal given the mood he’d been in lately. So Göring chooses words they will both understand.  

Even so, Goebbels arrives so late that Göring had been starting to wonder if he hadn’t made himself clear. Another time he would have dealt him a hard look and sent him trotting straight back through the door, but it is his birthday after all. It’s the end of the day and the light lies like a yellow thread on the floor – Goebbels’ coat is a sort of washed out yellow too, like the cheap smock of an overseer at a factory. No doubt Goebbels would have some barbed reply to such an observation, though perhaps not today. Göring would have said there wasn’t a more wan colour than the colour of that coat but looking at Goebbels’ skin right now that would be a lie.

He takes Goebbels outstretched hand and pats him on the shoulder.

“Happy Birthday,” he says.

Goebbels is attempting to smile politely. It’s a bad effort. The last time they were together he had been coaching Goebbels through a tortured dialogue with his Czech actress. He’d almost broken the cord off the receiver, striding back and forth and flapping his arms as he spoke. The civil distance Goebbels is trying to maintain now is already badly fractured. All it takes is for Göring to slide his fingers upward and touch his fingers to the bare skin of Goebbels’ neck and his throat is bobbing in a swallowed sob.

“It’s a fine joke to call it happy,” he chokes out, baleful, sleep starved eyes staring up at Göring.

An hour later and with a few glasses of brandy for good measure, Goebbels has allowed his tie to be slipped off and the collar of his stiff, starched shirt loosened a button or two. Up close Göring can see the fading blotches of eczema that spring up ‘like a rose garden’ when stress is bearing down on his little doctor.

“I have something for you,” he says.

He hands Goebbels the book all wrapped up in green tissue paper. Goebbels face screws down into suspicious uncertainty as he weighs the parcel in his hand.

“What is it?”

“You could open it and find out.”

Goebbels tears the tissue paper right down the middle and pulls it away in strips from the centre. Once he has it unwrapped he holds it up in front of him, his eyebrows tightening into a deeper frown before suddenly swooping up in disbelief.

“Is this…”

Goebbels flips the book open and reads his own name printed there, shakes his head and then closes the cover and stares.

“How did you do this?”

Göring simply smiles as Goebbels traces the thick embossed leather of the book; the golden script that spells out Michael, the jewels adorning the spine, the gilded edges of the pages. Göring had it made to something like the specifications of a medieval bible, though in his opinion the final effect of the book in Goebbels’ hands is  far finer than anything in his collection since naturally it had benefited from the keen input of his eye.

“I don’t understand,” Goebbels says, weakly, resting the heavy tome in his lap.

“Joseph!” Göring exclaims. “It’s an heirloom!”

“But-”

“Ah, don’t you see? Your words are going to be an important legacy to the world. You will never be forgotten for the vital part you played in the making of our triumphant future. In the future scholars will want to pour over all of your writings. It’s fitting they’re displayed properly.”

Goebbels is eyeing him as though he’s not sure if he’s joking or not.

“Have you read it?”

“I thought you might read it to me,” Göring replies.

“Hermann-”

“Like you read to me when I was…ill.”

Goebbels gaze fixes down hard at that book. His mouth draw tight in the most expressive of ways. Göring thinks it’s almost fantastical that Goebbels manages to lie as well as he does, when each little twitch of his jaw seems to give everything away in moments like these. He can’t hide behind a dull, vacuous mask of stupidity like some, when he is dissembling it must be so much more of an effort.  

“You can’t remember that,” Goebbels says. “I don’t think you even knew what year it was.”

“I thought I had been hallucinating, but Carin told me you’d been there at my bedside.”

There’s that twitch again. One could almost hear the clench of Goebbels’ teeth. Bringing it up has broken an unspoken rule between them but Goebbels has been breaking so many rules himself lately in his desperation over this Baarová crisis – in the way he has been sweating, frightened, feverish, grasping for comfort from him late into the night.

There’s sweat on his brow now. Göring swipes his thumb over it.

“Well, we needed you,” Goebbels says, holding himself so unnaturally statue-still it makes his effort to ignore the touch feel like a bad play. “The movement. I was merely keeping an eye on the situation.”

“Naturally.”

They sit in silence for a while. Goebbels’ is almost white knuckling the book by the time he speaks again, his mouth twisting like he’s chewing on it from the inside.

“I should be leaving,” he says.

If it wasn’t his birthday then perhaps Göring would let him.

“No,” he says.

Goebbels stares at him and his chest swells up with breath. It’s plain to see, skinny as he is. Göring has heard him complain enough, over and over, but now he truly does wonder – how does Magda, how do any of those girls look at him, to make that gaze so ravenous?  

Goebbels is a brittle pole of nerves, inviting as a jar full of hornets right up until the moment he presses their mouths together and then all at once he goes limp beneath the kiss, as if every defence he has has been overwhelmed. He moans in a low vibrato when their tongues touch.

Göring waxes and wanes between kissing Goebbels as hard as he likes and breaking that seal to smile against his mouth at the way Goebbels’ fingers twist into the fabric of his shirt, one hand clutching at his collar with the tenacity of a climber ascending the sheer face of a cliff. The more aggressively he drives his tongue into Goebbels’ mouth the more desperately Goebbels clings to him and squirms in his seat, every movement a display of his eagerness to burrow in close.

As soon as he stops, Goebbels’ head turns away fast to one side, hiding against his chest. Göring imagines he can feel the anxious throb of his temple resting there.

“You’re unbearable,” Goebbels mutters, after a moment.

Göring allows his fingers to drift, tickling over the short hairs at the back of Goebbels’ neck, prompting a tight shiver from the little body leaning into him.

“I suppose I won’t be missed at home,” Goebbels says, then snorts. “Well. Magda might want me there so I can witness how thoroughly I’m-”

Göring shushes him and pinches gently at the nape of his neck but Goebbels has cut himself off anyway, one hand cradling his book close and the other groping blindly toward the table for his glass. Göring snaps up his wrist before he can get to it and places it onto his knee without an inch of resistance. He picks up Goebbels’ glass himself and holds it up, there’s a slight smear of brandy resting in the bottom.

If he allows his little doctor to drink much more there’s a better than decent chance it will set him off to ranting about something tiresome enough to wear down Göring’s good nature even if it is his birthday. But Goebbels, like any exotic pet, responds well to certain sorts of handling, certain sorts of physical touch easily undo him completely. He wets two fingers in the brandy and pushes them into Goebbels’ mouth, rubs them over his tongue and his gums, like you would soothe a teething child.

Goebbels’ breath rushes over him, a little panting exhalation. His teeth graze the pads of his fingers but he doesn’t nip and when he pulls his fingers out Goebbels stays staring up at him, mouth parted and lips moist, only the furrow in his brow lending him a faint air of reproach.

It all seems so natural, although it has been a good while since they’ve been alone like this. But why is that? Goebbels’ fault of course, his stubborn refusal to ask for what he needs, his bristling indignant attitude, the trouble he insists on causing for Göring. If only he would behave and understand his place.

He does enjoy the feeling of Goebbels’ pulse jumping when he pulls him close, palm pressed to palm; that drowning way he tries to maintain his indifference while Göring can read every letter of the strain it puts on him.

Goebbels is still looking up at him, his eyes like pitch and senselessly intense. Göring dips his chin and kisses him again, slow and thorough. Goebbels sighs into the meeting of their mouths. His fingers twitch against the buttons of Göring’s shirt and Göring keeps kissing him until his breath has deserted him and he moans again and begins to try and clamber into his lap. Goebbels has always been so greedy for kisses but also so impatient for more, that he can’t ever wait to get his fill of them either. When Göring cups his hand against his groin he’s not surprised to find him hard as a youth, cock straining against his trousers.

They stumble their way into the bedroom, Göring leading, their chests pressed together and Goebbels’ hands threading urgently through Göring’s hair. He strips Goebbels’ down with the same efficiency he’d have field dressed a deer and then pushes him onto the bed where he lies still, all hard angles – bones jutting and the garish spike of his erection, yet soft and passive too, wrists laying on the pillow beside his head, his knees akimbo.

“Oh, oh,” moans Goebbels.

And bites his lip as Göring kneels between his legs and pours the oil generously, half onto his own fingers and half down below Goebbels’ balls and all of it dripping down to stain the sheets between them. Göring presses just one finger inside him and the way it makes Goebbels arch off the mattress is a beautiful thing. He slides that finger in and out, just one, savouring the hot, tight clench of Goebbels’ body and the way it makes Goebbels rock his hips and clutch at the sheets.

He pushes Goebbels’ knees further apart so he can watch as he adds a second finger and forces them apart. Inside, Goebbels is so pink and silken, Göring pours more oil down over his hand and into the little gape he’s made and it shines back at him, begging to be fucked. Goebbels’ body pleading the way he won’t force Goebbels’ mouth to as he lies there, worrying his lower lip, his rib cage flexing so violently he looks as though he’s on the verge of hyperventilating.

Three fingers now and he holds his fingers there, spreading and then contracting, enjoying the way Goebbels’ body fights and then slowly slackens around him and how the fight diminishes and diminishes until his hole is loose around him and Goebbels looks half drunk on it, squirming back against him, lost in his own pleasure.

The room seems to echo with the sound of their own humid breath. Göring has four fingers buried in Goebbels as he strokes the scalding bar of his erection but Goebbels is fidgeting his hips, still begging.

Do you want my cock? Göring thinks, with a smile, but it would an unkindness to ask so he simply pushes the fat head of his erection up against Goebbels’ hole and watches the way Goebbels takes one gasping breath of air and then lies still, lax and making an utter accommodation of his body while trying to bury his face into the pillows.

He pushes gradually inside to the sound of Goebbels’ broken gasps. Goebbels wraps his legs around him as best he can, clutches at him, tosses his head back and makes the sort of guttural, animal sounds that can only mean more and harder and faster and, seeing as it’s his birthday, Göring does his best to oblige.

Triumvirate

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What a lovely thing Jochen can be when he had enough alcohol to melt his uneasy shell. Very pleasingly he lies in Kurt’s arms and looks like he hardly knows up from down, let alone left from right, but Kurt thinks Jochen does recognize him, the way he presses himself against Kurt’s chest and never breaks eye contact, clings to Kurt’s eyes like it’s a lifebelt thrown to a drowning man and in a way he is a drowning man, dizzy with wine, nearing unconsciousness and Kurt will save him from the indignity of being seen like that and put him in a nice warm bed to enjoy his amiable conduct.  

Jochen is easy enough to carry, there being more muscle on Kurt’s arms than fat on Jochen’s entire body, except there is also that flight of stairs leading up to the bedroom and suddenly Kurt is reminded that he also had a drink, or two or possibly ten. He turns to whistle for Max and is surprised to find him just a few feet behind them. He stands in the dimly lit hallway, still looking very neat – the only sign of intoxication is the hair clinging to his forehead with sweat,  glowing cigarette in the corner of his mouth, his hands in his pockets and an expression that suggests that he watched the two of them for a while and found the scene very amusing.

“I’ll need your help with this,” Kurt says nodding towards Jochen, who – perfectly timed – raises a little from their embrace, just enough to rest his forehead on Kurt’s, a gesture so innocent Kurt can barely resist the urge to pat him on the head or kiss him on the nose. He would certainly have done so if it wasn’t for Max, who makes his dislike for Jochen known when he grins, holding his cigarette between his plenty white teeth, then spits the cigarette out, stomps it out under his boot and says: “This is Obersturmbannführer Peiper, one of Himmler’s finest men.” His tone makes it very evident that he personally prefers to refer to Jochen as an object or treat him like one too, spit him out and stomp on him like his cigarette.

He does help Kurt of course, he would never not help him carry a comrade – even this one. In that moment, with both their arms slung around Jochen – charmingly helpless, conveniently clueless Jochen – Kurt thinks now would be the perfect time for him to help them both get over their differences. How much more considerate that would be for his nerves if they got along and also how much fun it would be to introduce them to each other.

Once they have put Jochen on the bed – he lays there just like they dropped him – they take off his heavy mountaineering shoes, so he doesn‘t get dirt all over that lovely bed and while they are at it they take off the belt around his waist that must be way too tight for comfort. Once in the habit his tunic follows and his trousers and eventually they have him stripped entirely. He watches them, or watches as much as as he can focus on in his current state of mind. Once looking at Max’s heavy hand that’s keeping him down and once at Kurt’s fingers lightly dragged along his hips, always seeking the eyes flickering across his body and occasionally finding lips raised at the corner and teeth bared.

They let go of Jochen who curls up like a cat. His body is entirely too small and lithe for his own good. He is as white as the sheets they have bedded him on. Even the hair of his body is light, except for the trail of hair on his stomach which, like an exclamation point, is so much harder to avoid for it. To the men’s excuse it is an inviting body and it‘s not exactly like Jochen really tried to stop them and no one could drinks so much and not expect to be taken advantage of, Kurt thinks and is sure Max would agree if he asked him – not like he needs to. That mean grin of his says it all.

When they sit down on the bed next to Jochen he sprawls out and places his head on Kurt’s lap. He looks like he could fall asleep any moment if they just let him and Kurt almost wants to if it wasn’t for Max’s scoffing laugh which is no longer an annoying reminder of this senseless rivalry but a portent of all the fun they could have tonight. He pulls Max closer into a tight embrace. “I wish you two would just get along,” he says with a mockingly scolding tone, “he can be very nice if you‘re nice to him. Watch and learn.”

Kurt strokes Jochen over the neatly parted hair, along the neck and down to the tailbone. It‘s a pleasant feeling, dragging his thumb along the small humps of his spine and the soft hair at the base of it. He does not like that, when Kurt touches him there. He flinches and moans disapprovingly, but Max is attentive and eager to help if it means bothering Jochen. The firm hold of his hand on the back of Jochen’s neck prevents any hasty escape attempts and Kurt proceeds to stroke him like a delicate pet. And what a good and pretty pet he is. Soon he just shivers and blushes and then the red crawls down his neck, across his chest and stomach and into his cock. Kurt follows the trail of blood. He strokes Jochen’s neck a little rougher than necessary, so he can really feel it, which prompts another struggle, but that is soon forgotten when Kurt traces the line of his sternum – which is rather too visible for his taste – strokes the nice soft fur of Jochen’s belly and brushes lightly past his the swelling cock. It twitches for Kurt’s touch and when Jochen moans this time it’s different. It’s low and needy.

It’s such a nice sound, all the pleasure and desperation in it. Would it be more entertaining to keep petting Jochen and coax out more of those lovely moans or to torture him with neglect and see how much he would beg for it then? He has a lovely cock though, the palest white with such a pronounced ridge at the bottom, like he was ripped in two and sewn together again and that is a nice image to linger over – the little body with its guts spilling out. It’s very easy to imagine him panting not with pleasure but with pain.

Kurt runs the flat of his thumb along the ridge, up and down, and Jochen moans again and tries to turn over, but he can’t with Max’s hand still so firmly on his neck. He whimpers and it doesn’t sound much different from the moaning, still begging to be touched just the same. Max chuckles. Jochen presses his face into Kurt’s crotch like a boy hiding his face in daddy’s trousers. The mental image is like a punch in the guts, a drop of poison in Kurt’s veins which once pumped into his dick makes it incredibly hard to think about anything but sheathing himself inside of Jochen right now. Fortunately the innocence of the movement is very unlike the indecent sounds coming from Jochen’s throat, muffled now by the wool of Kurt’s pants, a pleasant, soothing hum tickling Kurt’s dick every time he strokes Jochen’s cock.

With each touch Jochen melts a little more. Eventually he is just a bundle of weak limbs, hot and cold all over; cold in his tickling fingertips that fumble across the sheets for someone to hold onto, and wet and hot in Kurt’s hand, leaking precum like he’s never been touched before, and also so hot in Kurt’s lap, where Jochen’s breath is seeping through the fabric, warm and moist, and eventually Kurt realizes it’s not just his breath, Jochen is drooling on him.

He pulls Jochen up by the hair, because he just has to see – and what a good sight it is. His mouth hangs half-open, just enough that they can see the wet tongue curled against his teeth. The tint of red wine rests on it and in the cracks of his lips. Jochen looks at them almost expectantly. He is panting and every time he blinks his eyes stay closed just a little too long, but there is still a dismissive edge, an almost bored expression in his eyes. He is practically begging to have his face stuffed.

It’s not a hard task at all. First Kurt makes him suck on his fingers. When he taps Jochen’s lips with a sharp “open up, boy”, he instantly complies and Kurt can slide two fingers in his mouth up to the knuckles without causing much of a reaction from Jochen except for a low hum that itches under his fingernails when he’s scraping the back of his throat. Kurt makes a show of it, sliding his fingers in and out for Max to see and dear Max is suddenly tense and quiet, and holds his breath watching Jochen suck on Kurt’s hand.

It’s bad having an audience, in particular one so spiteful. Naturally Kurt is looking for a reaction and he gets the best from his audience when he makes Jochen squirm. It’s not like Kurt wants to hurt him, he is behaving so well, not biting once. Fucking his mouth a bit like that does wipe the condescending look off Jochen’s face and he looks a little sad, but it’s just so much fun when Kurt rams his fingers in the back of Jochen’s throat and Jochen winces, his cock bounces adorably every time he gags, and Max bares his teeth and his eyes radiate lust.

“Do you want to fuck his face?” Kurt asks. It’s not a necessary question, he knows the answer, Kurt just likes the sound of it.

“Yes.” Max sounds winded.

“Do you promise not to break him?” The implication of destruction is another one of those drops of poison that make it hard to think.

Max says “Yes, of course” but it sounds like a promise to do the opposite.

The height of the bed is very practical, Kurt can turn Jochen so his head hangs off the side of it just right for Max to shove his dick down his throat. Although Jochen looks as weak as a kitten, not moving a limb, Kurt straddles him and holds down his arms in case he does change his mind about being a good boy. But Jochen is well-behaved. When Max unbuttons and pulls out his cock he seems practically curious. He doesn’t flinch or complain when Max grabs him and rubs his cock across his face with mischievous glee. Max rests the plump head on his lips. Kurt doesn’t have to tell him to open up. He smiles weakly, opens wide and stretches out his tongue.

Max thrusts into his mouth with one sharp jab. Much fatter than Kurt’s fingers, his cock fills Jochen’s mouth completely and it’s still not all the way in. Max groans and squeezes his dick deeper down Jochen’s throat. Kurt can see it from the outside. Jochen’s neck all stretched out, perfect to run a blade across it, every muscle tense under the skin, looking like they could snap any moment, and then the outline of Max’s cock bulging, inch by inch until he’s sheathed in him to the hilt. Jochen makes a gurgling sound, his throat trembles, his body tenses up. He can’t get away. Kurt counts the seconds while Max remains like that, not moving, just watching the tremors that his dick is sending down Jochen’s body, all the way down to his cock which still, despite all the torture, is hard and flat on his stomach. Max looks very proud of his length and girth. He waits an awfully long time until he pulls out again. The heavy weight slides out of Jochen’s mouth, dragging with it a thick line of spit that hangs between the blunt tip and Jochen’s stretched out tongue. Jochen coughs and sucks in air. Max smiles dimly at Kurt.

“Does he realize I’m fucking him?” he asks.

Kurt looks down at Jochen who is staring at the dick in front of his face with an expression he’d call anxiety if Jochen wasn’t also seemingly stretching his neck to get it back into his mouth.

“I think by this point even he realizes he’s being fucked.”

“No,” Max says frowning, „I mean, does he know I’m fucking him.”

Kurt shrugs. For all he knows Jochen might think the Russians are ploughing him. “I guess you will have to tell him that.”

The cruelty of the suggestion only really becomes apparent to Kurt when Max does it. When he shoves his dick back into Jochen’s mouth, looks down at him with all his contempt and tells him that he will now be fucked by Max Wünsche. That Max Wünsche is going to fuck Jochen Peiper’s face. That Max Wünsche is going to make Jochen Peiper his bitch.

He follows up on his words, ruthlessly thrusting into Jochen’s mouth. Now Jochen struggles terribly, flailing as much as his weakened state allows. Kurt puts all of his weight on him and tries to calm him down by snuggling up against him. He rests his head on Jochen’s chest, he tells him how nicely he’s doing and that it will be over soon if he’s a good boy for Kurt and Jochen wants to be good. His body slackens. He manages to relax his throat too, when the jabs go deep it doesn’t hurt as much but Kurt can still hear him whine, muffled and broken by the gagging. He feels a little sorry. Jochen deserves some gratification and it’s about time Kurt gets himself off too.

Kurt unbuttons himself and wraps one hand around their cocks. It’s a cute pair, perfectly mirroring their builds, stout and slender. Jochen is still wet with precum. Kurt adds to it when he slides his hand up and down their shafts. It doesn’t stop the whining but Jochen moans and hums occasionally and that gets Max close to coming very quickly. Kurt can see it, the way his thrusts get fast and shallow. He matches the rhythm with his own hand.

Max’s grip on Jochen becomes so hard Kurt can see every vein on his hands. He comes while spitting profanities and places his spunk deep down Jochen’s throat. Jochen retches, swallows and retches again from the taste of it. Kurt sends him over the edge with a few more strokes. His orgasm is oddly quiet but pretty nonetheless. He looks like he is breathing his last breath when he spatters his stomach with come. Another poisonous image. It runs out in his head into all the images, the small details, the body parts, flesh stretched and skin ripping, muscles dancing, blood pumping and sweat running and the sound of Jochen’s greedy moans mixed with his pained whining and then none of the images are in his head anymore, just a white flash. Jochen receives it half-asleep but smiling.

While the friendly introduction didn’t go quite the way Kurt had intended they do fall asleep together sharing one blanket and Max doesn’t hesitate to snuggle up to Jochen. Evidently being Max’s bitch, as he put it, did also entail some benefits.

Demimonde

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Goebbels’ attitude is the inspiration for an…interesting session of dress up with Emmy and Hermann.

The pillowy softness of Emmy’s arms envelop him and Goebbels suppresses a shudder. She smells like powdered violets. Her skin reminds him of the petals lying around the base of a vase. Floral patterns cover the chairs, the bedspread; the room is full of flowers. Emmy’s cosmetics are strewn across the floor before them in little pots and palettes of colour. When she leans forward to pluck out one, her bosom presses against his back and this time the shiver does spill out of him; though Emmy hardly seems to notice, humming insipidly in his ear.

He despises her and he supposes Hermann knows. He would’ve begged for anything but this if she hadn’t already been there when Hermann led him into the room, one strong hand on the nape of his neck, afait accompli.

“Oh, he’s cold, Hermann,” Emmy says, tugging him gently back against her.

“He’s fine,” Hermann says from the large, high backed chair he’s watching them both from.

But he is cold. They’ve dressed him up in one of Emmy’s slips, a white silk number that would be hanging entirely shapelessly off his shoulders if Emmy hadn’t wound a wide ivory ribbon around his waist and tied it off in a bow. Just like a little girl dressing up in her mother’s clothes, Emmy had smiled, with a sickening lack of malice. She just wants to please Hermann, he thinks.

“Do you want to talk about your proposal to put an end to the production of cosmetics, Joseph?” Hermann asks.

Emmy gives a theatrical gasp and pinches him hard on the inside of his thigh. “Now he can’t have been talking seriously about that! It must have been one of his little jokes.”

She turns him round so that he’s facing her. He looks at the floor, at her dimpled knees, feeling queasy with embarrassment. When he moves it’s impossible to forget what he’s wearing – the silk slithers over his skin, the lace at the neckline prickles softly. Emmy takes his chin in her hand and tilts his face up, she isn’t rough but there’s no hesitation in her touch. He wonders how Hermann prepared her for this, what exactly she knows, as she moves his head one way and then the other.

“He’s rather dark,” she says, doubtfully. He watches her other hand wander around through her supplies. “Isn’t that funny? What did you tell me he’d been saying about me, Hermann…”

“Hassell heard him casting aspersions on your Aryan pedigree,” Hermann says.

“That’s not-” Goebbels starts to speak, but Hermann cuts him off.

“Emmy,” he instructs.

Emmy clucks her tongue and gives him a short, hard slap, still holding his chin in place. “Hermann told you not to speak without permission, dear.”

Tears spring up in the corners of his eyes. It’s just the pain. The inside of his head feels frothy and both his cheeks are burning. It comes in waves, an ache of heat through his skin, the throb at his temples seems on the cusp of migraine – to be so exposed in front of a woman like Emmy Sonnemann! There’s something motherly about her that makes his stomach churn, since she’s a whore too isn’t she? Looking at her calls to his imagination the  smell of milk mixed up with the odour of seedy backstage dalliances, stage make-up running with sweat.  

How could Hermann have chosen this one after knowing such a true flower of womanhood in Carin? How could you even compare them? When he’d made his barbed comments about the whole disgraceful affair in front of the Führer he’d expected it would force Hermann to put an end to things, not pull a marriage proposal out of his pocket. He’d wanted to curl up sick in bed for a week at the news.

The pads of Emmy’s fingers roam across his face. She’s humming again, not tunelessly. The notes remind him of a lullaby, crawling under his skin along with her touch. She picks up a brush and starts to lay powder onto his face and he closes his eyes, gripping the thumb of one hand in his other fist and fighting hard not to turn away.

“Don’t open your eyes,” Emmy says.

The brush leaves his face and then there’s a gentle clattering sound and a firmer, more precise touch sweeping over his eyelids. Under the surface his pupils follow the movement, uneasy. This continues for a while in stops and starts, but even after the brush has moved on to fluttering its way across the top of his cheeks he doesn’t open his eyes until he hears the squeak of upholstery as Hermann rises from his chair.

“What do you think for his mouth, Hermann?”

“Lift your skirt up, Joseph.”

He looks up, pleading, but there’s no sign of clemency in Hermann’s expression and so he pulls the hem of the shift up past his waist, flinching at the soft sound of Emmy’s laughter.

“There’s the perfect pink for him,” Hermann says.

“Ah you mean this?” Emmy takes his cock in her hand and pulls the foreskin back. Almost at once he feels himself begin to stiffen and she gives a little laugh again. “Tsch, naughty boy.”

They make him keep the shift raised as Emmy brings one colour after another up to compare to the head of his cock which is soon standing shamefully, desperately erect. He could drop the hem now and it would make no difference but Hermann makes a warning grumble of displeasure when he looks as though he’s about to do just that and so he meekly kneels there, helping to display himself properly for their scrutiny.

It shouldn’t be worse than the way they’re both looking at him, or the feeling of the first sticky beads of arousal spilling over his cock, wet and slow, but when Emmy starts to apply the lipstick to his mouth a creaking whimper of distress breaks in his throat for the first time all evening.

“No, wait, I-”

His hand strikes out, digging his fingers into the warm, padded flesh of her wrist as he recoils from the lipstick.

“Joseph.” Hermann enunciates his name in sing-song warning, jovial and deadly. He takes a step toward the pair of them and Emmy twists and lays her free hand on his knee.

“Oh, Hermann, don’t hit him! His face!”

“Take your hand off her, Joseph.”

His grip slackens, then all at once his brief rebellion crumbles inward and his hand drops backs to his side. Hermann is looking him over, not at him, his eyes an opaque blue taking in and giving nothing back. He turns to Emmy. She is looking at him. She’s smiling. It’s no different than the smile she’s worn all evening, the one he had dismissed as without malice. Who ever heard of bovine cruelty after all and that’s what she is isn’t she? Just a fortunate cow, some mediocre State theatre actress he wouldn’t look at twice in a casting call. Just a prop in this, Hermann’s game.

The comfort of that idea flees him now his eyes are open to the personal satisfaction in her expression. The certainty of it hits him like a heap of stones piled upon his chest, his breath sags out of him. He wants desperately to scrub his face clean, he’s horribly sure that she can tell and his skin prickles hot and pink underneath her creams and powders.

“How Parisian,” Hermann says, hands on his hips, bending at the waist to peer at him more closely.

Emmy’s mouth forms a theatrical O shape. “Not at all! Now really, darling, you should know that would be quite a different style.”

Hermann hums.

“You’re only thinking it because he’s such a waif I’m sure,” she says.

“A very modern girl.” Hermann nods.

Emmy runs the stick of lip-colour round and round his mouth, over the unhappy outline of his scowl and onto his skin, painting a greasy, unnatural shape that makes his lips tingle with a strange swollen feeling like a bee-sting. She sets it aside and smooths her palm over his hairline, stroking all the way down to the nape of his neck, a purposeful flourish showing off the shape of his skull to Hermann.

“I think he could be an Egyptian princess,” she says.

Hermann chuckles and offers his hand down to Goebbels, who hesitates for a moment and then allows himself to be drawn up unsteadily onto his feet. He feels pathetically grateful that he hasn’t been forced into the shoes Hermann wanted to see him in. They did try but of course only one would fit properly and he had stood there, trapped and motionless apart from a trembling effort to keep his balance with his weight all on one foot, like some ballerina figure from a broken music box, before Hermann had given the idea up for no good and let him slip them off.

“Do you want to see yourself, Joseph?” Hermann asks, though of course it is not a question.

“Josephine!” Emmy exclaims with a clap of her hands.

Goebbels winces. The name feels like a contamination and he finds he’s squeezing Hermann’s hand without meaning to. Emmy rises, brush back in hand, the bristles heavy with red powder. She slips her fingernail under one strap of the shift and pushes it down his shoulder. The sloped, shaped crescents of her nails seem more disquietingly female than the plunging valley between her breasts, it bothers him in a way he doesn’t understand. As he shivers Hermann takes his wrists and holds him still and Emmy pushes down the other strap so the shift falls to the ribbon round his waist.

“You really shouldn’t impugn on the character of others when your own reputation proceeds you so well,” Hermann murmurs.

Goebbels leans back against the wall of him, toward his voice and away from Emmy, his heart beating on his eardrums from the inside. She brings the brush to his nipple and feathers on the powder.

“The most notorious whore in the Reich should look the part,” she explains as he stares at her.

He’s strung up in cold sweat. His nipple tightens under the achingly soft back-and-forth caress of the brush and it sends a clammy ripple of pleasure through his body. She stipples the bristles against him and he gasps, a hundred precise little pricks that shoot straight to the root of his cock.

Emmy looks him up and down and shakes her head. “Poor Magda.”

“Don’t be unkind,” Hermann says with a smile in his voice.

“Couldn’t you put a leash on it?” Her mouth is twisted to one side, gaze resting pointedly on the way Goebbels’ cock is tenting his ersatz dress.  

Hermann spins him round and grabs him roughly through the shift, his fist squeezing a tight, unmoving band of pressure around the pulse of his dick.

“Is that what you need, Joseph?” he asks.

He flexes his fingers and Goebbels rises up on his toes for half a stuttered breath, thrusting up into the wet slide of silk and circle of Hermann’s grip, then rocks back hard onto his heels with a groan.

“Hermann-”

“He should have something rationed that actually matters to him for once,” Emmy says.

Outrage flashes through him as hot as shame. He whips his head round to snap something, his face screwed up taut and blackly hateful. He can’t bite his tongue on this account. She’s fussing with one of her vases of flowers, one of those things that matter to her, he thinks with acidic contempt and then Hermann jerks him forward so fast and effortless the whole weight of the room seems to shift for a moment like the swaying of a boat. His knees knock against the stiff seat-cushion as Hermann sits down, pulling him between his legs and forcing him to bend over with an iron hand clamped down on the scruff of his neck. He braces himself against the back of the chair, Hermann’s feet kick his ankles apart, it all happens before he can even open his mouth.

Emmy’s fingertips tickle over the shell of his ear. He flinches but Hermann holds him in place as she arranges the cool weight of one of her flowers there; the petals make him think of flesh, thick with capillaries – heavy. He’s not sure what sort of flower, he doesn’t think he could name a single bloom in the room at the moment. She pins it in his hair with what feels like a dull metal needle, digging into his scalp.

It’s a small kind of pain, the scrape of it but she adjusts it slowly over and over, plucking at the roots of his hair; so close to the vein throbbing at his temple. Hermann lifts the hem of the shift over his waist again and inches his feet further apart. His arms are shaking minutely from the tension of holding himself up. He would like to rest his head against Hermann’s shoulder but what about his make up? Would he leave smears on Hermann’s shirt? Would Emmy have to start all over on his face? Those are reasons but really he just can’t stand that she would see him do it.

“There’s really nothing of him is there?” Emmy says, digging her nails into the meagre crease between the top of his thigh and his buttocks. She gives a little laugh that sounds as if it’s muffled behind her palm. “Well, plain girls have to make the best of what they have.”  

Her nails skate up the inside of his thighs. It’s almost hesitant at first, nothing like the way Hermann touches him but then she’s spreading the skin between his cheeks further apart and the bristles of the brush are dusting over his asshole and then, then he feels the hard thin end of it tapping against him for a moment before she jabs it hard inside him. He yelps in pain and Emmy twists the dry little stick in further, stabbing at the worst sort of angle, rasping at his tender flesh.

“Don’t fuss, I know what you let my husband do to you,” she says as she pokes it from side to side.

As soon as she stops Hermann reaches between his legs and strokes the pinkish puff of bristles.

“I think I’ve caught a bunny rabbit,” he says and tugs Goebbels down onto his lap.

Emmy titters at that. Or maybe she’s just amused by the way he desperately attempts to wiggle forward onto the tops of his thighs so the handle of the brush isn’t jostled further up inside him as Hermann wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him snug in against his bulk.

“I think I shall retire now,” she says, once she’s overcome her mirth.

There’s a certain curl in her lip, maybe half pitying, maybe half disgusted. She’s staring at him, head cocked a little to the side. Goebbels shuts his eyes but the image doesn’t disappear. If he tries hard he might be able to re-write the degenerate truth of it later but right now he understands. With him at least there’s no need for her to give the same admonishments that Magda gave to Lída.

The carpet is so plush he can’t hear the sound of her bare footsteps departing. He imagines he feels her presence draw away and something clenched has almost unwound within his chest when a pair of soft lips press against his forehead.  

“How nice there are girls like you to do the sort of dirty things decent women wouldn’t dream of,” Emmy says, sotto voce.

The imprint of her lips stings against his brow. Moist, warm-breathed, upturned in a smile. Making a mockery out of his pretensions to the world.

She passes her hand mirror to Hermann and swans away and Goebbels watches the sway in her hips with a chill, shrivelled prickling of his skin, a tightness that wraps around him like gauze, tight and shrinking everywhere apart from the still swollen weight of his cock that proves he’s just as filthy as she said.

“Joseph,” Hermann says.

He grits his teeth and watches her all the way to the door, then waits for the sound of the latch to click shut behind her.

“Josephine.” Hermann snorts a breath against his skin. “My little empress hmm?”

It’s enough to make Goebbels’ nose wrinkle and turn toward the broad, lazy smile dimpling Hermann’s cheeks.

“Look at yourself,” Hermann says.

The sound of that voice pulls stitches through him. He stares at Hermann’s fingers wrapped around the tortoiseshell handle of the mirror. Neat fingernails. The fingers of Hermann’s other hand are stroking up and down his leg, following the sweat damp furrow between his thigh and his groin.

“Look,” Hermann orders.

So he does.

He tries to stare through the reflection in the mirror, but the image focuses itself in painful clarity. For a moment he can’t breathe. He wilts and stares and the crushing, wrenching pain of it leaves him too weak to inhale. Or not that, he’d rather deflate to nothing here, melt away, than take another breath and feel the shattered misery of the thing in the mirror inhaling too.

Faintly, he wonders why he should be surprised at how grotesque he looks and all at once he’s sure he’s going to cry. He watches the corners of his mouth twitch and a wet, burning pressure swells in his chest.

“Please,” he says, a whine that begins to break up as he throttles back the sobs in his throat.  

“Shhh, don’t cry,” Hermann says and tips his chin up to help the tears from spilling over.

His vision blurs to a comforting haze of colours.

“Don’t you think you’re beautiful?” Hermann asks.

He’s sure he’s a parody of anything but. An appalling ambiguity of sex scrawled across his face, clownish and obscene. Had some small part of him thought he might be lovely? In this perverse game he’d never asked for? Where there would be no guilt in looking beautiful? The painting on his face just seems to highlight every half formed angle, too hard to be pretty, too soft to be heroic. He turns his face into Hermann’s chest and lets his tears spill over.

“But, Joseph, you’re perfect,” Hermann says.

It’s mockery, Goebbels is almost certain, but what does it matter. He clings on tighter all the same.

Nachspielzeit

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(an addendum to this)


It’s like he expelled a part of his own soul. It always is like that after the orgasm. First comes the rush and the height and then he opens his eyes and he’s standing at the edge of an abyss and he sees himself all flesh and urges, a subhuman beast slumped over its prey. It’s worse this time. Wünsche’s fingers dig into Peiper’s hips as he drives that wretched feeling out of his body one deliberate breath at a time. It’s difficult. Peiper is lean and bony, distinctly male, but he does feel wet and hot around his cock and he looks broken and it’s good to think about it that way, in terms of victory and defeat rather than want. He did not want Peiper, never did, never wanted to fuck him, just hurt him and this was simply the appropriate hurt for someone like him.

When Wünsche moves to pull out of the lifeless body under him it sounds so filthy and wet that he stops and a smile splits his face. He just cannot resist driving his dick into Peiper’s wrecked hole again. Peiper twitches from bottom to top. His eyelids flutter and he bites his thin lips so hard they turn white but he’s not lifeless anymore and that’s just extra encouragement. With quick, hard strokes Wünsche fucks the come out of him, thick and pink with blood. “You fucking filthy thing,” he says, not because he means it, but because he wants Peiper to hear it and just then Peiper whimpers in the back of his throat and it sounds so good Wünsche wants to fuck him again, turn him over and force Peiper to look him in the eyes, force him to say what it feels like to have a cock up his ass like the little bitch he was.

But no, not this time. It’s not want, it’s definitely not. Wünsche pulls the beast away from Peiper and stumbles out of the room. He doesn’t look back at the small, curled up thing. It’s easier that way.

Fire & Wünsche [x2]

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The wind blows in from the North East – tacky with fumes, thick with smoke. The stink of raw fuel burns the hairs in Sepp’s nostrils. The grass in front of the culvert he and Max are lying side by side in is all ablaze, fed by the leaking tank of their own car scuppered on the bridge overhead. They’ve mucked about like pigs to cover themselves from head to toe in mud, a little help against the heat. It’s dried to a hard dark mask on Max’s face, only his eyes are bright and wide and flashing from the flames. They’re trapped, fifty meters in front of the enemy with the din of artillery and heavy machine gun fire thundering above, cut off from their division with nothing to do but wait and pray. Max is shaking badly, his whole body rattling against Sepp’s shoulder and when Sepp says his name and Max’s eyes roll toward him, glassy and unfocused like staring at the flames has struck him blind, what else can he do put his hand on the scruff of his boy’s neck and squeeze and pull the lad into a rough embrace. Max turns into him readily, his breath panting in a strung-out anti-rhythm against the mud caked crease of Sepp’s neck and Sepp tightens his arms, holding him close as he shivers. Papa has you, Maxi.

–

Meyer watches as Wünsche plants his heel square on the Russian’s skull and pushes his face down into the mud. There’s an unimportant sound of brackish water popping up a scant few bubbles, a fatty sort of gurgle like phlegm caught in the throat. Wünsche’s smile is loosely drawn upon his face. Behind him there’s a perfect shepherd’s sunset in the flickering backdrop of the rest of the town going up in flames but they only have eyes for each other and certainly neither of them look down to see the dying man’s hand as it flails and twitches knocking out a last tap tap tap against Wünsche’s boot. Meyer smiles back at Wünsche; he’d have to step on the corpse to get any closer, to put his nose an inch, a fraction away from Wünsche’s skin. All he can smell now is greasy barbecue and char but under Wünsche’s uniform he knows it’s ripe and damp and filthy again from too many days restless campaign. Fresh sweat is glistening on Wünsche’s brow and above his mouth and Meyer thinks of the beads now rolling down his back and into the private creases of his body. He touches his tongue to his top lip and Wunsche’s gaze, with his pupils blown and blazing-black, follows it as he licks a wet stripe across his mouth. “You got here just in time,” Meyer says and Wünsche blinks at him slow and lazy as a cat, then rips his smile into a grin. “Yes, sir.”