Röhm’s favourite
pub is an aggressive punch to Hermann’s senses and perhaps it’s that,
the dark buzz murmuring through the bittersweet air, black tables
sticky with a varnish of stale beer and shoulder jostling against
shoulder, that his nose is attuned at once to the story Ernst is
telling him, while Goebbels is at the bar grinning from ear to ear
and patting the entourage of SA lads surrounding him on the back –(a story that
unwinds as thus: Goebbels ambling up, all pensive frown and
exaggerated concern, informing Röhm very solemnly he has it on good
authority that Röhrbein is a homosexual – a
fact he seems eager to make clear is complete news to him and well
what would he know
about that sort of thing anyway)–
Röhm’s knowing smirk as he watches Goebbels too and Hermann’s
nostrils flare as a dozen scraps of whispered rumour settle into
place and the view of little Joseph beaming there, such obvious
prey amongst a pack of predators, ignites a fire in his belly; easily
sparked from the cocktail of drugs coursing through his system and
months of stoking glances at a dainty neck and elegant wrists.Naturally
Goebbels tries to protest when he corners him in the bathroom,
latching the door behind him (though a significant glance at a good,
loyal boy standing outside is enough to guarantee no disturbances)
but Hermann has no doubt now to what degree the whore has been
spreading his legs and tells Goebbels just as much as he throws him
down on the tiled floor and fights him out of his trousers; pushes
into him, deep, in a single brutal stroke, leans down to use his
mouth on the stretch of neck being offered up to him, thrusting as he
does it, working up to a swift rhythm, fucking him with such bruising
force that Goebbels’ slight body slides a hand’s span on the tiled
floor each time he slams into him.Snapped
buttons from Goebbels’ collar rattle on the floor, Hermann rips his
shirt to the side to bite again, harder, one animal holding another
in place
– Goebbels’ spare sounds of pain echo off the walls but the way his
body arches seems to be making a present of itself and Hermann’s
hunger to press his teeth into his flesh is more immediate even than
the need to keep squeezing his cock into the exquisitely tight clench
of his arse, so he stays there buried to the hilt, savaging him while
Goebbels’ hands clutch at his lapels and he trembles and keens like
something brought down in the forest.
Tag: ernst röhm
Gerhard Roßbach perverting Ernst Röhm — or basically anybody :)
Röhm watches as Roßbach puts his hand on the soldier’s neck and the lad suddenly becomes slack, his features soft, the eyes lowered, and to Röhm’s surprise (a curious tingling sensation under the skin, spreading warmth, arousal) he twists his lean body into the demeaning hold, stretching like a cat begging to be pet.
Roßbach looks at Röhm, looks through his uniform, has him completely figured out, and he’s smiling (tipsy but not unrestrained). ‘I’ll let you in on a little secret,’ his dark eyes, twinkling under bushy eyebrows, seem to say. He applies just a little more pressure and the soldier who should be strong enough to withstand, the brat who wouldn’t take this from any other comrade without socking them square them in the face, that wonderful proud creature just drops to his knees without a word.
“They like it rough,” Roßbach says but he’s not looking at that treat at his feet, he’s only looking at Röhm, studying, and he grabs the lad by the hair and pulls his head back. It’s painful, you can see it on his face. The obedient little soldier’s eyes roll up to look at his commander in a poor imitation of one begging for his life, the expression likely snatched from the faces of the men that he had slaughtered himself. His mouth drops open, his wet tongue darts out, he licks his lips. He knows that he will not be spared and he loves it.
Himmler x Röhm
Himmler loses his glasses somewhere in the process of being pushed to the ground face first with Röhm’s fat hands around his neck. The bathroom disappears, the closed door, the stalls and urinals disappear, only the cold tiles of the floor remain, his face pressed into them as he collapses under the crushing weight of Röhm’s huge body. Now for lack of other distractions the smell of the man, breathing on his cheek, stinking of sweat and beer and aftershave, is more unbearable than ever.
Very softly, without a hint of brutality, all the more menacing for it, Röhm says, “You’ve been wondering about it, haven’t you? Wondering what it would feel like, you on all fours and a nice fat prick up your arse.” He leans in closer and Himmler feels his cock then, the bulge of it pressing between his buttocks, hard and huge and terrifying, and he forgets to breathe for a moment, the thought of what Röhm could do to him running wild in his head, every outcome of it with him filthy, humiliated and crawling back for more.
“I can take it slow if you want me to, Heinrich, I can make it feel good”, Röhm says and with one hand he is stroking Himmler’s cheek, gently like he’s one of his boys, and with the other unbuttoning his own pants, slowly, taking pleasure in the way every button opened makes the man under him hold his breath. “But you don’t want that, do you? You want to be defiled, debased, violated.” And under him Himmler winces at every word. Now he’s pale as a corpse and Röhm is no longer on top of him, he’s standing over him, lazily stroking his cock but Himmler doesn’t move, doesn’t try to get away, and Röhm ejaculates on his back and leaves him lying there, waiting.
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 