Tag: fic

Brunch

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[This is another version of this scene, which was based on a previous unfinished version of the fic you’re looking at right now. Both of which were based on an older unavailable fic. The starting premise is basically that the Görings invited Goebbels to spend Christmas Eve with them, he was thoroughly seduced and Bruno Loerzer arrived in the morning to join in the fun. Hence the perhaps otherwise confusing title.This fic is not so much fun for Goebbels as terribly cruel, so please avoid if you know that’s not for you.]

Goebbels
is rinsing their breakfast dishes in the kitchen sink at Carin’s
behest, his mind unfamiliarly
becalmed as he watches water pour into the body of the porcelain cup
in his hand. He has to keep rolling the sleeves of Göring’s robe
back up around his elbows every few minutes to stop the cuffs from
falling past his fingertips and into the stream; far too loose on him
to stay put for long, his forearms are already uncomfortably damp.
The action is mechanical and he’s so transfixed by the action of the
clear water spilling continuously over the lip of the
teacup as it overflows that the reflection of movement in the kitchen
window, a sudden shadow in the periphery  of his vision, startles him
enough to jump.

Bruno
Loerzer standing in the doorway, filling it up rather, arms folded
across his broad chest. Goebbels exhales audibly, his heart pit pattering
away. Is Loerzer smiling? His eyes are hard but there’s a faint
crease at the corner of his mouth.

“Is
there-”

Loerzer
cuts him off. “Come with me.”

Goebbels
places the cup carefully down into the basin and lays his palms on
the edge of the counter, leaning his weight against it, hesitating.
He wipes his wet hands across the front of the gown, shivers
slightly, turns off the tap and then dries his hands again.  Behind
him, Loerzer snaps his fingers twice and then whistles sharply as
though calling a dog.

Limping
half a step behind Loerzer, he follows him out of the kitchen and
down the hall, expecting to be led back to Hermann and Carin but
Loerzer doesn’t slow as he passes the room. Goebbels falters,
touching the door frame, his thumbnail digging into the soft wood as
he stares at Carin and Hermann nestled on the couch like two turtle
doves. Leafing through a photo album, Carin is smiling fondly down at
the book shared between their laps while Herman seems more
preoccupied with his regard of her.

There’s
a brisk yank on the collar of his gown.

“Don’t
dawdle,” Bruno snaps.

Hermann’s
gaze flicks over to them for a moment and Goebbels opens his mouth,
brow furrowed with a question he isn’t sure how to articulate,
stricken with the horror of his words failing him even as the
opportunity vanishes in a blink and Hermann’s attention has already
passed back to Carin and Loerzer is tugging him bodily away from the
doorway with enough careless force that he catches his foot on his
calf and almost stumbles to the floor.

The
bedroom Loerzer frog marches him into is not the master suite he’s so
recently become familiar with. It’s comparatively plain, neat and
decorated with the impersonal neutrality of a room intended for
guests. The winter sun is pushing through the weave of the curtains,
spaces where the light outside creeps in. Goebbels feels a chill run
through him and rubs the toe of his good foot against the back of his
heel. The austerity of Loerzer’s expression is no comfort. Reality is
pressing in uncomfortably from all quarters.

“Take
that off,” Loerzer says, nodding at the robe.

Goebbels
wraps his arms tight around himself, cringing from a wan sensation of
disgust, wishing he were properly dressed. Alone here, without
Hermann or Carin, he feels snapped out of some temporary madness,
left floundering in his bare feet with his uncooperative tongue and
the suddenly appalling thought of what Loerzer has brought him to
this bed for.

He
casts about his mind for something; a delay, a retort, a weapon.

“Göring
told me about how you both…” Goebbels pauses meaningfully.
“During the war.”

“Hermann
telling war stories?” Loerzer replies, his gaze not shifting from
where it’s fixed stonily on the belt of the robe still tied fast
around Goebbels’ middle. “Is that something to remark upon?”

“I
think it was quite remarkable.”

He
barbs his intonation like a threat, but he can’t disarm the looming
truth that it is all far too late for such tactics. He looks at
Loerzer’s hands, large and broad knuckled, what fists they would
make! The idea sends a fierce prickle of adrenaline through him,
familiar thistles under his skin like the heady flush from creating
the nascent instigation for some bloody, joyous street bawl; except
that here he is not the conductor.

“I’m
sure he was very colourful,” Loerzer says. “Get undressed.”

“The
two of you, against your machine.”

“Is
that what he told you?”

The
amusement in Loerzer’s voice engenders a worm of uncertainty to begin
nibbling at him. It must have shown on his face because Loerzer gives
a scoffing huff, shaking his head. Goebbels glowers, mouth a long,
straight line turned down deep at each corner.

“It’s
the truth,” he reaffirms. “I know a lie when I hear one.”

The
only thing to do in the face of doubt is to assert your position with
even greater confidence than if you were sure, he thinks. He manages
not to shrink backwards as Loerzer steps closer, filling his chest
with a deep gulp of air as if it will help root him to the spot.

“Do
you have a point you’re trying to make, boy?” Loerzer squints down
at him.

The
epithet slithers down Goebbels’ spine and before he can answer
Loerzer has a handful of his hair twisted around his fingers, yanking
him upward, yelping, onto his toes.

“Have
you been flattering yourself that any similarity exists here?”
Loerzer continues.

There’s
barely a hint of real curiosity in the question. He brings his face
in very close to Goebbels’ own, craning his neck down considerably,
but it’s not the sort of dashing inclination that leads to kissing
(the way Goebbels likes to picture his own self when he leans in
toward a seated little beauty) and the glint in his eyes has less to
do with interest in an answer than with the hard shine on the point
of a sabre.

Goebbels
doesn’t think he can hold that gaze for long, the question itself has
brought a rash of pink embarrassment to the back of his neck and his
ears worse than the burn of Loerzer tugging at his scalp. He resents
it, enough to be brazen.

“Are
you married, Loerzer?”

Too
sweetly innocent to be anything but an accusation.  

Loerzer’s
expression doesn’t change, just one slow blink and then – pain
explodes in a thunderclap along the left side of Goebbels’ face, like
a blunt skewer thrust past his eardrum, piercing down through the
nerves in his jaw, the sting against his cheek is a distant
accompaniment. He’s still reeling from the blow, trying to draw a
breath, as Loerzer drags him by forward by his hair and shoves him
over the bed.

“Where
did those good manners of yours go?” Loerzer sighs. “I could have
told him…”

Talking
to himself as Goebbels wheezes, doubly winded by the edge of the
mattress hitting his stomach and the dull agony still ringing in his
ear. He chokes on his breath as Loerzer hooks his fingers under the
belt of the robe and hauls him over the rest of the way, the knot of
fabric digging into his belly and falling half undone as he scrambles
to get his knees up over the side of the bed.

His
legs are getting caught in the robe, hands sinking into the soft,
white duvet and the mattress shifts and dips beneath him as Loerzer
clambers on behind; he feels like he’s struggling through quick sand,
the clamp of Loerzer’s hand fastening around his neck and holding him
down before he can even try and break free.

“How
many men have you had up here, hmmm?” Loerzer asks, his other hand
groping between Goebbels’ legs, thumb poking at his asshole. “Speak
up.”

He
screws the thick digit inside, compassionate as a butcher inspecting
meat and Goebbels hiccups in distress.

“What?
I don’t-”

Loerzer
rams the wedge of his thumb and forefinger hard against against his
perineum, his blunt thumbnail digging inside him like a pincer.

“You
don’t know?” he asks with scorn.

“No!”
Goebbels gasps. “No, it’s… Göring is the only one who’s
ever…he’s the only one.”

Loerzer
sighs as though he doesn’t believe it for a second yet cares too
little for the exact truth to bother dragging it out of him. Goebbels
winces at the sound of it, panting for breath, blood rushing to the
surface of his skin followed by a flush of cold sweat; perspiration
beading on the small of his back and between his thighs, his buttocks
and the place Loerzer’s thumb is too easily twisting back and forth
inside him. He fights the urge to clench against the moist, squirming
sensation.

“Stop,
I’m not…this is all-”

Loerzer
pops his thumb out, ignoring his reedy protestations and slaps the
top of his thigh.

“Up
on your knees,” he says.

A
mistake, Goebbels thinks dizzily, all limp and useless words not
worth a breath. Loerzer growls so low he feels it buzzing in the base
of his spine as he braces himself on his palms and tries to push
himself up.

“Just
your knees,” Loerzer barks.

Goebbels
drops his quivering arms back to the bed. The sheets slip and ruck up
around his shins as he struggles to get his knees underneath him with
his face still pressed firm against the mattress. The pressure of
Loerzer’s hand on the back of his neck is painfully tight as it pins
him there like a snare. Goebbels fights the compulsion to fight or
flee, a panicked creature ready to thrash itself into suffocation.
Loerzer could wring his neck if he wanted to; he won’t, of course
he won’t, but
just the sense of it lies feverish inside his mind as he manoeuvrers
himself into the obscene position.

“Stay,” Loerzer orders,
squeezing his neck in a final warning before he takes his hand away.

The outsized dressing gown has
fallen back down over Goebbels legs. Loerzer lifts the hem and tosses
it over his back, barring his backside and covering his face. The
weak light from the windows blankets out, the thick fluff of the
dressing gown tickling his nose as his humid breath washes back at
him. A stark contrast to the cool air on his exposed genitals, his
most private places in mortifying spotlight; his limp little cock,
his asshole still sensitive from Loerzer’s fingers, throbbing in a
way that feels so disgustingly blatant.

He doesn’t try to move the gown
off his face. He can hear the muffled sound of fabric shifting
against fabric, imagines Loerzer’s fingers pushing his trouser
buttons through their buttonholes, prepares to feel them spreading
and prying inside him next.

They don’t. Loerzer’s hands fasten
around the tops of his thighs, pulling them further apart, holding
him in a steady iron grip that stops him from bolting even as his
hips lurch at the feel of the solid, hot press of Loerzer’s erection
against his hole. He blinks furiously in alarm that Loerzer might try
to open him up with just the wide head of his cock, a blunt, abrupt
stretch, his body unprepared and tense and dry apart from the sheen
of nervous sweat that’s gathered down the cleft of his ass.

“Wait, wait!” he sputters out
and for a moment it seems as though Loerzer is listening, shifting
back, the threatening heat removed and Goebbels exhales and wrestles
with his stuttering tongue. “Wait, please, I just need-”

Loerzer rams his hips forward and
buries himself to the hilt in one brutal stroke.

Pain explodes like a flare.
Goebbels howls as the tight little knot of asshole is wrenched wide
open. Unreal, unbearable, a molten metal stab deep into his guts that
burns and bruises all at once. His hole spasms, clamping down, trying
to close back up, his muscles convulsing around Loerzer’s cock in
aching involuntarily waves.

The air is still knocked out of
him, not enough time to gasp, as Loerzer pulls out completely then
punches every last inch back inside just as hard and just as fast,
ripping his clenched hole open again, forcing through the friction
with a grunt of effort.

“Stop! Stop! Wait!” Desperate,
breathless cries like a drowning man bobbing up for air. “No!”

Only now can he realize the care
that Göring had taken with him when they fucked, there had been pain
at first but this? This is something else entirely. Loerzer’s not a
match for Göring’s size but right now he feels doubly so, impossibly
long, ungodly thick, the way he’s boring him out. He snorts like a
bull with each jack-hammer thrust, pulling Goebbels’ hips back to
meet him, shoving into him at an awful angle that feels like it’s
pounding his insides black.

Goebbels tries to push himself up
onto his elbows, pawing at the bedspread, but Loerzer cuffs him so
hard on the crown of his head that he collapses in a sprawl, the back
of his throat stinging with bile. Loerzer’s heavy paw follows, the
heel of his palm grinding into Goebbels’ cheek as he throws his
weight into the jerk of his hips; if it were a wooden floor beneath
his head and not a mattress Goebbels is sure his skull would crack.

“Please,”
he begs, weak and slurred from the press of the hand on his face.

Loerzer forces his fingers into
Goebbels’ groaning mouth, stuffing a wad of the dressing gown inside.
The fluff that had been tickling his nose is shoved over his tongue,
stopping up his pleas, making him gag and drool as Loerzer batters
the resistance of his body; fucking him until he’s lax and broken,
his sore hole gaping open every time Loerzer’s cock pulls out with a
filthy, sucking sound. Goebbels doesn’t struggle either, just moaning
softly as his saliva soaks into the the gag of material in his mouth.

The
hollow sense of shame at being used like this balloons up inside him
until he can’t contain it, tears pricking at his eyes. He gives a
muffled sob, no catharsis as the tears roll hot and tacky down his
cheeks, no change in the mechanical pistoning of Loerzer’s dick at
the strangled sound. He’s horribly aware how his own cock is hanging
plump between his legs; the indignity of the half soft, swollen ache
of it, no real erection, just blood plumping up the genitals of some
lowly animal in heat. Worse, really, there’s nothing natural about
this.

Loerzer
doesn’t seem to mind that he’s fucking into a rag doll, hefting up
Goebbels’ dead weight in an inflexible vice, excavating bruises into
bruises at his hipbones. He sobs again as Loerzer’s cock punishes
him, wrung out, biting hard at the wedge of fabric in his mouth but
unable to fence back the pitiful whine that cracks high in the back
of his throat and Loerzer’s laughter peals blackly above him.

“You
do like it don’t you,” he says.

Another
hot flush fares beneath his skin, deepens the ache behind his ears
and the itchy blotch of his cheeks. He can’t get enough breath,
panting in the dark as his tears dry to tight salt streaks. There’s
air on his naked, shivering thighs, keeping him acutely aware of the
ungainly arrangement of his limbs, but not under the stifling
swaddling of the robe where he gasps and chokes and struggles
internally against the crushing pressure of his degradation. The
scent of Hermann’s cologne impregnating the robe swells thick in the
warm damp, leeching into his saliva, acerbically floral in his
gullet.

He
retches as Loerzer’s cock stabs into him hard, a fast, pistoning
flurry of jabs at some tender red part of him until the pain of it
wrenches his body back into desperate resistance. Wet wool squeals
between his teeth, he dips his back in an even more severe arch to
ease the awful angle, exchanging one ache for another; the slap of
Bruno’s pelvis sending jolts up his spine, his ass pushed higher in
the air as if he’s making an invitation. Loerzer laughs again and
Goebbels flinches, clenching down tight against the still burning
stretch of the fat dick inside him.

“That’s
it.” Loerzer sounds strained. “You know what you want. A damn
eager hole. That’s all you are.”

Small
grunts between each word, his sweat on the back of Goebbels’ thighs,
second-hand clammy heat like something from a sickbed. His palm
presses down on Goebbels’ face, harder than before, as if he’s
forgotten there’s even a person underneath the gown and he’s just
bracing himself against the sheets.  

The
pressure of  Loerzer’s hand compounds the way his temples are
pounding, the way he can’t get enough air into his lungs, the
atmosphere around him too hot and tar thick to be able to pull into
his body. An awful flash from his childhood when he was tripped into
the mud and someone’s foot on the back of his head had held his face
down there, his breath bubbling out into the dirt, laughter as he
scrabbled against them and the shameful weakness of his body.

It’s
more than the physical, these pressure points of vulnerability.
Loerzer’s pushing the worst, most craven emotions through him too.
Harder to excuse.

Loerzer
jams his hips forward, holding Goebbels tight in place as he finally
climaxes. The heat of his spunk filling him, three hard spurts. The
feeling makes him flinch and struggle weakly, involuntarily milking
Loerzer’s cock for all it has to give as Loerzer groans in
satisfaction, breathing rough and ragged through his nose. As soon as
he’s done he shoves Goebbels away letting him topple onto one side, a
quivering little pile.

The
bed shifts beneath him. Swallowing, Goebbels slowly creeps his hand
to his head and pulls the wet wedge of Hermann’s dressing gown out
from his mouth, then away from his face. Fresh air rushes over him
and he takes a greedy gulp, chin and mouth all pink and wet and raw.
Not as raw as between his legs. With tentative fingers, not caring if
Loerzer is watching him or not, he reaches down and gently touches
himself there, then draws his hand back quickly with a hiss of pain.

It
hurts so terribly and he feels so swollen and slick that his eyes
actually widen in astonishment when he raises his fingertips to his
face and sees there is no blood, just the glistening mess of what
Loerzer had pumped into him.

He
hears Loerzer chuckle.

“Sloppy
little tramp,” he says, seizing Goebbels’ wrist and forcing his
fingers to swipe over his mouth. “Still hungry? Come here.”

Goebbels
grits his teeth and turns his cheek but Loerzer’s strength is
superior and what little battle remains in him is a fractured,
foregone conclusion. Loerzer wrenches him up to face his sticky cock,
semen still oozing slightly from the tip, just softening.

“Go
on,” Loerzer says.

Goebbels
tries not to look at anything apart from the bare bedroom wall to the
side. For a moment he can almost imagine seeing some projection of
himself there, refusing, pushing Loerzer away.

He
isn’t opening his mouth to protest as he lowers his head. His tongue
frozen with a paralysed sickness just a breadth away from Loerzer’s
cock, his abdomen stone taught with the effort it takes to push past
that feeling and lap at the thing in front of him without the
contents of his stomach rising up too.

“Maybe
Hermann wasn’t all wrong,” Loerzer says, sighing with pleasure.
“Even the whores one pays aren’t always willing to do everything.
It comes naturally to you doesn’t it?”

Goebbels’
eyes dart up, mouth humiliatingly stretched full of dirty cock. He’d
felt like some mere object for Loerzer’s use but now he wonders if
there’s not some personal dislike in all this too. He can only catch
a flash of the sneer on Loerzer’s face before his eyes are tearing up
as two strong hands grab the back of his skull and force his lips to
mash against the sweaty mat of Loerzer’s pubic hair.

Loerzer
pats him brusquely on the cheek when he seems happy enough with his
efforts. He takes the time to dry his cock off in Goebbels’ hair
before he climbs off the bed, rearranging his trousers while Goebbels
scrubs his tongue against the roof of his mouth, swallowing over and
over to try and staunch the tide of nausea shivering up from his
guts.

When
Loerzer leaves the room he doesn’t command Goebbels to follow. He
doesn’t even turn to look at him.

Goebbels
sits very still for a while and then lets out a shuddering
exhalation. He surveys the minor agitation of the sheets, traces his
fingers over the little eddies and currents left over that (apart
from the wreckage of his body) are the only signs of what just
happened here.

There’s
a burst of laughter from the other room. Wincing, he slips his toes
onto the floor and pulls the dressing gown into as good a shape as he
can make of it on his frame. When he stands, the hem dangles
uncomfortable wet kisses against the backs of his legs. He sits back
down again.

He
isn’t sure how long he has been sitting there, one hand clasped
around his wrist, stroking back and forth with placid
lack of purpose while he studies the small imperfections of the wall
paint, when Carin enters.  

“Carin!”
he exclaims, along with an awkward flurry of movement as he pats down
his hair, wipes his hand against his mouth, sensing himself turning
crimson.

“Darling,”
she says as she crosses the room. “What are you doing just sitting
here on your own?”

“I…”

She
lowers herself gracefully to sit beside him and he shakes his head in
distress, torn between the urge to lean into the white floral scent
of her and the urge to scurry away like some dark thing exposed
suddenly to sunlight.

“What
is it, Joseph?” she asks. “Was Bruno that rough?”

The
back of her finger strokes down the side of his face, he can feel her
gaze on him acutely but he can’t bring himself to meet it.

“I
think I should be leaving,” he says quietly. “My clothes…do you
know where they went?”

“Oh!
You’re upset!”

She’s
touching him so gently that it’s setting all the fine hairs on his
skin on end; an almost tickling sensation, but in the strangest way,
painful too.

“Carin,”
he says, hearing the urgency rising in the timbre of his voice.
“Really this whole thing was a mistake, I need-”

“Shhhh.”

She
presses her finger briefly to his lips as she hushes him and then
brings her arm around him, drawing him in close to the perfect
softness of her body, her hands slim and elegant yet brooking no
argument.

“Hermann
and I understand what you need,” she says.

She
sounds so sure, a soothing, irresistible sense of absolute authority
that makes Goebbels’ heart ache and his body unwind toward her, his
tense little shoulders dropping until another peal of laughter from
down the hall makes them tighten right back up again. She hushes him
once more as he flinches at the sound, stroking him until he’s pliant
enough to allow himself to be prised from the bed and led back to the
family room.

The
conversation becomes more clear as they walk down the hall, Carin
taking small steps, graciously accounting for his ginger pace. He can
hear Loerzer’s deep voice as they approach the doorway.

“…where
they’d call it ‘failure to thrive’, better off culling the little
runts, what is this bizarre affection you-”

Silence snaps into
place as they enter hand in hand.

“Christ,
he looks shell shocked,” Hermann says after a moment, whistling as
he casts an eye over him before turning to raise his eyebrow at
Loerzer. “Hardly seems like you had a disappointing time there,
Bruno.”

He’s
relaxing in a deep chair opposite Loerzer, leaving the sofa empty for
Carin and Goebbels to settle down in together where she can continue
her careful handling. Goebbels has an itch in the back of his throat,
a barely contained entreaty for her to stop running her fingers
through his hair, knowing what Loerzer has only just been using it
for, but he craves the comfort of it too much and the thought of
admitting it is too deeply humiliating to put into words either.

“I
never said I was disappointed, Hermann. You pestered me for an
opinion and I told you; he’s adequate for purpose. More than that is
a different matter, he’s not my sort.”

Loerzer’s
beating time on the side table as he speaks, cigarette between his
fingers. It’s as close to his face as Goebbels feels like looking. He
would like that cigarette very badly at this moment.

“Oh?”
Hermann sounds gleeful. “What’s your sort then?”

“You
know very well.”

“Hermann,”
Carin interrupts, fond exasperation paired with a hint of warning.

Goebbels
can’t help but look up then. The way that Hermann and Loerzer are
staring at each other is some silent conversation he is completely
excluded from. A chilly sense of his unimportance passes without
effort through the huge fluffy gown, his flesh, his lungs.

But
then Hermann turns his smile upon him and, oh, there’s the
burn of the spotlight.

“You
were only his second though, Bruno, isn’t there something in that?”

Loerzer
makes the same snorting noise of derision he had when Goebbels had
professed it to be so.

“And
you actually believe that?” he asks Hermann.

“Why
shouldn’t I?”

“Rather,
you actually believe his ability to be sincere at all?”

Hermann
hasn’t taken his eyes off of Goebbels during any of this exchange,
still smiling inscrutably, small adjustments in the curl of his lip
or the creases at the corner of his eyes. Goebbels stares back at
him, watches as he shrugs a little, inclines his head to the side a
fraction.

“I
understand you enjoy the notion of such virginity,” Loerzer
says with a drawn out sigh. “So it must be true, naturally.”

“I’m
a romantic,” Hermann says, smile broadening into a grin, showing of
all those teeth.

“Romance?
This is about conquest,” Loerzer objects.

“Exactly
the same thing!” Hermann exclaims, finally tearing his inquisitor’s
regard away from Goebbels to shoot Loerzer a look of mock amazement
that he should have to point out such an obvious fact to him.

Carin
laughs delicately and turns Goebbels’ face to meet her own. Calm
eyes, beatifically serene he would have described at first. She sits
there, so close to him and something shifts. Not quite in her
expression he thinks, unsettled, but in his own apprehension of it.
Shades of other women’s faces, real and imagined, he’s laid upon her
own like an imperceptibly fine veil, stirred for the briefest moment
by a breath.

“Our
little doctor is being so unusually quiet, but you agree don’t you,
Joseph,” she says. “About conquest.”

“Romance,”
Hermann adds.

Of
course they are a perfect pair, he thinks as he glances between them;
his eyes widening and Carin’s nails sketching away on his suddenly
goose-pimpled flesh, a murmur of appreciation hissing gently through
her teeth.

“You
will tell us all
about your feelings about what it was like with Bruno too, won’t you,
Joseph?” Carin says.

His
voice is hoarse by the time he can manage to find the words.

“If
you insist.” A painful whisper, head turned into his angelic
captor’s embrace.

The
other three laugh as if it’s the funniest thing they’ve heard all
morning.

daemon AU

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aus-der-traum:

The sunlight streams through the lace covering the windows in a
dappled pattern, sending all the cream of the wainscotting and the
blue of the rugs into a washed out haze, dust motes drifting through
the air, all that white and bleached periwinkle
like a photograph left out for years in the sun and they’re  both
still as the figures in a photograph too, Carin in her chair and him
on the floor beside it, his legs tucked under himself – those legs
are going dead and the air is thickening to treacle (even those specs
of dust, in suspended animation now) but Carin’s skin, her wrist,
draped over the arm of the chair, remains so vibrant he cannot tear
his eyes away and his mouth parts slightly as he thinks of pressing
the tip of his tongue to her pulse there, just for one moment.

The plush, stocky body of Ragnar, Carin’s
wildcat daemon
reclines on a little patch of floor where the sun is beating in
hardest, in the relative shadows nearby Ursula has her nose to the
floor, snuffling around, creeping slowly around the perimeter with
her tail in the air and her little paws making small incursions,
drawing back, scuffling forward again, all the while Ragnar’s tail
lilts dreamily from side to side and his eyes are half closed in
pleasure from the warmth beating down on his belly.

Hermann lets out a little sigh and when Carin’s
eyes meet his he finds he’s clenching his jaw so hard it hurts and it
does hurt,
not the grinding of his teeth but how badly he wants to confess that
the only word he can think to describe her is ‘goddess’, that no one
has ever made him feel this way, amazing that someone could matter more than
him, that if she would only give him one single, intimate touch, he
would be hers, utterly, forever and as he’s staring up at her,
feeling like a small boy, Ursula pounces on Ragnar and is instantly
swatted away by those large, heavy paws, swatted and then pounced on
herself at the same as Carin pushes off one of her shoes and presses
her foot into Hermann’s groin and tells him, stay.

@reichblr-ficathon

biting

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aus-der-traum:

Skorzeny
sees the contempt in Kaltenbrunner’s face as Schellenberg reaches
tentative fingers the trace the curve of his scar as clear and bright
as a signal flare, though Walter is either blind or dazzled by the
stories he is murmuring about the song of two blades meeting and the
hot, piercing flash of your skin splitting open, a wash of blood to
grin through and the whispered adulation of brotherly hands on
bandages.

Even
when Ernst unsheathes his dagger and turns the edge against Walter’s
cheek and offers to give him a mark to be proud of himself – and
Otto knows that what Ernst no doubt dreams of doing is pulling their
little comrade onto his tiptoes by the hair and forcing the blade past his teeth, to cut away his easy way with words and knack for
politesse – Walter simply smiles until Otto puts his hand on
Ernst’s sleeve and shakes his head: you know that
isn’t how it works.

But then there
are no rules about the weapons of their teeth and Walter bears up
very bravely once they have stripped him down and set about him until the taste of blood lies thick in both their mouths.

Luger

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“Maybe he can play dead,” says the heavyset major. He rips the Luger from Wünsche’s teeth and wipes the spit off it on the front of his trousers. With a theatrically exaggerated gesture he pulls a long magazine from one of the pockets of his tunic and holds both pistol and magazine up like a magician presenting rabbit and hat before performing his famous trick. He replaces the pistol’s empty magazine with the loaded one and then pulls back the striker to feed a bullet into the chamber. “Ah, beautiful German engineering!” he exclaims with a wink directed at Wünsche who is still kneeling at his feet. The other men chuckle. They fall silent when the major holds the pistol to Wünsche’s head, and they hold their breath and Wünsche does too looking down the end of the barrel and it all becomes very quiet, like that moment in the cinema when the lights go out. Despite all the years of service it’s still frightening, the sight of that tiny black hole and knowing death was just a pull of the trigger away. Sometimes it’s easier to be a dog than man. He bares his teeth and snarls. The major laughs, deep and jolly. “Well I’m afraid that is a trick he can do only once and wouldn’t that be a waste?” The men exchange murmurs of approval. “But there is one other trick he’s very good at, very good indeed. And I didn’t even need to teach him!” He lowers the barrel of the gun to Wünsche’s lips. “Suck it.”

calamari a la fascismo

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Himmler was utterly plain and normal, an ordinary blend of small town police officer and school teacher, friendly, strict and a little neurotic in just the way that it was acceptable, maybe even called for, to be neurotic when one carried so much responsibility. 

To his adjutant it was reassuring at first, how mundane he was, even his ugliness and unimpressive stature adding to the impression of the man as office and duty rather than an autonomous agent. It became worrying later, with schedules and appointments out of the picture, in the private moments, in quiet offices that smelled of disinfectant, on the long rides to strange places, in the back seats of cars loud enough for all the privacy if one just whispered quietly enough, and in grey hotel rooms and in the infinite span between dusk and dawn. 

But then it was too late to escape his grasp and his young adjutant found himself trapped by things mundane, like contracts and obligations and expectations, and otherworldly too, dark secrets left best unspoken, old rituals and lost artifacts and things that came crawling out of a deep darkness that had never seen a single star. 

At night his captor came quietly as if invited into his bed. He spoke to him with familiar voice and touched him with familiar hands and touched him also with unfamiliar parts like he’d seen only in books and museums on creatures of the sea, long tentacles, not wet but smooth like snake skin except for the suckers on them with their many teeth, cephalopod arms that slid over his body and under his nightshirt as he lay there frozen and mortified, mortified not by the terrible organs but the man they belonged to, that very plain man at the centre of all these horrors. 

Himmler talked to him like father to son. He held him tight in his arms only to calm and comfort him as the tentacles slid up his legs like snakes seeking warmth, slid around his thighs and his abdomen and touched his limp sex briefly, disinterested. 

They weren’t content with just touching him from the outside and sought entry in his body, sliding between his legs, thick as ship ropes. First the thin ends prodded at his anus, two or three or four, like the small fingers of curious children. They weren’t wet like one would imagine them to be and it wouldn’t have made any difference. When they first broke into him they stretched him so wide it tore his sphincter and it ripped the skin of his perineum to his balls, clean and quickly, as if it was snipped with scissors. One or two or three, he couldn’t tell, pushed deep into his guts, penetrated far too deep and deeper still, not inches deep but feet, so deep he’d would have thought they might come out of the other end soon, had he had the mind to think and do anything but feel the mind numbing pain and the heavy weight inside him, moving like many creatures, wiggling, and the pressure of it, like being slowly lowered onto a stake. 

Other arms came sliding up his heaving chest and caressed his mouth that stood wide open from the pain of it all, breathlessly gasping beyond screams. Himmler kissed him on his quivering lower lip, intimate but without lust. One tentacle slid inside his mouth and down his throat. The invasion was so brutal he couldn’t even gag. 

He thought he would die then, suffocate on the limb, and it was a relief to know the torment would end. In that moment the tentacles pumped their seed inside of him, twitching for many long seconds. They ejaculated into his guts and into his stomach and it was too much for his body to keep, gallons of sticky, bitter, thick ejaculate. It was so much it filled his stomach to the top. He didn’t even throw up, it just spilled over and it came running out of his mouth, and his nose and his ass and he was covered in it inside and outside. 

Worse than the pain and the filth was the way Himmler whispered to him all throughout it, about new Germany and new soldiers, new men and how he would breed him each night until they would make that new man together, his good soldier, his favourite womb.

Pilfered Goods

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Max, built from pride and snarled watchfulness, never killed a soul in his life before he knew Meyer, still bristling with the need to prove himself.

In the ditch of some godforsaken village with a name that doesn’t bear pronouncing, Kurt has seen from afar, the misty silhouette of Wünsche pushing a blade down into the sweet spot of a man’s chest, careful not to waste a bullet that doesn’t need to be wasted.

Bringing back half a packet of cigarettes with a child’s smile.    

Turning over a sodden body with the heel of his boot, Meyer spots the pack of rubbers and snorts. Thinks for a moment and then pockets them himself.

Max sleeps like the rest of them do, snatching the best rest they can on ragged blankets, always one eye open, like wolves. Ready for the next fight, ready for the smell of blood on the air. Restless even in their dreams, half wasted away to nothing.

Just a touch at Max’s temple and he’s wide awake, red rimmed eyes fixing on Kurt in the dark. Meyer gives him the comfort of his palm, stroking his cheek.

“Good boy,” he murmurs.

Produces from his pocket the tangled balloon, sticky with the cunt slime of the girl he’s last fucked, sometimes streaked dark brown with blood. A winning smile on Meyer’s face that fills Max’s heart with contempt for any woman who beat her fists against his chest or sobbed with regret and not ecstasy.

Max opens up his mouth and lays his tongue out into the cold air stinking of dysentery from the soldier shivering next to him.

The semen drops, clotted, thick into his mouth as Meyer pushes it down out of the condom. Max won’t swallow until Kurt gives him the go ahead, he lays there, panting, spunk oozing between his teeth and seeping toward the back of his throat.

Sometimes Kurt brings more than one, a handful of party favours that Max can stretch out his tongue and beg for, silently. Kurt will pincer his tongue and pull and wonder if a knife in the right place wouldn’t do better. Until Max is begging to lick every filthy part of his body clean, lapping at places that haven’t seen water for days.

Pervitin II

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It’s called Pervitin and it comes in red and blue tablet container with friendly round letters on it, like chocolate. Two days has now been in his veins, running like a mad horse, pale and starved. At rest he couldn’t rest, he heard that rhythm in his blood, hooves pounding. His own words came out too fast, stumbling over one other like a stampede. Everyone else was reading their lines too fast. Sounds were stretched short. The speed of his own jerky movements made him nervous. He was not in control, the stupid animal was.

In the third night, under the influence of the fifth dose, the horse fell silent, dead and eaten. He was the hunter now.

First came the urge to fuck someone, fuck like a blade rending flesh. A cold desire to destroy.

The want to rip someone’s face off tickled in his finger tips. Visceral visions of soft flesh under his nails and warm juice to lick up. He took his gloves off. His hands were red and swollen, freezing. From the inside, he knew it, it could only be that. A clever trick played by his body, he would not be able rip with hands like that, only crush and squash. The thought was amusing to him and he laughed to himself. An officer, whose name he had forgotten and could only remember as fuck and destroy, looked over to him and seemed worried.

One time when no one was looking he rolled in the snow like a dog. It felt warm.

The good kind of killing, combat, helped a little. In the quaint backyards, the windy barns, in dark basements, where tortured faces appeared in flashing lights. Always he crawled closer on his belly like a wild beast, dragging his uniform through the mud, strangling the blood flow to his obnoxiously demanding sex. Just close enough to see their eyes when he blew their lights out.

The waiting was the worst. Waiting for artillery shelling to end, hiding from planes, always hiding from something, cramped together with his comrades in dark basements, waiting to soon be someone else’s tortured faces. In situations like that comrades were no longer comrades but a mass of bodies and eyes that asked to be fucked and destroyed. Some more than others. Harrowed faces and dull eyes, men just waiting for their soon demise. He avoided them, they spoke to something in him that made it harder to control the slippery fingers.

The friendly round chocolate container was empty. He shot two Australian prisoners when no one was watching. They died disappointingly. Then he caught himself one of his own men. Out on watch he jumped the young officer. Tall one, but so frail, couldn’t get his spider leg fingers on the trigger of his Luger in time. He broke the officer’s wrist and twisted the weapon out of his hands with another crack and then he hit the man with the grip of the pistol until he stopped moving.

The officer’s nose was broken in three pieces, the lower half of his face covered in steaming red, as if a hungry dog had ripped the jaws out. He was wheezing loudly from the blood running down his throat, his mouth was wide open, dumb and agape and his gaze was fixed on his assailant with horror like he had never seen in a man’s eyes. He slid a finger into the officer’s mouth, over the broken teeth. There was something sensual about it like you could only find in symbols, sexless imitations of sex. The man whimpered and closed his eyes. His mouth was a warm, wet hole. It made a sucking motion, which peculiarly turned into a bite; peculiar, because he could see where the remaining teeth dug into his skin, but he couldn’t feel it. He considered fucking that mouth but it frightened him, there was no end to it, a dark maw that would eat him up.

He flipped the officer over on his stomach and sliced his trousers open. He cut too deep, sliced the man open too, the skin split like an overcooked sausage, yellow stuffing spilled out. The officer screamed, flailed, cried, crawled away from him. He dragged him back by the ankles, spread his legs to see where he could make his way in. The obvious choice was beneath him, dirty, not good. It needed to be clean, a pure white and red, crystalline. He felt like that now, white and bright, euphoric. Yet there remained some curiosity too. He had heard about it, men who did that sort of thing.

He put his bayonet in the officer. It went into his anus like it was made to take it, like labia parting, sliced and split open to receive his blade. The officer howled. When the bayonet went in deep enough to pierce his intestines he made a sound like a strangled cat. He tried to trigger it again by jabbing into that exact spot, meticulously, pounding him open, irreparably destroying. The blade came out red and redder. He could feel it, like a part of himself, breaking into the body, could feel the flesh giving way. He couldn’t have fucked him better himself.

The officer wouldn’t repeat the sound for him, he was eating mud and clawing at the earth, hoping maybe he could dig a way out of this fate or choke to death on dirt.

He wasn’t done yet. He wiped the bayonet on a patch of snow and grass. Clean again. He would make himself a hole of his liking. He flipped the officer on his back again. The man’s face was covered in a grotesque mask of red and brown sludge. The only visible features were his eyes, bright little spots and that black maw, panting and babbling about mercy and death.

It was a little harder to get through the abdominal wall, but he was very determined. Logically he thought the bellybutton would be the easiest way in, but it was messy, irregular, not as pretty. He liked the clean white slate of the belly next to it better. The tip of his blade pushed a dent into the soft flesh of it, stretching the skin like a balloon ready to pop. The officer spoke of god, or gods. His belly didn’t pop, the bayonet suddenly just went in, smoothly, without a sound from the officer. He looked a while at the funny image. How deep it could go in unhindered. If he let go of the handle it swayed back and forth with every breath.

The screams and the flailing picked up tenfold again when he grabbed the blade and turned it around like a drill, making the slit into a bigger hole. He didn’t want to look inside, something not right about seeing a man’s guts if they weren’t hanging out. The amount of blood gushing out of the hole he’d made prevented such an uncomfortable incident.

When he had decided the hole was good enough to fuck he found himself incapable of holding an erection. It was utterly frustrating. He could stuff his limp genital in the hole but what good was it. It didn’t hurt the officer, it didn’t satisfy any of his cravings, it just taunted him, the absolute lack of feeling, just a bit of meat where it didn’t belong.

His vision was ruined. The officer’s sobbing annoyed him. It would not stop. Once he had let get of him the officer rolled around in the puddle of his own blood, curled up in the fetal position, as if that would stop the blood flowing from his guts. He was just a tangled bag of bones, and he howled like a baby.

A heavy weight came down on him then, an overwhelming disgust with that pathetic creature and an endless fatigue. He slit the officer’s throat. He washed himself clean in the snow and walked less than a mile to surrender to the Americans.

Pretty

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“He’s pretty enough to be a lady, no?“

Himmler’s new favourite intendant Fräulein Kant pointed at Jochen, who froze mid movement, like the rabbit spotting a familiar silhouette in the sky. She smiled only in the corners of her full red lips, her eyes were detached from that smile, dull and calculating. She examined him, estimating his measurements, her professional gaze lingering on his lowered eyes. He’d make a fine addition to her entourage, a wonderful sacrifice of the solstice, a shy little bunny to douse in red blood for Himmler’s silly make-believe. How glad she was now that she had agreed to make those tacky white robes just a bit more sheer and so very short.

Himmler turned to see who Fräulein Kant had chosen to replace her sick actress. The young woman had cancelled at the last minute and thereby completely ruined his wonderful Germanic feast. He was surprised to find Fräulein Kant pointing at his adjutant. He pushed his round spectacles up on his nose, into that small rosy ridge where it usually rested and looked more thoroughly at his adjutant than he ever had. He noticed the small circumference of Jochen’s waist, cinched further by his belt, the slender fingers holding Himmler’s own briefcase, neatly manicured fingernails pressing into the soft leather, his deep set eyes, that clear blue he envied so much, hidden behind dark long lashes and for the first time he also noticed an uncharacteristic red tint to Jochen’s cheeks that was quite becoming. Yes, she was right, he was certainly pretty enough.

Himmler reached out to grab Jochen’s free hand and held it between his palms, one thumb stroking the back of Jochen’s hand. The touch made his adjutant queasy, as did Himmler’s cordial smile when he said: “Will you be so good and save the day, Jochen?” It wasn’t just that he was spoken to like a child, he was used to that, could swallow being treated like this, even in front of the intendant, but having to agree to be humiliated as a mere favour, for the evening entertainment of Heini and his highly decorated guests, it turned his stomach upside down.

Jochen threw a desperate glance at Fräulein Kant who surely must have been joking. She answered his call for help with a sardonic smirk. Himmler wouldn’t accept no for an answer and neither would she.

Crossing the T’s

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The doctor skims the report with a disinterest that’s tempered only by his irritation at having to deal with such nonsense in the first place. By the time the guards lead the inmate into the room his mind is already almost completely made up.

There’s been trouble from this Joachim Peiper previously – fanciful accusations of mistreatment of him or his men. Cynical gambits to save their own skin or merely petulant efforts to waste everyone’s time, taking advantage of the better nature of their victors. It is, in his opinion, an unfortunate and rather senseless notion that they have any responsibility towards these people. Such compassionate considerations are alien to the nature of the German people and even if they were not, they surely have forfeited them now entirely as a whole let alone in the case of such specific  smirking little war criminals.

The issue at hand this time is particularly distasteful and the fact that Peiper is standing before him at the moment with his back straight and his head upright and his thin lips pressed firmly together, aloof and composed, only confirms his original verdict. If these allegations were true there would naturally be some sort of stamp of shame upon him. He does not believe such things don’t leave an obvious change in any real man and even if he does perhaps detect, peering from the report to Peiper and back again, a slight quiver in the jaw behind that carefully controlled aspect, well then that’s simply evidence of the nervousness of a liar worried he’ll be caught in his falsehood.

“Do you need him uncuffed, sir?” asks one of the guards.

He shakes his head. “Not at the moment. Perhaps presently.”

He rises from his stool, approaches Peiper and says in slow, loud English. “Do you understand why you are here?”

It garners no response, just the divot of a frown in the middle of Peiper’s brow. The doctor sighs. He turns and stabs the piece of paper on his desk and begrudgingly switches to German if only to forestall any complaints about the fact later.

He explains that an examination is necessary in order for him to supply an opinion on the allegations Peiper has made concerning certain misconduct directed toward his person. He thinks he notices a twitch this time. The crease between Peiper’s eyebrows deepens.

“I’d appreciate your assistance,” the doctor says. Not looking at Peiper any more. Addressing the men flanking him on either side.

He instructs them how he wants Peiper stripped from the waist down. No need to untie him after all. Peiper starts back as the button of his trousers is snapped open, tries to take over the operation himself, clumsily, hands bound in front of him but a rough grip on the back of his neck and another at his wrists puts paid to that quickly. He raises his chin as if it were the prow of a boat determined to bear on through the inevitable and doesn’t struggle any more. Still, that first instinctual, human response to protect his dignity might also be termed: signs of an ‘uncooperative nature’ and those are the two words the doctor jots down on his notepad as Peiper raises a foot for his sock to be removed, before knocking his pen against the examination table.

“Up on here,” he says. “On his back I think.”

The guards manhandle Peiper up onto the cold, steel surface. The doctor strolls to the door and swings it open so it bangs back against his hinges and a rush of air from the corridor rustles the flimsy paper curtain hanging next to, though not yet drawn around, the examination table. Peiper makes a startled noise of protest and the doctor glances over his shoulder to see him struggling to hunch over himself, as if he were entitled to any sort of privacy.

“Will you hold him down,” he says, casting his eyes heavenward at the display.

The guards force Peiper’s shoulders back down to the flat of the table. The doctor shakes his head and reminds himself to underline his previous note. He whistles down the corridor to catch the attention of the nurse sipping coffee at her desk.

“Sarah, can you fetch Whitford for me, please?”

He leaves the door propped open and returns the table. Peiper’s chest is rising and falling in a conspicuously slow and deep manner, obviously a conscious effort on his part. The doctor cranes his head to check under the table and hums a thoughtful note.

“We don’t have time for difficulties, let’s have him secured.”

He shows the guards the curved hook at the underside of the head of the table, a small loop of metal meant for securing and tidying IV lines when patients are in transit. Tugging the chain of Peiper’s cuffs over it draws his arms above his head, impossible to dislodge without assistance. As the chain pulls tight Peiper’s hands clench into fists but the rest of his body is still lying docile enough on the table.

“What’s the problem?”

His colleague, Whitford, joining him now as they both look down, considering Peiper.

The doctor shares a long suffering look with his peer.

“He says that he’s been abused by some of the staff.”

He taps the inside of Peiper’s leg with his pen, just above his knee.

“Forced anal penetration,” he continues.

There’s a rather long silence. The clock on the wall makes the loud progress of a minute at least. The doctor observes the blotchy red colour that flushes over Peiper’s skin and feels satisfied that at least now perhaps their criminal is feeling some shame. Whitford snorts and he waves his hand in the air.

“I know, I know, but procedure…”

He instructs the guards how to position Peiper’s legs properly, heels pressed up to his buttocks, folding him open. Possibly he notices the tail end of a shared smile between the two men grasping Peiper’s ankles and the thought occurs to him that there were no names in the report indicating who exactly the inmate had accused.

“I say,” his colleague interjects on his thoughts. “I hope this isn’t  going to become a habit amongst this lot. We’ll have to commandeer a gynie table from the women’s section.”

The doctor snaps on a pair of beige latex gloves and sneezes into the crook of his arm from the little puff of talcum powder that hangs momentarily in the air. Whitford follows suit. They both peer down at the exposed area between Peiper’s legs.

The hairs on the back of Peiper’s thighs are already standing on end and when the doctor touches his fingertip to the rim of his anus the muscles in each leg bunch in resistance.

“Could you get his knees back further,” the doctor instructs the men. “Steady grip if you please.”

There’s a brisk tap of heels from the corridor. He glances over his shoulder through the open door, fingers still on Peiper, to see if it’s one of the nurses and save them the trouble of sending to fetch one later, but it’s only Sarah heading off toward the commissary.

“So what do you think?” Whitford asks.

He turns back. His colleague has helpfully spread Peiper’s buttocks further apart so they have an unimpeded view of the site.

“Hard to say,” he replies. He uses his middle and index finger like a pair of calipers, pressing in on either side of Peiper’s anus, dragging at the rather swollen looking tissue surrounding Peiper’s opening as he widens them; first horizontally and then, with his thumb digging into the perineum, vertically. “I suppose it seems a little inflamed but of course that could merely be signs of a poor prison diet.”

“Or self abuse.” the other doctor offers.

He nods and moves his index finger to the centre of Peiper’s anus, pushing a little to feel out the resistance of the muscle. There’s a hiss from the body below him, a full body flinch, but he notices with approval that the guards have Peiper held well in place.

Whitford goes to a cabinet and rummages around while he gradually, firmly works his dry, rubber finger into Peiper’s anal canal up the first knuckle, twisting back and forth, slowly screwing it inside. There’s not another sound from Peiper but the increase in his breathing rate is obvious from the rapid rise and fall of his breast and his stomach muscles are visibly trembling beneath his shirt with the effort to keep it under control. When he glances further up he sees that the prisoner has his eyes shut and frowns deeply.

“Attention please, inmate,” he snaps, jabbing his finger the rest of the way home. “You’re not here to daydream.”

The pain flashes in naked shock over Peiper’s face for a second as his eyes fly open and then quickly becomes battened down again behind the bite of his teeth into his blanching lower lip. The doctor regards the theatrics of it coolly, it offends him more than a little that this young man thinks he’s going to have any influence on the outcome of things here with such blatant ploys for sympathy. This act of biting one’s lip in particular reminds him of the behaviour of some supercilious schoolboy.

Whitford returns to the examining table with a tray of instruments and sets it on the table beside them.

“You didn’t want this?” he asks, holding up a tube of surgical lubricant.

“It would just confound the assessment. I want to appraise how easily he allows himself to be penetrated.” He works his finger in and out of Peiper as he speaks. “Even without lubrication the muscle tone here does feel rather slack.”

“May I?”

“Of course, in fact…” He takes a step to the side and allows Whitford nearer so that he can push a gloved finger in beside his own. “I’ll hold mine still. Try and stretch his sphincter further apart, how much effort does that seem like?”

Together they’re able to produce a fair gape between their probing fingers. The table quivers  a little along with a rasp of metal that tells Peiper’s wrists are jerking against the place they’re hooked but they both ignore the noise for now. The doctor uses his free hand to pluck his penlight from his pocket and shine it down into the space they’ve made.

“So you do think there’s something to this complaint of his?” Whitford asks, inserting a second finger to widen their area of investigation further.

The doctor chuckles. “Now you must think more before you speak sometimes, Whitford. So far I’ve seen nothing that would lead me away from the far more sensible conclusion that this is all indicative of a habitual sodomite.”

“But not from-”

“From regular congress with his superiors far before we picked him up. I think it’s considered well known how rampant that sort of business was with this lot. Another pathology to add to the whole sickening mess. After everything you’ve heard would you really be shocked to learn of any new depravity?”

“Well…no,” Whitford replies. He’s still inspecting the rim of Peiper’s anus as they speak, pinching the angry red flesh between forefinger and thumb as his other fingers remain prying him open. The  tip of the rubber glove thins against the pressure of his thumbnail as his palpitations grow more rough.

He gives Peiper’s face a considering look while continuing to pinch him. “I suppose that’s why the pretty ones have so many medals,” he says.

The doctor huffs and shakes his head. “At any rate, we’ll have to be thorough. Hand me the speculum would you?”

His colleague pulls his fingers out of Peiper and fetches the tool. He takes it and as he holds it up, considering the length and width of the long silver blades still clasped together, they catch the light and shine a stripe over Peiper’s eyes making him wince and turn his head to one side.

“Fetch the larger size,” the doctor says.

In this instance he does take the time to give the instrument a rudimentary once over with a finger’s worth of lubrication before setting the tip of the bill at Peiper’s anus. A stifled whine seems to emanate from the general direction of Peiper’s throat and a tremor runs through him. Whether it’s a reaction to the deep cold that inevitably embeds itself in these sorts of heavy steel tools or whether the sore pink rosette of his anus is feeling especially tender by now is hard to tell. The doctor braces his left hand on one of Peiper’s shivering thighs and finds it slick and clammy with sweat, the back of his shirt must be soaked with it.

The process of penetrating Peiper with the instrument is slow and methodical. The doctor does not want to cause any unnecessary damage, but more importantly he has no wish to speed things up regardless. It is a punitive operation as well as a medical one. Not only is it vital to make it clear that making an allegation like Peiper has done is a decision not to be taken lightly, but ideally to produce a less defiant inmate in general. Which really, he thinks, unpleasant as it may be, like any bitter medicine will be the best for Peiper’s health too in the long run.

So he slides the blades deeper into Peiper’s rectum incrementally, millimetre by millilitre, glancing briefly at the spasmodic curling of Peiper’s toes. Gradually, so that Peiper can properly appreciate the physical sensation of having his body manipulated this way – deeply, humiliatingly intimately and beyond his control, at the leisurely disposal of those who wish to view him this way.

When he begins to open it with the same incremental pressure it sounds as though Peiper has been struck by the hiccups. Then it becomes clear the furious bobbing motion of his Adam’s apple in his throat is an attempt to hold back his sobs. The doctor allows himself a small, satisfied smile and squeezes the handle of the speculum tightly open before ratcheting in the screw that will keep it so until he sees fit to remove it.

The opening of his anus has been stretched so wide that its previously puffy, red aperture looks ironed flat and almost bloodless. The doctor shines his light inside again and hums to himself.

“Anything of note?” Whitford asks.

“Still rather inconclusive I’m afraid,” the doctor says, tapping his pen thoughtfully against the instrument keeping Peiper agape. “In my professional opinion there is no convincing evidence to verify this man’s particular….story.”

“Surely even if he had been penetrated recently it’s more likely he was just trading willing favours.”

“Oh you can’t think any of our boys would go in for that,” the doctor says reprovingly. “Besides, it  would need to be reported too.”

“Yes, yes, but with all the paperwork redone…” Whitford sighs.

“Ah! Speaking of,” the doctor straightens up and snaps his fingers together. “We need Sally.”

“I know where she’ll be, won’t be a moment.”

While Whitford is gone he apologises to the men holding Peiper for the amount of time all this has been taking and commending them on what an excellent job they are doing. Neither of them seem to be particularly put out about it and one even volunteers that they’re happy to wait exactly as long as he needs, an attitude the doctor can’t help but feel a little national pride in.

Sally looks momentarily startled when she enters the room with her little camera, but she’s an excellent nurse and not much can break her out of her stride. Peiper looks destroyed, sickly wan and then flushing violently crimson. Everyone in the room can hear the tell tale rattle of his handcuffs . The doctor imagines the urge to try and hide oneself in such a situation is almost impossibly strong.

“There’s been an official complaint so we need photographs for the case file,” he explains. “Please make sure you include his face, I’d hate to open ourselves up to further accusations that we merely performed an examination on a separate patient or something equally as ridiculous.”

Sally trots over and begins to peer through the lens of her camera.

“It’s his rectum that is the point of interest,” the doctor interjects. “But you’re a bright girl obviously I don’t really need to point that out.”

Whitford is busying himself with some swabs and a handful of plastic pockets. The doctor raises an eyebrow in query.

“Naturally I agree that our boys wouldn’t go in for that sort of business,” Whitford begins.

“But?”

“But. It can’t hurt to check if he’s clean. In case he has been whoring around. Public safety notice and so on and so forth.”

The doctor waves a hand for him to get on with it and Whitford approaches Peiper from the side while Sally is still busy making sure she’s getting enough light to capture the spread, twitching picture of Peiper’s anus in sufficient clarity. He takes the soft, limp shaft of Peiper’s penis firmly in his hand and pulls back the foreskin. The delicate shade of his glans looks far more pale than the colour on his cheeks at present. The manner in which Whitford pushes the end of the cotton swab down into his urethra is decidedly not so delicate. Ever since Sally entered the room Peiper’s jaw had been clenched so hard the doctor would only have been half surprised to find he’d cracked a tooth, but now he finally gives up a sharp, agonised little cry.

“Tsch, don’t fuss,” Whitford says.

He leaves the swab inside of Peiper’s member and wanders over to the office table, apparently to cast an eye over the details of Peiper’s complaint himself. His lips move silently as he reads for a moment before he picks it up and strolls back over and slaps the papers lightly on Peiper’s stomach while shaking his head.

“Now, now, we can see there’s nothing the matter with you. No more of this sort of thing, alright?”

He leaves the papers piled on Peiper’s midriff where the distressed heaving on his body soon sends them drifting to the floor. Taking up the tip of the swab, Whitford twists the slim stick one way and then the other, pushing it up and down at the same time.

One of the guards snorts at the noise Peiper makes at that and the doctor gives him a stern look although he can’t really bring himself to put too much gravitas into it. Whitford pulls the swab free. The cotton at the end is tufted from where the fibres have scraped themselves loose against the sensitive lining inside Peiper’s penis. He repeats the process a few more times, until the entrance to Peiper’s urethra looks rubbed raw, and then packages the swabs up.

“I’m done, doctor,” Sally says.

“Thank you, Sally. I’d like the prints as soon as possible, please.”

As she leaves, Whitford is picking up the scattered papers.

“You know,” he says, tapping a page. “I think they wanted you to comment on the  bruising he got around the wrists from where they’d tied him while they- I mean, while they supposedly…”

They both turn to look at Peiper, eyes following the lines of his arms to under the table to where he’s bound for the duration of the examination.

“Well…” Whitford begins.

The doctor yanks the paper from him and stares between it and Peiper with an expression of  indignation that only grows to more thunderous proportions when Peiper  stares back at him with glassy, uncomprehending eyes as if to purposefully stonewall him.

“So that’s why you’ve been wriggling around on there so much you little worm. Trying to muddy the waters by giving yourself something to show. No, indeed!” his head snaps back to Whitford. “I tell you, you can’t trust these beasts as far as you can throw them.”

He points a finger at one of the guards. “You.”

The man looks startled. “Yes, sir?”

“Did this prisoner have any marks on his wrists before you brought him up here?”

There’s a long pause.

“Nothing different than you’d expect from having the cuffs on and off day to day?” The doctor prompts impatiently.

“Ah right. Uh, no, sir. Nothing different than that.”

The doctor claps his hands together. “Excellent. There we all are then. You can let his legs down now.”

As soon as Peiper begins to relax his feet back down toward the surface of the table, the end of the speculum still cranked wide open and protruding from his body knocks against it with a loud, hollow clang. He groans, clearly desperate to twist his body into some shape no longer designed to expose and hurt and shame him.

“Let me finish up here,” the doctor says to the guards. “Take a break, you can come fetch him in an hour or so.”

Whitford motions to the speculum. “Do you want me to take care of this?”

The doctor shakes his head. “Don’t bother yourself. I’ll deal with it once I’ve finished writing up my notes.”

Inpatient

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They led Erich to a metal table with a white sheet on it. It laughed at him, the absolute pristine whiteness of it, clean and cynical like the rubber gloves the doctor wore, when she did it to him. She had brought three guards, all of them wearing their drab uniforms with white gowns over them. Comical had it not also been so daunting.

The humiliation came first, later the pain. The fat one held him by the legs, wrapped his big hands around Erich’s ankles and held him as still as metal would. The big one held his wrists, pressed them down on the table as hard as he could and leaned on his hips. Another one held his head and smiled a crooked smile down at him. There was no need for all this. Erich could not fight even one of them off. Small men made for good pilots. Starvation did the rest. He was at the mercy of brutes.

The doctor had the tube. It was red, with a funnel at one end, and much too thick. They didn’t want to feed him, they wanted to punish him. She would make it fit. It would not go through his nostrils at first but the doctor shoved and pushed until with a ripping sound it slid in and then it was easier, blood lubricating the rest of the way. Erich wanted to scream but that foreign thing slid down his throat, blocking all sound except for his desperate wheezing for air. He could still cry, tears mixing with the blood, which came gushing out of his nose each time the tube penetrated deeper, scratching and ripping.

When it had reached his stomach Erich thought the worst was over. Then the doctor poured the milk down the funnel. His head was already heavy with pain, a dizzying wet hot kind of pain, but the milk was cold and the pain sharp. Burning filled his chest and clutched his racing heart. His vision became blurry, the faces above were swallowed by their own shadows. In the distance there were doors opening and closing, nearly as loud as the sound of the liquid fed down his throat. It sounded like litres going down the tube, much more than his body could fit. Erich started to sweat cold and tremble, from his fingers to his toes. He wasn’t resisting, just suffering and no longer in control of his body, but the men became heavier, the hands tightened around his limbs, he could not move, nor scream. One of them laughed. “Good Russian milk for the little German boy,” said the doctor in heavily accented German and poured more and more of the cold liquid down the funnel.

The procedure lasted only a couple of minutes. When the doctor pulled the tube out of him, she tore Erich’s esophagus further. The milk that he threw up seconds later was mixed with his blood. The men grinned wide. They’d have to do it again. Until he could keep it in. They wouldn’t let their famous prisoner die like a common animal.