They got that one
detail wrong about hell: it wasn’t hot here, it was fucking freezing,
too cold even for snow fall; the only heat in this frozen wasteland
came from artillery fire, and it you did your best to stay away from
that, and, in this particular case, the breath of his comrade, short
and laboured against the back of his neck as he pushed him against
the icy metal hull of their tank and kicked his feet apart. It wasn’t
the first time this happened and it would certainly not be the last,
unless of course his comrade froze his dick off by courtesy of an
extra-cold gust of wind straight from Siberia or was taken out by a
well-aimed shot from a hostile weapon, which were both reasonable
enough things to hope for, out here at the Eastern Front, but Günther
didn’t want to get his hopes up. So far he had not been that lucky,
and his comrade seemed eager to prove himself an embodiment of the
three virtues the Führer had demanded of them, be tough as leather
(who in their right mind would expose his genitals at this
temperature), hard as steel (the quality of his erection left nothing
to be desired) and (thankfully) also fast as a grey hound (in that he
never lasted particularly long), and like all the times before
Günther closed his eyes, thought of his sweetheart back home and
hoped for it to be over soon.A comrade kisses
the frozen blood staining his chin in the half light, crouched near him on a spread
of canvass meant to keep the cold from out their bones amidst a graveyard
cluttered with the stink of oil and rust, stray pieces of machinery
and, what terrifies him most, that gentle touch he knows is a debt
that must be paid back.You’re so beautiful, Günther
hears it murmured against his still, so still body (please, in his
stillness let him leach away to an architecture of nothing, to the
abandoned guns, to the slaughtered, splintered landscape of dead
trees and frozen arms of fallen men that may as well be branches of
the same) and he
knows the price he will pay for hearing that confession; predictable
when it is his gentle whisperer who ratchets
his body off the ground by a rough thrust of fingers, shovelling snow
and ice deep into his ass, ignoring his screams and weak thrashing,
grinning at the other men.Until
he breaks and begs, fuck
me, (any scrap of warmth to sooth the aching, cramp inside him) the
words barely it past his chattering teeth, proving who has been
at fault here all along.
Tag: fic
“It hurts knowing that I can never see you again”
She puts her chubby hand up to the thick divider, her tiny palm print enveloped by his own – although enveloped is the wrong word; is the word he yearns for since it implies touch, implies one warm beating pulse able to press upon another for even a moment.
They are not allowed such things.
She doesn’t understand that as she bats her fingers against the glass and stares up at him and does her best to not wail or cry because she knows, daddy will be home soon and if she’s been a good girl he’ll give her an extra lap around the garden on his shoulders.
Do you feel the noose around your neck?
“Do you feel the noose around your neck?” Kurt whispered into Max’s ear when he closed his hands around his neck and lifted him right off his feet. Jochen couldn’t help but smile at the sight of it, Max whole body stretched out, toes extended, just about touching the ground, the muscles of his torso and his legs standing out from the intense effort of it and his fingers twitching, out of his control, the entire machinery of his body on the verge of snapping in some place; it reminded him of the way Max looked when Kurt was buried in him to the hilt. Kurt must have noticed the resemblance too, “do you want to fuck him like that?” he asked and Jochen considered it for a moment when he saw how Max rolled his eyes in protest, but he decided against acting on a whim, he lit himself another cigarette and stubbed the old one out on Max’s chest.
rich bitch Hermann Goering getting fucked
He’s lounging in his room, half the champagne bottles are already empty and toppled over on the floor and when the Danish lad comes in to talk about the ‘terms’ of his display he just grins a little wider and stretches himself out on the bed.
Certainly he doesn’t flinch when a hand is placed at the top of his thigh and then creeps up, further and further; he stretches and spreads his legs wider and looks up innocently at the ceiling and the only thing he’s interested in, the most important point, is to ask:
“But I get to keep the plane, yes?”
An offer you can’t refuse
There
are so many kindnesses he has to endure; Himmler’s considerate,
enduring smile, the hand resting at the small of his back, the
fatherly advice that echoes off the stone as they climb the spiral
steps together and remains unwinding from Himmler’s mouth as they reach Peiper’s room – so there is no hope of disentangling himself, so he can only lead the
way inside as always and nod numbly at the offer of help with his uniform.Peiper’s
father had not had the same slithering ingratiation in his fingertips
as the Reichsführer does when he would undress him as a boy (those
touches had an immediate confidence of ownership that Himmler has to
build to every night, one accidental slip after another) but the
way he looks at him is just the same, so much love, oh they do love
their Jochen very dearly don’t they?Himmler
breathes soft, encouraging noises against his ear as cups his hand
between Peiper’s legs and squeezes the limp little package of his
genitals; cooing his pleasure over what a marvellous, vital lad
Jochen is while worming fingers between cotton and skin to stroke him
until he’s had his fill – leaving Peiper with a damp kiss on the
forehead and the tears he refuses to let spill over, staring
unblinking and unmoving at the back of his bedroom door, until he’s
sure it’s safe.
Bent over a desk
Wünsche drags Peiper by the hair like slain prey and there is nothing Peiper can do about it, not when Wünsche sweeps the desk clean with one motion of his arm, sending papers and pens flying, not when he throws his plunder on the table (it tries to flee, crawling away from him and searching with its hands for something to fight him with, a letter opener maybe, but he gets it by the ankles and drags it back) and not when Wünsche flips him on his stomach and bends him over the desk and holds him down hard with one hand on the neck and with the other rips down his pants. Peiper’s legs are kicked apart, he struggles again, but swiftly Wünsche is on him, bigger and heavier than he is, the adjutant’s little body entirely covered by the grinning beast, one hand on Peiper’s mouth (in its mouth, fucking its mouth), the other in Peiper’s hair pulling back his head, forcing his body to arch (don’t snap its neck just yet), and his cock on Peiper’s arse, thick and heavy and terrifying. With one brutal stroke Wünsche thrusts into him (it yelps and shudders and shudders more when he pushes deeper, squeezing another inch into its tight hole) and fucks Peiper like he owns him (it’s impaled on his cock, rammed against the edge of the table, it’s bruised, bleeding, dripping come, it’s his).
tease and denial
Goebbels’
self-conscious, skittish displays of reluctance beg for new, rough
seductions each time; to have his jaw pried open for Göring’s tongue, to be
forcefully wrenched down onto the bed and restrained where his restless, solipsistic
neediness can finally find a match in the equally unquenchable force
ofGöring’s own selfish demands – laid bare
as a pretty thing to be fondled, an aid for Hermann’s relaxation, just like the pills he swallows once he’s tied the last knot and settles down amidst the silk and overstuffed pillows to find his serenity once more.It may be hours
and hours until that event and by that time Goebbels’ stiff bobbing
cock will be burnished deep-red as a ruby, drooling precome in thick
silver strings and his body all aglow with sweat (his lips chapped
from licking them over and over once he’s given up begging, given up
gasping even, since Hermann doesn’t like to use a gag, prefers to
feed him the salty mess that’s pouring from his prick or listen to how his
arguments for release break down – Goebbels has a lovely timbre to
his oration even when he’s pleading and besides, Hermann can see how
it only torments the little doctor further with arousal to hear himself beg
and be ignored) all hope of mercy lost and his whole world
concentrated in the agonising pulse of his untouched shaft, hard for so long and denied even one firm full stroke that would give an ounce of relief from the deep, bruised feeling radiating from it with every breath.Göring
likes to
trace a very slick, feathering touch (just the pad of one grazing
finger, the barest hint of friction) around the corona of Goebbels’ desperately throbbing cock head
and exhale slowly, peacefully, waiting until the frustrated member has stopped
twitching toward his hand (mere millimetres away) then tap
the sweet spot right underneath until there are tears streaming down
Goebbels’ cheeks and he can recline and watch the light dazzle in
them as they fall, rolling Goebbels’ heavy, tight balls in his palm with a
contented sigh, his scent, what a rich, animal
smell, mixing sweetly with the perfume of the linens.
skinny dipping
Goebbels wonders at first, as he lights his cigarette and thinks of wildfires
(the warm paper settling in the warmer V of two fingers, skin bone
dry and the brief flare of the matchstick almost unbearable in the
sticky heat) if Göring is going to press the
issue and bully him out of his buttoned up shirt, insist upon his invitation to disrobe and slip into the cool, deep waters of the lake alongside him with the brute force Goebbels knows he is both capable and willing to use.Instead
Göring shrugs and rises from his deckchair, undresses without
apparent care and stands there with his hands resting on the shelf of his
round hips, unabashed, surveying his domain while a bead of sweat
rolls down Goebbels’ temple and he fidgets in his seat – even in
Summer he’s usually so cold, but perhaps all of Göring’s attentive
persistence that he stays
well fed this weekend (his, finish
your plate, Joseph, ah now don’t fuss, his,
come
here you need to try this, his,
of
course you have room for something more and these came all the way from
Paris) has
stoked his little furnace more than usual.Tentatively
Goebbels stands and after a breath begins to methodically work his
tie loose, staring at the rough planks before his feet as he removes and folds each
item; acutely aware of the breeze as it caresses his bare skin and
the feel of Göring’s eyes there too, quite sure it isn’t sunstroke
making his cheeks burn before, finally, naked as the day he was born, he turns a nervous, toothy smile
toward Göring who touches him briefly, gently on the hip and helps him wade unsteadily into the lake, laughing fondly at his sigh of pleasure as the water laps up his body and oh
it really does feel like bliss.
Dirty and reeking of horse
They called themselves kazaki, cossacks, proud and swift horseback riders, some fought for mother Russia, some for Germany, but all of them always fought for themselves, a brutal bunch, knights of the steppe, Mongol hordes who knew no chivalry as the steppe knew none, they couldn’t afford to foster ill-placed ideas like dignity or mercy (they learned that quickly, the Germans and the Russians alike) and they always smelled like horse, whether they still rode them or not, that smell wouldn’t wash off them, but that was the more pleasant aspect, worse was the stink of their clothing, beautiful, fancy clothing, with many buttons on them and fur hats, drenched in sweat and blood and sweat again.
They found young, innocent Hans, who had pretty blond locks under his helmet and who had never even shot a man, hiding in a hole in the forest, covered with branches and mud, and they didn’t bother to drag him somewhere else before they tore down his pants, sending the buttons of his suspenders flying and in that moment – strange thoughts that you sometimes have in these horrible moments – he thought he’d never find them again, the buttons being as brown as that barren ground and how would he march then and hold a gun while holding up his pants?
The silly distraction was instantly wiped from his mind when the first man broke him in, the pain of it so sharp he could not have imagined a bullet to the guts to feel worse, but his imagination was limited and his knowledge of pain small and he learned that when they rode him, one after the other, and he smelled them then, unbearably intense, like sick horses left to themselves for many weeks, wet fur and rancid blood and mixed into it all the smell of their filthy dicks, sickeningly sexual, on him and in him, the sticky clumps of their semen and the smell of his own piss and his shit, which he couldn’t escape no matter how hard they pushed his face into the mud.
PTSD
It all seemed normal at first when Wilhelm stood in front of her door again as if he had never left, only he was a lot skinnier and dark around the eyes and the grey uniform he had left in two summers ago was much brighter now, the wool worn down paper thin and there were small holes in the fabric where the insignia used to be, but something was off about his wide smile, something his wife could not quite grasp until one day it occurred to her that his smile crept up only to his cheeks and while the lower half of his face was amused by every little anecdote his eyes were mucky green pebbles with no joy in them, not even sadness, they were simply dead like the eyes of a fish on the butcher’s table.
They did not talk about the war, only occasionally the topic was grazed like when she asked if he knew what had happened to the neighbour’s son – “no” – and if he ever got that Christmas letter – “no” – and if the Russians had been good to him – “no”.
Sometimes he woke her up at night, because in his sleep he cried like she had never heard him cry, a high-pitched wailing like a wounded animal, but if she reached out to touch and calm him he flinched and when she woke him up asking if he had had a bad dream he only shrugged and said he could not remember.
Bunker Archives 