Come and sit with me, young prince. Lay your head on my lap, let me stroke your dark locks. How beautiful you are. Don’t lower your eyes, dear boy, they reflect the sky that birthed you. Listen now, Hyacinth, allow my words to kiss your soul. Let me be your guide through the barren deserts. Follow the wise man in the star-spangled cloak. I will show you temples and obelisks, old empty halls buried in age’s sand. I will teach you to strike the snake and tame the falcon and how to make the secret nectar under heaving cedar trees. I will make you, child, and I will kill you. Ah, now you shiver with anticipation. Rejoice, holy knight, when I have formed you, you will be glorious and gloriously you will be bound, and beaten, and slain. A thousand arrows will pierce you in Apollo’s grove and from each wound shall come forth the morning light of our new dawn. And all the stars will rise again and you among them, eternal light from mortal dust.
Tag: fic
Baldur the Brave
I’m not here, Baldur told himself, I’m not here.
It was a trick he’d tried before, many times, in this place. You’d think he’d have learned by now that it didn’t work. He wondered if Speer was really doing any better walking his circles in the garden and imagining himself halfway to Mexico. For him, that kind of game made no difference. Here or not, he could still feel pain. And distress, and humiliation, and a despair that never went away, just some days he could cope with it better than others. To all intents and purposes, in every sense that mattered, this was real.
There were days when he was afraid to set foot outside his cell, lying awake, queasy, in the grey hours before dawn. Would it be rote indignity and tedium or a hand hauling his head back and a face looming in, its mouth leering as he gasped, the air wrenched out of him savagely. “Yeah, that hurt the bastard – do it again!”
He curled up on his cot and ground his teeth until he thought they would break, afraid to let out the groan, afraid to send it echoing down the long corridor to other bodies in other beds. Terrified of what it might mean, for them to hear, or for what he might be turning into.
“I’ll have him on his knees, I think.”
Baldur was slammed down and held there by two sets of hands on his shoulders. He waited until he had the worst of the panting under control, then lifted his head.
The Englishman rose from his seat behind the desk and made his way slowly around it, to stand looking down at Baldur. He was smoking a thin cigar, his fingers forming a fussy fist around it.
He smiled. “Yes, definitely on his knees. I like him better already.”
Baldur tried to shift his arms. The right one was nearly killing him with the pain from the ligaments they’d torn, wrenching it around as they’d marched him away from scrubbing the latrines. He dragged air through his teeth with a hiss as they dug their fingers into him, leaning hard, holding him down.
The Englishman made a tutting sound, tapping ash from the cigar. “Who made such a mess of his face, the Ruskies playing rough again I suppose?” He reached out his free hand and cupped Baldur’s chin. The hand felt soft and smelt of soap. “Someone should have a bloody word.”
Baldur tried to shake his head free, but the man sank his fingers into his jaw, forcing him to look up. “He wasn’t what you could call pretty,” he drawled, “before. But he has a certain charm, don’t you think? Our cherubic Kraut poet.”
There was a harsh laugh from the men holding his arms. Baldur felt fear stir in his gut.
A thumb rubbed his lower lip until it glowed, warm. “Nice mouth.”
Baldur struggled, trying to spit the man’s hand away. It earned him a fist in the kidneys. Sobbing, he bent double in their grip, his forehead coming to rest on the ground. The men holding his arms applied enough pressure to make him come upright, back onto his knees. He blinked up at the Englishman, flinching as the man tapped ash down towards his face then dropped the cigar, grinding it into the cement by Baldur’s right knee.
He crouched, bringing his face on a level with Baldur’s. “Who owns you?” he asked.
Baldur’s mouth was dry. He stared at the man – at his dead eyes and his cruel mouth – mesmerised. “I am sorry,” he mumbled. “I am very sorry, I-”
“Hanging was too good for your lot.”
He was forced roughly on his hands and knees, held there by the two men for the Englishman’s inspection. His coarse prison shirt was clinging to his stomach with sweat. One of the men was working the waistband of his trousers down over his hips. He struggled, weakly, and had his head ratcheted to the right. The heat of the Englishman’s breath fanned his cheek and he jerked back from it in quick distress.
A hard palm smacked his left flank and his whole body jumped. “Great arse,” one of the men grunted.
“Hear that?” the Englishman grinned down at him. “My lads here like your arse. And since I own it, I get to loan it. To both of them. For as long as it takes.”
“No – please -”
His trousers fell to around his knees and he cringed from the cold feel of the air. The hands spread him. He heard a grunt of satisfaction as a knee forced his thighs further apart. He heard spitting. He tried to hear past it – to something else, anything, to take the awfulness out of this moment.
Pain, like nothing on earth, laid him open and he cried out, his chin bucking in the Englishman’s hand, tears springing up. He was held still by three sets of hands – at his hips, at his shoulders, on his face – and stretched, slowly, remorselessly, until the man raping him could start fucking for real. Then he was sobbing, pounded, his pelvis ground under calloused hands.
“Christ, he’s tight! So good – hot – I’m gonna come -!”
“Hear that?” The Englishman’s voice was roughened with lust, all the finesse gone from it. “My friend here’s going to empty his balls in your arse, you Nazi fuck.”
All three of them were panting. Baldur sobbed, his arms giving way under the assault until he was flat on his face on the floor. Weakly, his hands scrabbled at it, nails splitting, fingers bleeding, as if he could dig his way out, away.
The jolting pace of the rape didn’t let up, the man bending down to bite at the back of Baldur’s neck as he shot his load, bucking so hard Baldur felt the thin skin at his pelvis scraping on the rough floor.
It wasn’t over. The man pulled out of him, so abruptly that Baldur was forced to muffle a scream. His legs were kicked wider and he heard the crunching sound of the other man kneeling between them. The pain of being breached a second time wasn’t as bad, but the man made up for it with the force of the fuck, slamming into him like a maniac, slapping Baldur’s arse-cheeks and calling him a slut, a cunt – anything he could think of to make this more humiliating.
He barely had the strength to scream this time, as the man pulled out with a final slap to his arse and a last muttered insult: “Good fuck.”
Which left the Englishman. Baldur knew, even before his head was dragged up from the ground, what he wanted.
“Suck it.”
Baldur shut his eyes, tight.
“No, you don’t.” As he said it, he pushed his fingers into Baldur’s mouth, dragging it open. Fingers wedged his jaw, making it impossible to do anything other than gag as the ugly length of cock was fed to him, thrusting to the back of his throat. Meat. Salt. The bitter taste of his bile, peppered with iron-rich blood.
He choked, his throat like his gut knotting in fear and revulsion. The Englishman stroked his face with his free hand, making a hushing sound, holding Baldur’s head steady as he started to thrust, sliding in and out, flexing his hips as he moved.
“That’s better. We’re going to train you up good and proper. Just like this. Any time we like.”
Baldur wanted to vomit. He could feel the burning build-up of stomach acid in his oesophagus. He was gagging, gasping for breath. He sobbed, hearing a satisfied groan from the Englishman as he came, moving his hand to hold shut Baldur’s nose so he had no option but to swallow. It seemed to go on forever, slime salting his tongue and teeth until he swivelled his eyes up, begging – silently – for it to stop.
The moment he was released, he fell, his whole body shuddering as he spat and vomited and spat.
The Englishman stirred him with the heel of one foot. “Take him,” he said, “back where he came from.”
Physical Exam
Just a few parameters make the difference between clinical and humiliating, none of which were for Jochen Peiper to set.
Firstly there is the motivation. In any regular clinical setting it’s the patient that seeks the treatment. It’s not the doctor who demands that the patient makes an appointment and punishes him if he objects, but the patient who employs the doctor to relieve him of pain and illness. In Jochen’s case Heinrich Himmler had demanded his examination following the death of his brother. Horst Peiper, who had also been a member of the Schutzstaffel, had died under suspicious circumstances – labelled an accident – and rumours concerning his sexuality had reached Himmler’s ears. Himmler was always very alert when it came to the cleanliness of his subordinates. It reflected badly on Jochen, who now seemed in a different light to Himmler. His beloved boyish looks and will to please suddenly appeared like the telltale signs of a 175er. Overcome with paranoia Himmler devised a test that – although impractical to apply to greater populations such as the prisoners of the Gestapo or the concentration camps – should clear this nasty matter up definitely and hopefully reestablish the trust he had in his young protégé. Himmler left Jochen very little time to mourn the loss of his brother as the man was likely not worth mourning over at all. He promptly put his patient down for an appointment to see whether he had fallen ill with the particular sickness Himmler detested so much.
Secondly there is the setting. White tiles, bright light and educational posters on the walls transform any room into a doctor’s office and different rules apply in those places. Just like a beach is the perfect place for sunbathing and the church is not, it’s the setting that makes it acceptable to strip naked down to the bone and unravel your insides for the doctor to see. A room that is clean in form and color enforces the purely rational nature of any interaction in it. The setting Himmler had chosen in a spontaneous hurry was a hotel room. It was not white and clean, square and practical, but a dark and decadent room. Paintings on every wall, colourful carpets on the floor, wooden furniture and warm electrical light invited for a friendly conversation with a glass of wine and when Jochen entered that evening – despite knowing better – he dearly wished he had simply misunderstood the invitation. And how he hated that table. It was placed in the centre of the room, almost like in an operating theatre, but it was made of dark marbled wood and richly adorned with carvings, so to kneel on it made him feel not like a patient but a meal prepared for dinner.
Thirdly there is the doctor. The doctor dons clothing specific to his profession. The white coat or an armband, red cross on white cloth, transforms a human like any other into a trustworthy medical professional. One could say it’s actually the reverse and the human is merely inhabiting the cloth and role of the doctor, like the hand of the puppeteer, who slips on the puppet Kasper. Kasper defeats the crocodile and saves Gretl, no the hand operating the puppet. Once the hand slips out, it retains no memory of its heroic actions and jest, it remembers merely the movement of its muscles, not the meaning attached to it. Whatever a doctor sees and does, it’s the white coat and the paper of his degree that carry the weight. Karl Brandt was certainly a fine doctor. There was no doubt about this in Jochen’s mind nor about his decent nature, but he did not look like a doctor wearing that black uniform and riding boots up to his knees, an awfully long way up for a man of his stature, and he did not look like one either when he took off his tunic and rolled up the arms of his shirt like a butcher.
Lastly and most importantly there is secrecy. Even those who have never heard of Hippocrates and his oath, instinctively know that a doctor must not divulge whatever he sees or hears in the course of profession. Brandt did not have to break the oath he had sworn to, Himmler simply demanded to be present during his experiment. Since it was his invention, he had to be the judge of its outcome. Jochen complied quietly, careful not to bite off his tongue. Himmler took a seat in the front row, a garish, red armchair, from which he watched Jochen intently through his round spectacles, eventually leaning forward, resting his chin on his hands to outright stare at the patient.
Jochen undressed in the awfully luxurious bathroom and was grateful for the last bit of privacy. He took off his uniform and underwear, and placed each item hastily folded under the sink next to his boots. It took longer than usual, he struggled with the buttons, his fingers were weak, he felt numb. He didn’t recognize the feeling, but he thought it was anxiety, he just couldn’t remember ever having been so dully anxious, not in school, not while climbing trees or mountains, not with a grenade in his hand or in anyone’s hand.
He looked at himself in the mirror above the sink. Two dark eye sockets stared back at him and a thin line, and under that was an angular pair of shoulders, bones protruding like clipped wings and under that every muscle was tense. You could see the line on his neck where the uniform covered his skin and the colour of it changed from pale to transparent nothing. Hardly hidden by that membrane the veins shone through, a fine blue net spanning across his chest. He scanned his own image for blemishes and irregularities. There was no sign of sickness, but then again not all sicknesses did have visible symptoms and when had his brother ever seemed ill like that?
Jochen told himself it wouldn’t be any different than the examination he had gone through when he joined the Schutzstaffel. He hadn’t felt even a tenth of this anxiety then and his entire career had depended on that moment. He imaged it, like eight years ago, when it was all white and distant and that image calmed some of that awful feeling in his stomach but as he opened the door and was back in that dark room, now naked and feeling as thoroughly naked as you can only feel next to men in uniform, the anxiety returned and would not subside again.
Jochen had wondered if Brandt would act differently as a doctor than as a person. If maybe he was one of those men who slipped into a character, all smiles and kind nods. He was definitely not that kind of doctor. He was even less humane now in his persona. All pretence of nicety that socializing demanded from him was gone. He treated his patient like cattle. No word was spoken, no order given if Brandt couldn’t just move the patient’s body like one of the puppets they used to train medical students. A firm grip on Jochen’s chin, head up, head down. Brandt’s eyes crawled over Jochen’s features, scanning. They were dark, dull, impossible to read anything in them but a distant hint of disgust, not personal, but all-encompassing.
Head up again, two fingers prying his mouth open. Brandt ran the flat of his thumb over Jochen’s teeth. Left, right and over his tongue, pressing down on it too and leaving the taste of humiliation and also of something chemical, disinfectant or maybe just the base note of the doctor’s skin.
One unexplained silent procedure was followed by the next. Arms up. Spread your fingers. Stand straight. Stretch. Taller. Brandt dragged his palm over Jochen’s sides, up from his hips and under his arms and there again his thumbs, pressed into his armpits with a circling motion. Himmler moving in his armchair, fingernails in his hair and his racing heart; only sounds like these were amplified in the muffling silence of the room.
Brandt pointed to the dinner table. Get on there. On your knees. Jochen baulked at the thought of it, of him on there, exposed, ridiculous, but he did of course do it, crawled on the table, eyes averted from the spot that he knew held Himmler.
The surface was cold under his knees, because Brandt’s hands had been so warm. The doctor grabbed him by the neck and pushed him down on his hands, impatient but without anger, purely practical. Jochen naturally resisted, his mind was willing to follow any order but his body tensed and pushed against the pressure, instinctively fighting the force that wanted to push him down on all fours until they overcame it together, the hand on his neck and his own will subduing that primal feeling in his stomach that told him to run, run, run and bite.
His resistance was entirely irrational, he could not find words to describe it, but he clearly saw it, a visceral image of a shorn dog shuddering and digging its claws into the smooth surface under its paws. There were no claws of course and he did not shudder outwardly, but he was a pet, one that could be put down any moment its master didn’t like it any longer.
He could see the master from the corner of his eyes now, a black and white spot encased in red leather, staring at him, his glasses reflecting the ceiling light just right to create the illusion two huge, perfectly round white eyes, a insect with magnifying glasses for eyes.
On the other side of him Brandt was leaning over his doctor’s bag and rummaging around in it. The noise was metallic, followed by the sound of rubber gloves pulled over his fingers. The kind of sound that once you have heard it you could never forget.
Brandt returned and there they were again, his now rubberised hands on Jochen’s back, counting each disk of his spine, tap, tap, regular like a clockwork. Jochen understood why Brandt had made him get up on the table, why kneel like that and why he had put on the gloves. Certainly not to count his bones. He would touch him in other places, touch him inside and he would make sure Himmler could see and judge and punish or reward accordingly. The knowledge was cold water in the back of his mind and it ran down his spine with each of Brandt’s touches, lower down into his core and quickly his entire body knew, goosebumps forming and a numbness in all limbs as they were drained of blood.
When Brandt let his thumb slide between Jochen’s cheeks and into the concave of his asshole he expected it, yet his mask slipped and he bit his lip to muffle his protest and then bit harder to concentrate on the pain, concentrate on anything but that feeling when Brandt stroked him there, entirely unsensual, like you would rub a spot of dirt on your clothing. But it didn’t feel unsensual and that was worse than the invasion of privacy. It felt like an itch offset just slightly on the sensory scale, a needy pleasure that demanded repetition and a harder, deeper satisfaction. New and unnerving, because of how sexual it was and should not be. He was fighting it, biting harder and thinking about anything but that sensation and in these days anything but the material was his brother and it was those hot summer days when they had been conquering forests in the improvised uniforms of the early Hitlerjugend and to think of any of that while being so wanton made his skin crawl with disgust.
Suddenly Brandt withdrew and went back to his bag. Clear metallic sounds. Himmler adjusted himself in his seat. Brandt returned and placed a heavy item on the table in front of Jochen. It was made of shiny polished metal, like a pair of scissors except it did not have blades for closing and cutting but round spoons to be inserted and opened. It looked like a modern make of a medieval torture devices, entirely awful, because he couldn’t help but stare and image what it would feel like to be spread open by it.
“If you don’t behave we will have to use this,” Brandt said and it wasn’t a threat but a fact. Without further ado he pushed Jochen down until his cheekbones touched the table and his ass was propped up, leaving him even further exposed. The metal tool reflected the white of his face back at him. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from it.
A wet sound, lubricant spread over Brandt’s hand, a pleasantly clinical smell followed by a finger, cold and wet, finding his opening and then pressing into him, slow and steady. His body complied all too easily, welcoming the intrusion to a point, then resistance and with steady pressure Brandt pushed past that and into him to the knuckles. It didn’t feel like he thought it would from the tingling outer sensation, it was erotically neutral and mildly uncomfortable. It felt foreign and that was good, because it didn’t feel good and there was nothing to hide.
Brandt curled his finger downwards, scraping his insides. Searching and finding his prostate and then it felt good in the way that Jochen didn’t want it to feel good, deep in his body, a warm pressure and buzz that he could feel in his cock too. A second finger probed him, pressed alongside the first and slid in just as easily and as hard as the first and then hastily a third one and this one hurt like something was tearing and he felt stretched and full, but looking at the speculum, measuring with his eyes just how wide it could be opened, he knew it was nothing and the shame he felt was nothing compared to what it would be like to be opened by that for them to see.
Three fingers, stretching and wiggling and then curling again to stroke the spot inside of him and it was worse, one kind of pressure mixing with another pressure, heightening both sensations. And of course Brandt knew and he would not stop teasing that spot with cruel precision. First with taps, just like on his back and slow circling motions and then subtly, gradually he started moving his fingers in and out, twisting them and jabbing them into him so abruptly Jochen thought it would rip him. And that sound, wet and sexual. It was just his fingers, and Brandt did smell like hospital, but he was fucking him, fucking him like any other man would with his dick, greedily pushing deeper. Another finger, four now, and that really hurt, but Brandt wouldn’t cease, like he found some perverse pleasure in seeing just how much Jochen cold take and Jochen pressed his eyes shut and swallowed his moans, but it was pointless. His cock was hard on his stomach, pink and leaking. Impossible to hide, impossible to hold his voice back any longer. So he was sick after all. He had always known there was something wrong with him, him or his entire kin, but not this.
The first moan was a croak and embarrassingly loud. They didn’t laugh or punish him. Himmler was still silent, motionless except for that slight change in the angle of his head, reflected on his glasses. And Brandt jabbed harder at his insides, one hand on his hip to steady him, again and again, building up some boundless pressure with each trust and the pressure wasn’t wrapped around Brand’s fingers any more or in his cock but spreading down his spine and down his trembling legs, not in waves but gradual, permanent, almost unbearable that it wouldn’t end, that it would just keep going like that. He heard himself sobbing, taste of salt on his lips. And then he stopped caring, stopped eyeing the looming black figure and stopped building the damning image of himself in his head and just pushed back against Brandt’s hand to feel him just a little deeper. The pain of that pushed him over the edge but there was no fall, no waves or twitch, just a violent feeling like being rent apart very, very slowly, but there was no pain, but a deeply satisfying, finally releasing pleasure.
Jochen was lying flat on the table, sticky spunk under his belly and salt burning his cheeks when he felt a hand on the back of his head, stroking him there. “You did very well, Jochen,” Himmler said.
Ehrendolch
Something about that dagger spoke to him. The shine of its blade and those dark letters embedded in the light. “Meine Ehre heißt Treue” it said, but when he held it in his hands and stroked it gently like a small animal, it seemed like the lines fell apart, scuttled like ants and rearranged in front of his eyes into letters he did not recognize. Sometimes it did not speak, but whispered. When he held his ear to the blade it hummed a constant rhythm. Not Morse code, more like a beat or chant. The longer he listened, the more it started to sound like a song he might recognize and if he listened just a little longer, he thought, he might remember the lyrics too, but the closer he came, words almost forming in his mouth, so dry on the tip of his tongue, the quieter it sung. Eventually he gave up on understanding it altogether and treated it instead like the relic of a nameless god. He made the rules of his church up himself, but the dagger never did object to his worship and on a pious day he thought it felt a little warmer and hummed a little faster.
Tauschhandel
You are reading at your desk when he opens the cell door. You know him, he is a frequent visitor. He steps inside and locks the door behind him. The old game. He pulls a letter from the inside pocket of his jacket. Crayon flowers adorn the envelope.
“Look what I have for you, a letter from…”
He pronounces her name like a brand of cereal.
You carefully close the book you were reading and put in a bookmark on page 48. You stand up and reflexively move your hands to straighten out your pants and pull down your tunic. You walk over to your visitor and kneel in front of him. You stare at up him, patiently waiting for the ritual to commence.
“You’re a good boy, “ he says and pats you on the head. He is ten years younger than you.
He waves the letter back and forth like a treat.
“What does the American dog say?” he asks.
“Woof,” you say.
“What does the German dog say?”
“Wau.”
“What does the Nazi dog say?”
“Please.”
He clicks his tongue and shakes his head.
“No, no. That’s not right. That’s not what it sounds like at all. More passion!”
“Please,” you say dragging out the vocals, letting them vibrate in the back of your throat.
“Oh, that’s nice,” he says and fans himself with the envelope.
He drops one hand in front of your face. It smells like piss. You wonder if they do that on purpose or if they actually are this filthy. You lap at his hand.
“Good boy,” he says. Unimaginative.
He opens his pants. He’s hard. You don’t want to look at it, but you always do. He presses the tip of his dick on your lips. He reeks like arousal and more piss.
“So what does the Nazi dog say?” he asks and cocks his head.
“Please,” you say and your lips drag over the wet glans.
“Please what?”
“Please let me suck your cock.”
Funny, you realize you have never said words like these in German. What an awful language they speak.
He jabs his dick into your mouth. The taste is vile. You suck him off.
“You’re getting good at this,” he says.
He’s right, you are. They aren’t content with just fucking your mouth anymore. You have to put in the effort and service them. It’s a little more humiliating and little less painful. He comes so quickly. They are all children. You swallow his semen. You’re not allowed to spit it out. You used to do that once they were gone, put a finger down your throat to get the dirty seed out of your belly and burn their taste off your teeth. But then you got very skinny and you thought of the people who needed you and now you swallow and smile when they slap your face, and when they ask if you liked the taste you nod and say “Ja” with that funny intonation that they like so much.
He wipes his cock on your face and drops the letter at your feet. He turns to leave, but then he stops, reaches into the pocket of his pants and pulls out a piece of candy wrapped in red and gold. He drops it in front of you. You pick it up and say “thank you”. When he’s gone you add the small nugget to the collection under your pillow. You’re so happy. Eight pieces in all the colors of the rainbow, eight pieces for the eighth birthday of your little son. It’s not much but it’s all you can give him.
Two Minutes
Reinhard’s face connects with the carpet, his face smeared in a hot, brilliant burn.
Better than last time; Lina’s nails digging into his scalp, cracking his forehead again and again against the wainscoting until a firework display erupted behind his eyelids.
“You’re disgusting,” she says.
Lina does take good care of her nails. Neat little crescents. They burn as she rakes them up his back. He can hardly stand it but where is he going to go? His eyes water against her knee as he rocks back and forth and presses his face against her thigh.
“Please,” he whimpers.
If they had more time Lina would make sure he felt like a slave in his own homeland. He could crawl naked through the cold puddled earth of Halle, her boot pressing down on his neck, his breath bubbling up from the wet mud.
“You’re going back to Salon Kitty?”
She asks the question but she already knows the answer. It’s only the cue for him to present himself to her. On all fours, even before he arches his back his arse presents itself nicely.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says.
“Well then.”
Which is all she needs to say. Heinrich keeps his position, on his hands and knees. He shivers at the sound of a rubber glove snapping onto Lina’s arm. Of course she wouldn’t touch him there with her bare skin. The glove itself is thick and ridged, she needs to get a proper grip after all.
“Don’t move you dirty little boy.” Lina smacks his balls when his pelvis starts twitching despite itself and tries to fuck against the dry, heavy duty material covering her hand.
Ejaculation is a necessity, Lina tells him, educating him with a long suffering look. One day they will find a way to cut out the male orgasm altogether but for now it can be a source of amusement to her at least; his desperation and the desperation of all males really. So unable to control themselves, so eager to hump against the nearest object.
If he’s going to Salon Kitty, he needs to be focused on what’s important, he can’t be distracted. Lina opens a container and shakes a liberal amount of rock salt onto her hand.
Reinhard doesn’t try to thrust into her hand.
At least at first.
His erection hangs heavy between his legs. It’s pulsing. He can dip his hips and wank himself against the sandpaper touch of her hand but if makes more of a show of himself.
Makes more of a show of his hips, his arse, thrusting up into the air while the salt stings his prick to a swollen pink mess.
The precome dripping off him doesn’t help. Just something for her to laugh at, to feed him. Does he think he’s clever? All she needs to do is play with his letter opener over his cockhead and he’s begging.
She strokes him. Closes her fingers around his shaft, drags the crystals of salt all the way up and all the way down again.
He does have a pretty glans, so pale pink, barely touched. She pulls his foreskin back and works the rock salt over the head of his dick. It looks like it’s weeping for her and she laughs. She picks up one little crystal, balanced on the pad of her forefinger and then presses it against his slit.
He’s still hard.
Lina sighs pushes him down onto his belly. Spreading his buttocks wide his damp little asshole is winking at her. She dabbles her fingers into the salt again and gets ready for the milking.
“You’ve been working very hard, Reini, so you can choose,” she says.
“I’ll stroke you off like this.” She presses her hand into the salt again. “Or no one touches your cock for another month.”
Zuckerbrot und Peitsche
Peiper is still looking at the map, gloved fingers holding firmly onto it, so the cold wind can’t tear it out of his hands. He’s got his head drawn in deep into the collar of his leather coat, worn out body hiding under those cracked folds that look like the remains of a starved animal. He has no idea where we are, no one does, the sky is a cacophony of detonations and fire and we all, whatever is left of us, just need to get out, but where to? And we all look to him, hoping he will lead us to safety, willing to follow him into certain death.
There is an American on the side of the road. Plump, brown and half frozen to death. He’s got no coat, his fingers are blue and he doesn’t speak at all. Peiper won’t even try to talk to him. He’s still looking at that map and then throws just one quick glance at the American. I’m close enough to see the change in his expression, for the fraction of a second there is disgust in his eyes, so familiar it makes my stomach churn. Then it seems like he looks through the American, so endlessly bored, and back to the map. No command, no comment. His silence grows louder, it muffles my ears, almost swallows the rumble of artillery in the distance. I know what he wants me to do. He’s not even studying the map, just looking at single point on it, thinking maybe, as he waits for me to remove the nuisance and finally get rid of the man.
I lead the American a few steps away to the wall of a bombed out building, not out of sight or hearing distance, just far enough that no stray bullet can hit one of our men. The American doesn’t understand what’s going on, he looks at that wall and back to me and back to the wall. I drive a bullet through his head and he instantly drops down like a wet sack.
Peiper hands me a handkerchief to clean the blood and other, grislier residue off my hands. I keep it, because he doesn’t demand it back. It’s white with a blue line around the edges and his name embroidered in one corner.
It smells like I imagine he smells, gasoline, old leather and the faint hint of women’s perfume. It’s probably just the pocket of the coat it’s been in, probably just that he used it before to wipe some spilled liquid, but the smell becomes inseparable from him in my head and the note of blood I added to it too.
He despises my love for him, but he doesn’t reject it. He gives me small gifts. That handkerchief, a piece of chocolate, a dazed smile when the high hits him, a firm hand on my shoulder, a pat on my back, concerned questions about the condition of my hand and that awful fracture. He’s so moody though, all smiles one moment and his boot on the back of my neck the next, hissing at me through clenched teeth, how I could dare to look at him like that, calling me vile and disgusting when I squirm and twist to taste the sole of his boots and I say yes and sorry and I think about how he could have me shot or hung or worse for having these thoughts, but more terrifying than the fear for my life is knowing that he is right and I do deserve it.
In the end dreams and reality become hard to separate. It’s all one, my depraved desires, little thoughts in the back of my head, the taste of his skin, the hardness of his body and the cold of his eyes, half experienced, half imagined. One of these nights I find myself kneeling and begging at his feet and how kind of him, he allows me to rub my face on the front of his pants and lick the coarse wool of it as I pull myself off with freezing fingers. Clumsily because my dick is only halfway peeled out of my uniform and every touch is a painful burning sensation. In a moment of compassion he closes his coat around me. I am engulfed by darkness and then slowly warmth and that smell of leather, gasoline and mud. I don’t get a single drop on him, but I faintly wish I had, so the stain could serve as a sign later to discern memory from fantasy.
Caesar
“Show me,” Kurt said, “how did they patch you up?”
A tremor went through Max’s body, hardly noticeable were it not for Kurt’s hand on his stomach, placed there like one would place one’s hand on a small animal, careful not to break it.
“Perfect, good, it’s fine. It won’t be a problem at all,” Max said, his gaze fixated on Kurt’s forehead. The sweat on his upper lip exposed the lie. That was unacceptable. “Then show me,” Kurt said, smile drawn up to his eyes, which in contrast to the friendly curl of his lips perfectly matched the cool tone of his words.
The shrapnel had grazed Max across the stomach like a Caesarean section, a horizontal cut a hand width below his navel, just under the waist of his pants, which had clearly pressed and rubbed on the bare skin for a while. The cut was roughly stitched with thick, white thread now turned pink, the same colour as the sore skin around the cut. The blond fuzz of his lower abdomen did nothing to hide the condition of the wound. Kurt comically tilted his head and bent down to examine the piece of body exposed to him. Having scrutinized it for as while he pressed his index finger on the cut. Instantly, like a gun firing as you pull past the last resistance on the trigger, Max’s abdominal muscles clenched, very obviously so to Kurt, who was almost close enough to kiss the quivering body. He shook his head disapprovingly. “So this is what you call good, Max? It looks awful, frankly disgusting. They didn’t even bandage it and now look at it. Appalling.”
“It won’t be a problem,” Max repeated through clenched teeth. It was endearing really, in good spirit, but also entirely stupid and dishonest too.
“Ah, Maxi, Maxi, Maxi.. It’s really admirable what you’re doing,” Kurt said and he followed the line of the cut with the tip of his finger as if to emphasize how much praise Max deserved, causing the exact opposite effect, painful punishment. The gash in Max’s flesh though felt exciting, above and below was the soft, fuzzy skin and in the middle the sharp, very faintly moist edge of the cut and it was trembling too when he touched it. It was the sort of thing you wanted to touch again not just instinctively like an itching scab but deliberate and consciously, to feel every tiny sensation it had to offer, like the wet cleft between a woman’s thighs. The stitches were so far apart that when Kurt pressed on the slit, lips curling again in that familiar u-shape and a delighted twinkle in his eyes, the flesh yielded, split like a thin mouth and spread open to reveal the red, wet insides. Max gasped.
“Does that hurt?” Kurt asked pulling one corner of his mouth up even further, the crooked smile looking particularly cruel. Max nodded slowly as if any hasty movement could cause the finger to be plunged into the wound on its own. “Splendid,” Kurt said and with that word he did push into Max, under his skin, just a bit, but enough feel the wet heat inside and more than enough to make Max squeeze his eyes shut and groan, the sound rolling from the back of his throat and trembling when he exhaled it. Kurt thought it sounded an awful lot like the sort of noise Max made during orgasm.
Once the first onslaught of sharp external pain had faded into the dull pain of internal penetration Max looked down at Kurt again and that funny looking finger inside of him, eyes wide, struggling to comprehend the reality of the scene. “What doesn’t kill us only makes us stronger, don’t you agree?” Kurt said, winking. He gently curled his finger inside of Max like he would do inside of a girl to feel the rough texture that made her clench around him, but it felt all the same inside of Max, like freshly cut meat and fat skin that he could peel off if he wanted. He rubbed it anyway to see what would happen. There was that groan again, more controlled but still ripe with memories and then Max put his hands on Kurt’s shoulders, steadying himself that way to endure the pain, breathing out loudly every time Kurt teased him with another caress.
Max had that particular quality of instantly recognizing and submitting to authority of any kind, whether authority deriving from chains of command or from charisma. He fit right in, without complaint, doing his duty and what qualified as his duty was not up to him. It was essentially a good quality, but horribly encouraging to men of sadistic character. Fortunately Kurt loved him too much to find any enjoyment in prolonged abuse. “Well done, boy,” he said as he pulled out, drawing one last gasp. “You are not going to lie to me again, are you?” Max shook his head and still panting smiled wide. When Kurt squeezed his shoulders, mirroring where Max was still holding onto him, Max bared his teeth into a grin that swallowed all of his other features. They looked like two very happy hyenas about to embrace each other.
Jedem das Seine
(part two of Lerne leiden ohne zu klagen)
When Prieß finally turns to look at him it’s still no release. Muster would be the more appropriate word to describe it, as if he was surveying a landscape of his own, equally observant as unaffected, taking in every little detail from the hard line of Jochen’s lips to the tensely curled toes. That sort of gaze could strip a clothed man and peel the skin off one already nude; like layers of an onion, unravelling and tearing, down to that hidden core and then in a sudden bout of primal urge crush the small thing between his teeth and taste its sweet water.
The thought tickles the back of Jochen’s neck and makes his hair stand as if someone had gently placed a kiss there or not so gently ran fingers through his hair whispering in his ear of private matters.
If only he wasn’t so romantic about things. Such trivial thoughts.
“When I see you in your uniform, out there,” Prieß says, “I am always reminded of a little boy playing dress-up in his father’s clothing.” And taking a step closer he does not fail to notice the effect he has on his subordinate, who holds his breath and raises his chin higher in a laudable but failed attempt to cover weakness with pride. It wouldn’t be seemly to ask Jochen if he was scared, to humiliate a man who had already delivered himself up. A true nobleman hates slavery in every form, most of all, that which could emanate from himself. Jochen recalls reading that line once in a book on a cold Sunday evening in Berlin, and it resonated with him then, such an idealistic thought, one that would never hold up to reality, as he suspected then and knew now.
When Prieß stands in front of him – quiet, composed, yet undeniably menacing, not like wild beasts, fire and iron but like bleak prison cells and scaffolds and the drab grey of his uniform – he doesn’t have to say it, even unspoken the question is on his lips, that uncontrollable smirk, which mocks and hurts Jochen yet brings him some joy to see too, marvellous as it is, enviable and so familiar, he can almost feel it on his own lips. Jochen can only answer the unspoken question in the affirmative by the common and commonly understood gesture of lowering his eyes, the innocence of that gesture so very jarring for one who just yesterday washed the enemy’s blood off his hands (under cold running water, the filthy sink filling up pink as endlessly he scrubbed under his fingernails not quite managing the get them clean but in his vanity also refusing to cut them to a more practical brutish length).
Disregarding the order of things, ranks, names, deeds, forgetting the war and its benefits and unpleasantries, stripped naked and toe to toe with Prieß the differences between them are painfully obvious: Prieß’ age, his composure and less complicated, more immediately demanding attention, his towering height. Jochen is staring at the collar of Prieß’ uniform, looking through it and waiting for a sign, for an order or a touch. It comes with a stroke of the fingertip along the scar on his arm.
“I think I prefer you this way,” Prieß says.
His touch is gentle but not without pressure, like the touch with which one would inspect for wounds a skittish animal. It wanders along Jochen’s arm, stomach, hip, finds traces of battles, pretty and not so pretty ones, red and white and purple. Under inspection the feeling of objectification returns inevitably but now, strangely, the feeling is welcome.
How little separated him from the abysses of the human condition. If he was to be the servant – the pet, the slave, all the same, what did it matter? – he would not be subdued against his will. Would that make it better or worse? Still the thought is exciting, how easy it is, like flipping a coin, one moment master, the next slave, if everyone played their part.
Prieß’s hand remains on his hip, a firm hold, and his breath on Jochen’s forehead, tickling and warm. Jochen does not look up at Prieß, has been neither forbidden to nor allowed, is left hanging in between and the moment stretches, and to his surprise he finds his arousal growing, entirely out of his control, cheeks reddening, breath quickening, and he knows it’s up to him to put an end to it, he won’t be ordered, this is his choice, he wants this, twisted as it may be (and how twisted it was, he knew that).
Prieß is waiting patiently, more statue than man, while Jochen debates the options of proposing a course of action, such as suggesting he could be trusted to keep quiet if Prieß wanted to use him again, like last time, or any other way, as he wished, he wouldn’t mind if it was going to be an unpleasant experience, no, not at all – and hoping he would be understood with phrases that in their childish vagueness embarrassed him, yet were still easier to assemble than to say out loud how much he craved Prieß’s cock, to touch it again, to taste it, to feel it inside of him and to suffer.
A graphic image forces itself onto him, bestial filth of the lowest kind. As if watching from a distance he can see himself, naked as he is now, on all fours, writhing and moaning, and Prieß on top of him, mounting him, and the two of them copulating like animals. In that grotesque scene they are one, like man and wife or two parts of the same. This is what he wants more than anything else now and it’s a relief, the way being defeated reliefs one of the struggle.
He looks up at the familiar face. It seems comforting in its lack of emotion.
“If you want to fuck me in the ass,” he says, pronouncing the ghastly phrase like he’s holding filth at an arm’s length, “I think I could enjoy it.”
Prieß pats him on the head in a fatherly fashion. He takes Jochen’s hand and guides it to rest on the closure of his trousers and Jochen can feel that this time Prieß is hard already, waiting to be served. It gets to him, that silly, womanish sort of pride to please and to be desired, teacher’s pet, sunny boy. He drops to his knees, eyes up, asking for approval, given with a silent nod. Eagerly, like he would want it himself were he in the reverse position, he mouths at the hard outline of Prieß’s erection, bitter taste of wool on his lips. Before he can lap at it Prieß grabs him by the hair and pulls him away.
“Wait,” he says and Jochen waits and watches, staring, as Prieß opens his belt with a clink and very slowly unbuttons his trousers and then finally pulls out his erect cock. The musky smell of it so strong it’s revolting.
“Open up”, Prieß says and Jochen opens wide, stretching out his tongue. The tip of Prieß’s cock is glistening wet with precome. He wipes it on Jochen’s tongue. “Swallow,” he says and Jochen swallows the fluid that tastes like nothing first and then salt and urine. He feels like throwing it up again, emptying the contents of his stomach at Prieß’s feet just to rid himself of that taste.
Prieß smiles at the apparent expression of revulsion on his face. “Do you withdraw your offer to serve?” he asks.
Jochen clenches his teeth. “No.“
Prieß yanks him by the hair and Jochen wishes he did not, but he follows the implicit order, opening up again. Prieß slides his cock into Jochen’s mouth all the way and then some, tightening his hold on Jochen’s head, pulling him closer, adjusting the angle to push his cock in as deep as it can go and as Jochen gags on it Prieß only pushes deeper, sliding down his throat. Then he fucks his mouth. Jochen can’t breath and he can’t stop gagging. It’s worse than before, deeper, more brutal and he can still taste it, salty, filthy, going down his throat and his own spit is sour from the acid welling up with each stifled gag. The invasion is ruthless, nonstop. After a painfully long while his throat stops twitching, he is opened up. He feels lightheaded, hears only the wet slurping sounds of his throat being fucked like a cunt, and he feels nothing. Prieß pulls out and lets go of him. Jochen slumps to the ground.
As he’s lying there, coughing, dizzy and without drive to even wipe the spit from his mouth Prieß is standing over him, his engorged cock in one hand, the tip of it is grotesquely red and covered in thick yellow mucus, the other hand opening the buttons of his tunic for ease. The image is banal and Jochen can’t look away.
“Do you want me to stop?” Prieß asks. No, he does not, not now. I am yours if you want me, it echoes in his head. How very naive.
Prieß bends down and flips Jochen on his belly. Jochen lies still, listening to the rustling of clothing, knowing very well what was to come, nervous anticipation sinking into his stomach. Prieß gets on top of him, his full weight resting on Jochen’s hips as if he hadn’t voluntarily submitted and required to be wrestled down. Some fumbling, readjusting, and he pulls him up by the arse, stroking and squeezing the firm cheeks for a while before spreading them to slide his cock between them.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, “as good as any girl.” He sounds different, the lust in his voice is crude and obscene.
Holding his erection in one hand, and holding Jochen still with the other, he still struggles to squeeze the slick tip of his cock into Jochen’s tight arsehole. It doesn’t hurt yet but it feels like it would any moment, the hard thickness of the erection pressing in, to rip into him, to split him open, like a finger through the eye socket or a bayonet through the abdominal wall. In a sudden rush of panic at the intrusion Jochen tries to jerk away but he is held firmly in place.
“Calm down,” Prieß says and it’s no reassurance, It’s an order and an insult, and he leaves Jochen no time to calm down, forcing his cock into him with a brutal stroke. Jochen cries out in pain. Now it does hurt and it feels foreign, not sex, no union, just an awful assault, stretching and aching and on the basest level, most shamefully he just feels like he needs to defecate.
“I thought you were used to this,” Prieß says but it doesn’t feel like it, the ways he’s clenching around his cock, tight pink ring around the base of it, he can barely pull out. “Fuck, has no one ever had you like this?” he says not expecting an answer. He covers Jochen’s mouth. He pulls out and thrusts into him again and again and harder and faster, breaking him in, until he is loose enough to be properly fucked. And Jochen learns to arch his back and he hates how it feels, offering himself like that, taking that cock deep, but only for the pain, only so it wouldn’t hurt so bad, wouldn’t leave permanent damage. Muffled screams die down to a whimper. Jochen is crying and he’s glad Prieß can’t see it. The pain won’t subside. He can’t move, Prieß is lying on him, the heavy weight of the man crushing him, making it hard even to breath. His thrusts get more rapid. Like a humping dog. He grunts into Jochen’s ear. He holds him tighter, fingers digging into his hips, hand hard on his face, pulling and twisting it back, so close to snapping his neck. One last thrust and he’s buried to the hilt in Jochen’s arse. His cock twitches, pulses and he ejaculates deep into him with a satisfied groan.
Some seconds pass with Prieß just lying on Jochen’s back, the older man spent and exhausted, his cock growing soft. Then coming to himself he begins to fuck him again with slow rolling movements, pulling all the way out of the puffy red hole just to see it gape open and twitch, before thrusting his cock in again. Jochen lies still, trying to ignore the wet slurping sound of it and waiting for it all to be over. The burning fades to warmth. He feels like he urinated, warmth spreading under him and he realises with helpless revulsion that his cock is half hard and leaking come. He tries once more to get away from Prieß but the man won’t let go of him. He fucks Jochen until his own cock is too limp to force it back into him.
Then he gets up. He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes himself clean. Too weak to stand up just yet Jochen crawls back to his uniform. Prieß throws him the handkerchief. Jochen looks at it with disgust before picking it up to wipe the sticky mess off his arse and off the floor. Prieß watches him while he buttons his trousers and tunic back up. He looks unaffected.
“Did you enjoy that?” he asks matter-of-factly.
“No.”
“I got a different impression,” Prieß says and
cruelly
lets the silence hang between them.
Jochen pulls up his trousers. Prieß’s come is dripping out of him again, forming a wet spot in his underpants.
“Will you report this?” Prieß asks.
“No, of course not,” Jochen replies.
Prieß nods and leaves him without any further word, like nothing happened.
Jochen closes the last button of his uniform, then the little clasp that tightens the high collar around his neck. He slides back into his boots, walks over to the window and looking at his reflection fixes his hair. It is like nothing happened. He feels whole again and clean.
Lerne leiden ohne zu klagen
Das lebhafteste Vergnügen, das ein Mensch in der Welt haben kann ist, neue Wahrheiten zu entdecken)
The lack of agreed upon rules makes it hard to determine what is and isn’t allowed. They haven’t negotiated a language of their own, no contract was made when afterwards Jochen sat panting at Prieß’ feet asking only for a pat on the head. So when he meets Prieß again it’s like nothing changed and Jochen’s offering wasn’t any different than any of his other services, leaving no mark on Prieß’ impeccable bearing. They are still soldiers foremost and the distance in rank between them does not allow for camaraderie even if Prieß was willing to extend it, and Jochen admires that he does not.
It shouldn’t make any difference, it is his duty to serve, sentimental attachments belong to the home front. And to expect favours in return, even of only an interpersonal nature, leaves the sour taste of prostitution in his mouth.
All of his feverish fantasies wiped away by Prieß’ unchanged, cold demeanour Jochen proceeds as he did before, finding small pleasures in standing to attention under his uncaring eyes (or maybe there is a hint of amusement in the corners of his mouth), in the prim salutes and the ever unconditional affirmatives of his orders. And then in the rare moment of privacy again in helping Prieß out of his coat and out of his boots. Only when he’s kneeling at Prieß’ feet, hands clutching the leather shaft of his boots, does it overcome him, an unseemly desire to drop on all fours, to crawl and to beg with his tongue and watch his own reflection in Prieß’ cold eyes. It’s only a flicker of lust and he does control it, merely glancing up at Prieß, submissive in so far as the lowered position makes it seem that way and in that he can not help the sadness in his eyes.
His eyes meet Prieß’ and he realizes that he has been watching him intently. “Haven’t you had enough?” Prieß asks and it sounds like an honest inquiry but it still hits Jochen like a slap to the face, his attempts to control the sickening twist of his stomach visible only from the clenching of his jaw. Now all the tension is back and he needs to carefully choose his words, but there are no words that could save his face when he’s been called out so pointedly and before he can form a sentence Prieß speaks again.
“I can’t allow it. You are well aware of the legal situation and the ethical implications, especially in my position. If we are seen and, when put to the test, you lose your temper, I will hang for it.”
The words come as a surprise but also a relief. Jochen knows he’d never incriminate his superior and it’s easier to refute this idea than any implication about his own desires. “I don’t lose my temper,” he says with slight indignation, “I offered myself to you of my own accord and if questioned I will take all responsibility on myself. Anything else is beneath me.” His unwavering return of Prieß’ stern look seems to convince him of his sincerity if Jochen reads the softening of his expression correctly, so he tries, adding, “I am yours if you want me.”
Prieß smiles at that, a strange sight, equally disconcerting as it is gratifying. “Lock the door,” he says and Jochen does so, slowly to keep his impelling anticipation in check. When he turns around again Prieß is standing by the window looking outside, the pale light casting shadows under his cheekbones invoking the image of a death mask. Straight and proud with his hands crossed behind his back and like in thought still or in observation of the outside he doesn’t turn to look at Jochen when he says, “take off that uniform, I don’t want to see it.”
The prospect of following that order is unsettling to Jochen. Not being nude, that isn’t an issue per se. He isn’t dainty about these things, as a soldier you can not afford to be and it isn’t becoming to any German to be squeamish. The body is a tool and first and foremost just that. But to slip out of the uniform and the protection it provided, discarding the very thing that justified his obedience to Prieß, that makes them alike, is another issue entirely.
His hesitation is clear to Prieß from the long silence in the room, only filled by the occasional sound of water dripping from the roof and downstairs doors closing and steps in the mud.
“If you can’t do it, you may leave,” Prieß says.
A gracious promise, and what should Jochen do then, lose himself in fantasies completely, tie a shoelace around his neck one day and never come back from it? Pathetic. Retreat is not an option. He takes off his uniform. Belt and tunic and shirt accompany his cap on the floor. He folds them carefully as they have been taught in training, the collar tabs displayed, and before he proceeds he halts and for a moment looks at the neat little patch declaring his rank and he finds some comfort in knowing that taking off the uniform doesn’t strip him of his rank.
The boots must come off without help and while he gets out of his breeches, socks and underpants Prieß doesn’t look at him once and Jochen thinks maybe it would be easier if he did pin him down with his eyes, the intensity of his order visualized. But he is on his own and regardless of his bearing it makes the simple act of undressing feel seedy.
Now he’s standing naked in the dim light of the window, his pale body beautiful but like an eyesore, out of place in the dark, sparse room. He has the build of a swimmer thanks to his favourite way of spending a summer afternoon and despite not having had that sort of entertainment in a long time. His torso tapers to a slim waist, a pronounced Apollo’s belt and a patch of thick dark hair, which proceeds in a thin line over his stomach up all the way to meet the hair on his chest in the deep dip of his sternum. The veins shine under his skin in a cool shade of purple. He looks worn out, lean like a hunting dog and entirely lacking in softness. He is standing like a soldier, hands at his side, eyes forward, but he feels like a slave on the market square.
Bunker Archives 