Tag: fic

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

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

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

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

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

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

Interbellum

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not selling. I’m buying.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do what?”

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

“I write.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Belated

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

–

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

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

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

“Happy Birthday,” he says.

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

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

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

“I have something for you,” he says.

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

“What is it?”

“You could open it and find out.”

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

“Is this…”

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

“How did you do this?”

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

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

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

“But-”

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

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

“Have you read it?”

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

“Hermann-”

“Like you read to me when I was…ill.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Naturally.”

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

“I should be leaving,” he says.

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

“No,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, oh,” moans Goebbels.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Triumvirate

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.” Max sounds winded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Demimonde

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Emmy,” he instructs.

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

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

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

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

“Don’t open your eyes,” Emmy says.

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

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

“Lift your skirt up, Joseph.”

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

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

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

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

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

“No, wait, I-”

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

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

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

“Take your hand off her, Joseph.”

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

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

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

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

Hermann hums.

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

“A very modern girl.” Hermann nods.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hermann-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Joseph,” Hermann says.

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

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

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

“Look at yourself,” Hermann says.

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

“Look,” Hermann orders.

So he does.

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

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

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

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

His vision blurs to a comforting haze of colours.

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

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

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

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

Nachspielzeit

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(an addendum to this)


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

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

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

Fire & Wünsche [x2]

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

–

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

Sedative 2

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Göring gives Goebbels a little something to relax him but misjudges the appropriate dose (sort of a sequel to this but it’s not very important)

Göring places the palm of his hand on top of Goebbels’ chest. His little doctor, his little sparrow. Always he can’t help clucking the diminutive with affection when it’s prefaced with a note of ownership; sometimes so saccharine that Goebbels will squint at him in terse suspicion and Göring will merely smile, more-so when they both know it can’t have been a week (a day!) since Göring was grumbling ’that little viper’ about him to others behind closed doors over some disagreement or another. Right now his little viper is sleeping like the dead, the rise and fall of his chest barely perceivable. Like a maiden from a fable, Göring thinks wryly and leans down close enough to give him a waking kiss, double checking that he can feel the subtle exhalation of his breath.

Next time he wants to relax the little doctor he shall have to be more mindful of the dose, creating a Sleeping Beauty was certainly not his intention and who can say how close they’d flown to real danger. The notion of some ‘what if’ can’t disturb the pacific calm he feels though, his own handful of pills doing their job and wonderfully numbing his (vestigial at the best of times) capacity for such concerns. Besides, he thinks looking at Goebbels, perhaps this isn’t such an unfortunate accident.

Satisfied he is breathing, now Göring does kiss him. The small body beneath him doesn’t stir at the touch, not even when Göring pries his jaw open none too gently and laps inside it, sloppy and self indulgent. The soft, wet, utter passivity of Goebbels’ mouth banks the formless thrum of arousal these opiates sometimes bring on in him – he feels it in the near numbness of his fingers pressed into Goebbels’ cheek, a buzzing under his skin, the pleasant, lazy swelling between his legs.

He opens up the buttons of Goebbels’ white shirt and works his skinny arms out of the sleeves, they lay like abstract wings on the bedspread under the   naked curl of his arms, wrists falling a little to one side from where Göring places them on the pillow beside his head. Bare chested it’s easier to see the languorous tempo of his lungs, impressive bellows for such a slim cage, or that is how Göring imagines them as he  covers the span of Goebbels’ ribs with both hands, thumbs resting on his sternum. He adds pressure, feels the bones flex under his weight. For a moment he feels like he is peering through a keyhole, to some glimpsed shape of the truth of whatever this improbable thing is that lies between them.  

There’s a little more difficulty in unwrapping Goebbels from his trousers, but more pleasure too. Göring patiently tugs the dead-weight of his unusual doll one way and then the other, shucking him nearly naked. The skin from his belly to his ankles is pale. The cut of Goebbels’ clothes are trim enough but still hide something of the delicate nature of his frame and this – Göring strokes the brace buckled tight around Goebbels’ leg and then unfastens it.  He holds the heel of Goebbels’ crippled foot in his hand and turns it slowly back and forth, his eyes travelling up the unfortunate limb to Goebbels’ peaceful features. Any other time and Goebbels would be as tense as a bowstring, regarding him like a cornered terrier, frightened and as likely to bite as not.

He picks the brace back up and, smiling to himself, casts his eye around the room until he alights upon a set of folded blankets. Clambering off the bed and over to the pile with a certain ungainly sloth to his steps, he tucks the brace underneath the blankets. He pats the topmost blanket free of creases (and for their dutiful service) and slips his robe off from his shoulders, stepping out of the puddle of silk toward the foot of the bed. Standing there, he reaches down to grasp his prick and stroke himself over the sight of Goebbels slumbering sweetly oblivious to it all. The pulse of blood into his cock is hot and sluggish, he’s still barely hard but there’s a luxury to the slow squeeze of his fist, pride in appreciating the gradual, magnificent rise of his erection.

He drapes himself over Goebbels to slide his thickening cock against the soft, shy thing between Goebbels’ own legs. He realizes he could leave some dark, sucking bruise at Goebbels’ neck without the strident, piping sound of protestations in his ear for once and so that’s exactly what he does; even knowing the tearful spells and icy silences with Magda have been in full storm season lately and one more indiscretion to hide is the last thing poor Joseph needs. There it is though, Göring admires the maroon bloom while he ruffles his fingers purposefully through Goebbels’ hair to leave it sticking out in gamin, askew tufts.

Still not so much as a sigh or twitch of a finger as he turns Goebbels over onto his stomach, turning his cheek to the pillow so he isn’t smothered and stuffing a second pillow under his hips to raise them. Göring spreads apart his thighs and there’s the dusky pink knot of Goebbels’ hole. How mortified Goebbels had been the first time he told him how pretty it was, speechless with embarrassment. Göring rubs his thumb against it and groans in pleasure at the promise of the heat that lies beyond.  

He slicks up with a little spit and nudges his cock head at Goebbels’ entrance, the knowledge of what he is about to do (pierce his little sparrow to the hilt in one savage thrust) drops like a plumb bob from some bestial part of his brain straight down to his groin. Goebbels’ eyelashes lie still on his cheek, his body defenceless against any of it and Göring drops his head to kiss him on the arch of his cheekbone before his right hand flexes on Goebbels’ hip and he drives into him, deep and hard.

Oh. Every inch of him throbs with pleasure, the exquisite pressure of it is perfect, even the friction from taking him nearly dry. Tight enough to work its way past the slight haze of the opiates and even so he knows he can fuck for hours before the final edge is toppled past on these pills. Goebbels’ hole will be even prettier then won’t it, ruined and aching and owned. Göring pulls Goebbels’ body back against him as he starts to fuck him like a rag-doll.

Foreign Correspondent

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You are so lucky, you will get to meet Max Wünsche, Hitler’s bodyguard and the Leibstandarte’s most handsome tank commander. You are so excited. Many times you have looked at the photos you cut out of the German newspapers, where he smiles so wide. You had wondered how tall he actually is and what his voice sounds like and what he would smell like when he leans in to kiss you.

You put on the outfit you have picked out just for this day and pored over so often. A purple dress resembling a dirndl, as short as common decency allows, a pair of black heels that make your legs look so shapely and a cute little jacket that draws all the attention to your neck.

You regret your choice of clothing in the unheated army truck that brings you to the front. You are freezing. You never knew Russia was this cold. But the night is clear, the stars shine bright and you think of how romantic it would be to kiss Max under the star-spattered sky and a full moon.

You forget all about the awful car ride when you make it to a little Russian village that is still smoldering from today’s battle. There are German soldiers everywhere singing, drinking, celebrating but you have only eyes for Max. He is easy to spot surrounded by his men, towering above them and sucking up their admiration. He is so much more handsome than on the photos and he sounds just like you had imagined. When he looks at you and smiles, teeth flashing, you get weak in the knees. He asks about where you come from and what you are doing in this awful place and all the while he looks down at you as if he wants to eat you. You would not mind at all if he did.

You can’t believe your luck when Max leads you away from the other men into the quiet dark of the village. He doesn’t put his arm around your shoulder as you had imagined it, but you are happy anyway that you are so close and so alone with him.

Away from the camp fires you are cold again and you regret not having brought a coat, but you wouldn’t be here now with Max if you had wrapped up your cute body, would you? You tell him, shivering and giggling, that you hadn’t thought Russia was so cold. You hope he will get the hint and give you his jacket, like men that look like him do in the movies.

Max instead points at a nearby tank and says that this is his Tiger – the way he says ‘Tiger’ makes you want to meow – and that it is still quite warm in there from the heat of the engine. He suggests the two of you get in the tank. The thought is exciting, seeing a tank from the inside and not just any tank but his tank and he will be in there with you too. It feels like he invited you in his home, you just have to make it to the bedroom. Shaking with excitement you can barely walk on the frozen ground. The heels make matters worse. Max notices and extends his hand. You hold on to it feeling like butterflies in your stomach, but it’s so many of them, it makes you queasy too.

With Max’s help you walk safely to the tank. You don’t know anything about tanks, but you know it’s his tank and therefore it’s absolutely magnificent and suddenly not boring at all. You don’t have much time to look at it. Max grabs you by the waist, his hands almost closing around it. He is so much bigger than you. The touch is electrifying and you squeak in surprise. He chuckles, lifts you up and puts you up on the tank. He follows you up onto the tank and while you are still thinking about the way his hands felt on your body he opens the tank’s hatch and motions you to get in.

It’s light enough from the moon and distant fires to see outside but the opening to the tank is a black hole. Looking at it those nervous butterflies return. “I’m right behind you,” Max says and winks and you could melt. You climb into the tank, sit on the commander chair – his chair –  and look around. It is not as dark as it seems from the outside, rays of light shine in through narrow slits. You are amazed there is so little room in such a big vehicle. There are two other chairs and then a lot of things you don’t understand, metal bits stick out everywhere, and the ceiling is so low. But it is warm and you think you don’t need much space to sit on Max’s lap anyway.

You get out of the way and Max follows you inside. You can’t see his face, you wish you could. He crawls closer and into a ray of moonlight. He looks so charming. He can’t see you blush, but you think he must hear the frantic beating of your heart and he must know why you are pressing your legs together when leans in closer, so close you can feel his breath on your cheek.

There is movement outside. Your hear footsteps and whispers and then much louder the metallic sound of boots on the tank, walking over your head. Someone comes climbing down the hatch. You look at Max with wide eyes and raise to say something, not knowing what. He silences you by putting his index finger over your mouth with a sharp ‘psst’. You don’t understand what’s going on, but you obey, you trust Max.

Another man comes down the hatch and another. It is getting very crowded. They are all around you now, you don’t know how many. Maybe four, five or six. Wool, hair and skin appear and disappear in the rays of moonlight. They act so strange, silent and shrouded in rustling darkness.

Max still smiles wide when he covers your mouth with one hand and with his other grabs you by the hip. He pulls you around to sit on his knees like a little child. This is their signal. Suddenly they all crawl towards you. They smell like alcohol and sweat. Their silence is broken and they speak with low voices, much too fast for you to understand. You feel their fingers on you, rough and dirty, tracing the outline of your body through your dress. You understand now and you scream but the sound is muffled by Max’s hand. You try to get up, but Max holds you firmly in his lap. You punch and kick but your body is weak and they have many hands. Your panties are pulled down. You are grabbed by the ankles and your legs are spread. Max’s trousers feel rough on your bare bottom. You try to focus on that feeling and on how broad and strong his chest feels in your back. His breathing is shallow and rapid. When you twist your head you can see his face out of the corner of your eyes. The sharp line of his jaw and a wide grin like he wants to eat someone but it’s not you. He never does look at you, no matter how much you cry and scream into his hand and that hurts even worse than when the men rape you. It hurts that he only looks at them when they fuck you, like you are just a piece of meat stuffed between them. And it hurts that he doesn’t fuck you, doesn’t mock you or spit at you either, just leaves you used and discarded.

Theodōros

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It’s the mild tone that makes Jochen weak at the knees and the sad look in Theodor’s eyes when he says: “You really disappointed me this time, Jochen.” And then much quieter: “You were my favorite.” It stings like a slap in the face. There is that weakness in Jochen’s knees again, that damned urge to bend them and he is always fighting it, writing it out in letters, bragging, soaking up admiration from the young ones, pushing himself to his limits, bathing in adrenaline, gasoline and blood, but it’s no use. What can one do if one desires nothing more than to crawl in the dirt at someone’s feet than find one worth submitting to, one who deserves him?

Jochen lets the name ring in his head, forms it silently with his tongue behind closed teeth. Not Teddy, that English bastardization, but stern and ancient Theodor, Theodor, Theodor. What a lovely name it is. The gift of god sits on the tip of his tongue, sweet and sticky. He wants to swallow it but he is never quite in control of his tongue and the name slips out. It hangs in the air like an invitation. It sounds different, not like his voice at all, small and weak and pleading.

There are so many opportunities to be scolded. Jochen is being very unruly, sometimes outright disobedient, always biting the hand that feeds him just because he can. He is driven by the urge to find out how far he can go until someone makes him stop, but Theodor is too good, too forgiving. Any act of defiance just glances off him, leaving nothing but a kind smile. It’s cruel to be so nice to a man who does not want niceness. Like slowly pushing a needle into his flesh, too slow to really cause any pain. At least not a sharp pang but the dull, throbbing sensation of penetration and a want for more.

Theodor laughs, genuine and jovial. “Why would I want to beat you?”, he asks and puts his hand on Jochen’s shoulder like a friend. There is not a trace of condescension in his voice, but Jochen’s knees ache and his cheeks burns and he can almost feel the weight of the blow, strong enough to send him tumbling. He would have to beg for it, he realizes then, spell out in every detail, what he wants him to do and why and Theodor would not judge, he would be very kind and would do just as Jochen needs. There is a ball of anxiety in his stomach, a bundle of images and words he just needs to untangle, pull the silver thread and come undone. He hears himself say it, foreign and distant. Hurt me. Humiliate me. Punish me. How beautifully pathetic he sounds.

Theodor’s hand is still heavy on his shoulder and finally the pressure increases and he forces Jochen down on his knees, shivering with anticipation.