Tag: fic

Dicker Hermann

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At the end of the road, under the yellow light of a streetlamp stood three young men in civilian uniforms. Their brown caps threw dark shadows over their faces hiding every feature but their grinning mouths. In profile it looked like they had the heads of dogs, long snouts and teeth bared to a snarl. I hid behind a car watching them as they pulled the cobblestones out of the street and threw them with strange precision into store windows, deliberately breaking some and sparing others. When they walked away the nails under their shoes went ‘click, click, click’. I listened and waited. As soon as the sound had disappeared into the distance I ran home. I ripped my name off the plate next to the door bell and sat behind the closed door all night, listening for an opening door, a breaking window or the ‘click, click, click’ of nailed boots.

When I went to the office the next day that street was still littered with glass. Small shards of it in the cracks between the cobblestones reflected the sunlight like pools of water from a nightly rain. People stopped and stood and wondered. A whirlwind had blown through the city, shattering the windows of shops and apartments and then disappeared as fast as it came, leaving us all to wonder if it had just been a bad dream, were it not for all of those tiny crystals.

In 1933 the dogs in the brown caps formed the German government and they came and dragged me to their lair. Watching from behind closed curtains none of my neighbors saw a thing.

The new Germans dwelled in a water tower in the middle of an old working class district that once was red and now was silent. The tower that held their prisoners stood high above the many-eyed house fronts and in between the two worlds there were only 50 meters of trees and screams.

They brought me to the engine room, the belly of the beast. It was cold and wet and smelled like sewage. There were no windows, just a few weak light bulbs, which conjured up as many shadows as light. Many men with their sleeves rolled up past the elbow came ‘click, click, click’. They didn’t ask any questions, they had all the answers. I was an enemy of Germany, a spy, a sodomite, a communist, a Jew. I was everything that did not belong, all the things they hated and feared. They made me their golem, a filthy mass of primordial sin formed into a human-like shape. Soon my limbs were swollen and purple from the beating. Naked and filthy I was born anew.

An old man came to play with me. He wore an expensive looking double-breasted suit jacket with a party pin on it, wide riding breeches and tall black leather boots, polished to reflection. He had the rough features of a prole, but judging by the way he walked and talked he thought himself an aristocrat. When he became excited he had a dirty mouth like an alley cat and dirty thoughts too. He put water in my bowels, filled me up until my belly became so swollen and breathing so hard I thought I would burst. I begged and cried and said I would do anything if he stopped. He told me that he was an important man and if I did well he would let me go back home. All he demanded was for me to hold the water inside my body for some time. Looking at his golden pocket watch he counted down each second. I tried very hard, but to control – and be the subject, not the object of it – was no longer part of my vocabulary. Crawling through the puddle of my own mess and begging him to let me try again, begging him to fill me, I distantly remembered what shame felt like.

Eventually I managed to please him. I was let go a week later, not knowing whether he had kept his promise or the men had simply gotten tired of me.

When I dragged myself up the stairs to my apartment the neighbors were holding their breath and listening behind closed doors. I called my employer to promise I would be able to come back to work in just a few days. He had already found someone to replace me. Permanent loss of vision in one eye and a nervous affection made it impossible for me to find employment again. I sold all of my belongings and emigrated.

Hours

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Kurt Meyer is not impressed with Canadian prisons.


The worst thing about prison is that it’s so damn boring. Everything is well organized, clean and safe. The walls are white. The bars are smooth. There are no laces on my shoes. I eat my food with plastic spoons. When they want me to see the sun they walk me like a dog on a leash. I don’t understand how they think they can fix me this way. It’s hardly a punishment. Mopping the floor, dusting books and cleaning toilets isn’t even half as effective as being strapped to a post and beaten to unconsciousness.

I spend hours laying on my bunk with my arms crossed behind my back humming to myself, thinking these funny little things. The problem with being left alone with your thoughts is that once you have thought them, you think of something else and whatever you were thinking about before just disappears and with nothing new ever happening you end up thinking the same thoughts over and over again like the hands on a clock going round and round.

At 1 o’clock there is Sepp’s birthday party, jugs of foaming beer, sweet schnapps and plates overflowing with pork and potatoes.

At 3 o’clock I slip and fall off that damn roof and break my legs into two dozen pieces and the pain is so damn bad I can feel it to this day – every morning when I wake up and I just want to drag myself over to the toilet and throw up.

At 4 o’clock the tanks come rolling in with a deep rumbling in my stomach. In the distance the artillery plays us the last concert and planes fly like the flocks of crows when it turns night.

At 8 o’clock I remember what the Americans told me about the camps. I imagine a naked little thing torn to pieces by a pack of dogs as the black-clad guards watch laughing. The dogs come running back to their masters, tails wagging and snouts full of blood. A tongue darts out between the reddened teeth and licks its master’s hand. Good boys.

At 9 o’clock it’s piles of corpses with their hands still held high over their heads.

At 10 o’clock it’s the crackling of burning straw.

At 11 o’clock it’s me and Max in a filthy kitchen with a woman of no good stock between us. She says something and I only understand the familiar “nemec, nemec“. She smiles and pushes Max away from her and then she’s on the table and she doesn’t smile anymore. Somewhere in the corner a cat cries, or a child. She doesn’t even wear anything under her skirt. The smell of her cunt is so strong I would eat her out if she wasn’t such a stubborn thing. I tell Max to fuck her. He looks like he doesn’t want to, but with my hand around his dick and a few quick strokes he’s hard and willing enough. She doesn’t even fight back when he thrusts into her. They are used to this sort of thing here. I watch his dick go in and out of her. Flesh rubbing on flesh, clinging together in a twitching embrace.

At 12 o’clock the come is leaking out of her onto the wooden table, dripping on the dirt floor below like spilled milk and I laugh and say to Max we should find her kid to lick it up. That smile. Max always knows what I want. He sits down between the legs dangling off the table, opens his mouth wide like at the doctor’s and stretches out his tongue. A single, milky drop falls onto it. He swallows the bitter pill and looks at me for approval. I’m so happy, I must look like a little child. “More,” I say quietly. He hates it. That vile taste. But he laps it all up, mine and his come, the thick mix that’s oozing from her cunt like pus. He sucks it off her folds and swallows it down coughing.

It’s 1 o’clock again at Sepp’s party. I wink at Max, stretch out my tongue and dip it into the foam of his beer. It just keeps going round and round.

Sweet Gerhard

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(This is Silke Heydrich x OC. Silke Heydrich was gorgeous when she grew up, and I have always thought if the Reich had lasted into the 60s that she would be a celebrity. She was a wonderful singer and did opera and was a model too. Enjoy!)

He read over the letter he had just written for the eighth time, just to make sure he didn’t sound like an idiot.

“Dear Fräulein Heydrich,” it read, “my name is Gerhard and I’m 20 years old, the same age as you. I’m a Luftwaffe soldier and I’m stationed in Warsaw. I keep a photo of you in my wallet and look at it everyday. I am such a big fan of yours. Me and the rest of the boys watched your newest movie recently and I had butterflies in my stomach when I saw your face, and when you began to sing I wanted to weep. We have never met, but I am so in love with you. I would do anything to meet you and I hope someday that I can. In the meantime, my birthday is tomorrow, December the 15th. I know this won’t reach you by then, but it would mean so much if you could send a reply as a present. Here is a picture of me, I hope you like it.

Eternal love,

Your Gerhard.”

He decided it was good enough. He had expressed his love without sounding totally pathetic. The picture he had included was the one of him in his uniform. He was happy that he had been exercising. He looked slim and toned in his uniform, he thought, and his jaw looked good. His head was turned at almost profile view, but he made sure to not turn it completely so she could see his eyes. His mother always told him he had beautiful eyes. He hoped Silke Heydrich would think the same.

He put the letter and attached picture into the envelope and licked it shut, shivering at the thought of her long finger tucking under the flap and lifting it up. It was the closest his tongue would ever get to touching her skin. He gave it to the quartermaster to send out. The man looked at the “send to” address and smirked.

“Good luck getting a reply,” he said as he walked down the hallway, collecting the other mail.

Gerhard felt pathetic as he trudged back to his cot. The other boys laughed and poked fun at him but he didn’t care. He knew they just didn’t have the courage. He knew that if she were here now, all of them would be close to cumming just by looking at her. As he lay in his hard, cold bed, he pulled out and unfolded the picture he had of her in his wallet. It was from a photo shoot she had done at the beach. He took great care with it. It was a color photograph, lucky him. Her skin was bronzed and the sun shone on her thighs. Her arms were lifted above her head, resting upon her blonde hair that was wavy and flowing in the wind. Her mouth was opened to portray a carefree smile. Her full lips hugged her pearly white teeth – she always talked in interviews about how she didn’t smoke, didn’t eat meat, didn’t drink (the Führer’s dream girl, quite honestly) – and it showed in how her smile reached her eyes.

He remembered when he read about her favorite perfume he had gone to the department store just to smell it. They were sold out but the girl at the counter gave him a sample for his “girlfriend” and he dashed home and up to his room. He sprayed it onto his shirt and inhaled deeply while looking at her laughing and bathing in the summer sun. Then he knew what she smelled like; rose and musk and tobacco.

He put the picture back in his wallet and tried to fall asleep, ignoring his hard cock pressing against his muscular thigh. His last thought before he fell asleep was whether or not Silke would find it big.

December 24, 1959

It was Christmas Eve and Warsaw seemed deathly quiet. They weren’t allowed to go home, but they had a day off. Gerhard stepped into the shower and let the hot water run over his toned back, sore from the discomfort of his damned metal cot and scratchy sheets. He sighed.

Most of the men were getting drunk and opening presents from their wives, girlfriends, and families. Hans’ girlfriend sent him a new watch and a photo of her in lingerie, which he happily showed everyone else (even though his lover said explicitly in the letter that it was just for him), and Hugo’s mom sent him a very warm-looking blanket she had made, which no one laughed at because they knew Hugo was going to be ten times warmer than they were. Poor Dieter got a letter from his fiancé that she had moved on, and she had included the engagement ring he had given her. The other boys felt bad and were now pumping him full of vodka and beer, telling him they would go into town with him to pawn it and use the money to get him a pretty girl for the night.

Gerhard stepped out of the shower and dried himself off, pausing to relish in the warmth of the steam. He was nervous to go to the quartermaster and ask for a package. He was afraid that all he would get is a smirk and a package shoved in his hands that said his name in his Mama’s script. Not that he wouldn’t love her gift of course, but only one package meant only one thing; Silke Heydrich had either never gotten his letter, saw it and didn’t bother to read it, or read it, laughed, and threw it in the bin.

Nine days was more than enough time to see it, respond, and send the response back to him. Warsaw wasn’t too far away from Berlin. Or was it? He slipped on his civilian clothes and warm jacket and trudged down the hall to where the quartermaster was, handing out mail. He saw Gerhard and sighed. The boy was such a dreamer, it was a wonder he was doing so well in such a testosterone fueled environment with how sensitive and romantic he was. Gerhard was the same height as him but he looked like a 3 year old boy prepared to be scolded. He rifled through the mail, looking for anything Gerhard could have gotten.

Gerhard watched as the quartermaster seemed to falter. He looked at the young soldier with a small grin, his eyes crinkling at the outer corners as they squinted.

“Merry Christmas.”

He tossed two items at Gerhard and walked away, tending to the other men. Two? The first, larger one was from his Mama, probably a letter gushing about how she loved her little boy. He set it aside to look at the other one, which was a letter. Probably from his grandmother who lived in Hambur-

He gasped loudly. He couldn’t help it. His hands were almost shaking. The enveloped was soft and felt expensive, if an envelope could be expensive. He looked at the sender’s information and thought it must be a joke. He turned it over and saw a seal on the letter, bright red with a Fraktur-esque H on it. No one would try this hard to prank him.

By this time some of the other boys had gathered around him. One of them opened his big, stupid mouth.

“Gerhard got a reply from Fräulein Heydrich!” He shouted.

Gerhard quickly grabbed his Mama’s package and dashed out into the snow, sprinting away from the base, ignoring the shouts from the other boys. None of his superiors chased him. He ran until he found a large, dead oak tree. Perfect. He found a hole in the cool grey bark and nestled into it. He began to open the letter from his idol but stopped himself. He felt as if his mother was right there, guilt-tripping him. He could see her now, moping around the kitchen in her apron and cooking something, like she always did.

“You would really choose a silly girl’s letter over the package Mama sent you? I worked very hard on it, meine Geri…”

He frowned and put the envelope down gently, as if it were the Aryan goddess himself he was holding in his hand, and picked up the package Mama had sent. He opened the letter and quickly scanned it. His mother had wrote about how proud his whole family was of him and that they missed him and how his little brother wanted to fly planes just like him. He grinned as he saw she had sent a blanket, better than the one Hugo’s mom had sent him. He was sitting in the cold snow, after all, so this was perfect.

He wrapped himself up in the thick warm blanket and shoved his mother’s letter behind him so it would not blow away. He looked down at the soft vanilla envelope he had so regretfully put down before and began to feel hot. He still couldn’t believe she had actually replied.

He picked up the letter and saw his name written in her beautiful script, polished and manicured just like her delicate hands. He traced his finger over it for a moment and squeezed the envelope. It felt like there was something more in there than just a letter. His heart wanted to burst out of his chest.

He quickly flipped the envelope over and opened it, deciding to keep the seal as a good luck charm. He pulled out a letter and something small wrapped in paper. Although he wanted to rip open the small parcel he set it down in his lap and turned to read the letter.

“Dear Gerhard,” he wanted to burst into tears of joy, “I have gotten your letter and I am very flattered and happy that you wrote to me. I am so proud to have such wonderful, brave men as you write to me. Your devotion and love for the Reich are the only thing making it possible for me to have such a wonderful acting and modeling career. I saw your picture. You make a very handsome soldier! It must be very lonely and cold out there in Warsaw, I wish I could be there to keep you company. In the meantime, here are a few things that may comfort you a little bit. The photo is from a photo spread that is soon to release. Merry Christmas and happy birthday, my sweet Gerhard.

Love,

Silke Heydrich.”

He was crying now, sniveling like a little baby. His name was in her handwriting. She had called him handsome and brave. She wished she could keep him company. He was now her sweet Gerhard. He would happily die here and now, he told himself, until he remembered the little package sitting in his lap. He gently sat her letter down and began to open the lightly wrapped items.

He held in his chapped hands a signed photo and a white silk handkerchief with a red kiss on it. Her lips, he realized. He brought it up to his face and kissed the mark, inhaling the scent. She was so sweet. She had even sprayed her fragrance on it. He moaned as he kissed the soft piece of cloth, grateful to be this close to actually kissing her. He held up the picture. It was her in a silk slip lying upon a couch, pearls laying across her neck and her long legs graced by a pair of kitten heels. Her shiny blonde hair was down and curled, flowing around her face. Her eyes were done up just a little and she was wearing what looked like the same red lipstick that was on the handkerchief. Had she planned all of this?

His cock was throbbing and leaking precum. She was the only girl he ever thought of at night and now he didn’t feel like an obsessive little boy for doing so.he unzipped his pants and his cock popped out by itself, eager to be touched. He removed his gloves and moaned quietly as the cold from his hands wrapped around the shaft with his hand. He then had a better idea. He switched hands and grasped his hard cock with the handkerchief. It was almost as if her hand was touching him and she was pressing her lips against it, her red lipstick would leave a beautiful mark. He looked at the picture and began to stroke himself. He was so deprived of sex, he couldn’t afford a whore until he got his pay.

He imagined the blonde vixen moaning as he slid into her, she would be so tight and wet and warm, a comfort compared to nasty little Warsaw. He wondered what her bare breasts looked like. We’re her nipples large or small? What shade of pink? How hairy was her cunt? Did she like anal sex? Would she suck him off? What did she taste like? He was desperate to know, but all he could do was answer those questions with what he wanted to hear as he stroked himself with the soft square of fabric. He moaned loudly, echoing in the forest.

He stroked faster, harder. His balls tingled and he knew he was close. He found himself lost in the picture, lost in her beautiful blue eyes. She was probably a slut. She probably enjoyed the idea of millions of boys and men the same age (or older) as her father thinking of her as they jerked off or fucked their women.

He cried out her name and came onto the picture , covering her face in his hot sperm. He told himself to clean her up. A woman as fine as her didn’t deserve to be stained. He licked the photo clean, the taste of salt making him think of her bronze skin.

He closed his eyes and felt her cup his face with her manicured hands. They were warm. She kissed his forehead.

“Merry Christmas, my sweet Gerhard.”

Wünsche vs Peiper II

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Max Wünsche and Georg Isecke find themselves discussing an infuriating Kamerad

These are the days where Wünsche finds his bonhomie stretched thin; strife like a bone about to snap through skin, snatched scraps of rest curled on his side with his palms tucked into his armpits, vigilante stiff against the intrusion of  a sleep deep enough to dream in. The distant rumble of artillery fire wants to drill its way into his groin, adjutant to the irksome, infuriating phantom of Peiper, memory and wish, the spectre of thwarted conquest.

The last time he dreamt he was butting his forehead hard against Peiper’s. No pain. A hollow booming sound. A slow motion close up of Peiper stepping on his own toes and stumbling, falling to his knees, gazing up at him with bored loathing. A superimposed image of his iron cross and the fierce bridge of his collarbone, one inflexible mirror of that straight brow and mouth, his sense of unassailable dignity. He’s never seen Peiper stumble in in his life. The sight shocked him awake.

Tramping out with Isecke over the bare, lean carcass of the land he blows warm air into his hands, gloves stuffed in his pocket. The sound of their boots crunching across the hard earth muffled by the fur at his ears. They stop at the edge of a sparse woodland. Isecke stamps the ground.

“You heard where his division’s headed?” Isecke says, squinting into the forest.

Wünsche rolls his shoulder and pulls out a tin flask. It cap squeals unhappily as it’s unscrewed.

“Rain’s been holding things up, state of the roads.” He puts the flask to his lips, tips his head back. The sky is uniformly grey. He hands the flask to Isecke who drinks and coughs and drags the back of his fist across his mouth.

“Christa says,” Isecke drops his fist to his chest and beats it clear. “You threw a punch at him back at the Berghof,”

“Yeah.”

“That must have felt good.”

Wünsche snorts. He likes Isecke, they understand each other. He grabs the flask back, drinks long and grins, hissing the burn of whatever cheap piss it is out through his teeth.

“You have no idea,” he says.

He’d been wearing his dress uniform. So had Peiper, buttons all polished to perfection. He’d seen himself lunging, captured in miniature in each gleaming bevel. You would have seen Peiper caught in his, spitting blood and no laughter, just a smirk.

“Brückner had your back on that?”

He shakes his head. “He didn’t report it.”

Isecke’s fingernail is scratching at a cordite burn on his sleeve, he stops and looks up, eyebrow raised.

“What’s he going to say?” Wünsche’s lip curls. “Didn’t even try and hit me back. Fucking nancy boy.”

“Yeah, it’s obvious the only reason he got-” Isecke stops and shoots him an apologetic look.

“What?”

“Well, you know…” Isecke squares his thumbs and index fingers together like he’s framing up a camera shot. “He made a good impression with the right people.”

“The right person.”

Isecke looks at him again, that same squinting, half-smile of uncertainty. “But not like-”

“A real soldier,” Wünsche cuts him off. “No, the little prig.”

“Christa’s keen on him.”

“You mean she starts getting her seat wet when he smiles at her.”

Isecke shrugs. “Girls go for that attitude.”

Wünsche clasps him on the back of his neck; short, coarse hair tickling his palm and gives him a rough shake.

“And what the fuck do you know about what girls go for?” He laughs.

“Ask your sister,” Isecke says mildly, knocking his elbow against Wünsche’s side

He turns his gaze skyward and Isecke does the same. The sun’s making a tentative effort to break through the haze of cloud-bank. It looks to be about nine o’clock; by ten o’clock he has to be with Reizel and Wollheim. Isecke pulls his watch out and shows him the face and he grunts.

“Someone needs to give it to him anyway,” Isecke says. “A proper beating.”

“A proper beating.” Wünsche nods.

“Or a proper-” Isecke licks his chapped lips. He doesn’t finish.

If he moved his hand an inch he’d be able to feel the curve of Isecke’s skull. He thinks about his dream again, how it broke before he’d had Peiper’s head between his hands.

“What he needs,” he says slowly. “Is to be put on his fucking knees.”

He drops his hand to Isecke’s shoulder and squeezes. His uniform is thick and a little damp with cold but he can feel the way he tenses and then the way that tension melts, his shoulder slumping as their eyes meet in conspiracy. Isecke gives a low whistle.

“Yes, sir.”

A hail of brittle leaves shower them as he shoves Isecke bodily back against the nearest tree trunk, his breath exploding from him in a sudden cloud.

“You think so?”

“I heard him call you a lout once when we were drinking,” Isecke says. “I wanted to ram my bottle down his throat.”

It hangs between them, the thought of Peiper’s sardonic mouth stretched into an unfamiliar and generous circle.

“Make him choke on it,” Wünsche grins.

“You could.”

“What?”

“Make him choke on it.”

Isecke’s fists close around his belt and tug hard. The back of his uniform rasps against the tree as he slouches, pulling Wünsche toward him. Wünsche hooks his arm around the trunk, soft, dark bark sinking under his nails.

“What else?”

“On his hands and knees.”

“Cover him like a bitch.”

“Make him yelp like one.” Isecke is panting eager as a hound himself.

Wünsche presses forward, his cock jammed up against Isecke’s hip and Isecke swallows, the heel of his boot stuttering through the leaf litter between Wünsche’s feet.

“That’d be a picture worth printing.”

“Fuck.” Isecke groans.

He thinks of Peiper making the same kind of noise under him. Fucking that stoic silence out of him. All his clever comments degraded to a handful of pleas, or better, whimpers. Isecke reaches between them for for his belt and he leans against him, forehead knocking against forehead.

“You think he’d cry?”

“After.” Wünsche growls. “Into his fucking pillow, right.”

His lips are still bared in a sneer as Isecke shudders and tips up his chin; angles in as though he might kiss him and Wünsche snaps his teeth together in warning. Isecke turns his head and Wünsche scrapes a bite against the corner of his jaw, lets his tongue press to the gap of Isecke’s skin between his teeth – a hint of stubble and salt  and nothing like how he imagines Peiper tastes.

“Come on,” he urges, “come on.”  

Isecke’s fumbles with his gloves and then his fist is wrapped around both their cocks, wet heads slicking together as he moves his hand, moves his hips. The tree bark crumbles away under Wünsche’s fingernails. The pale mildew scent of the forest is too strong, too clean. He buries his nose in Isecke’s neck and pictures Peiper on his hands and knees again, between them; a room humid with the sweat of men, him, Isecke, the whole damn division. No orderly turns, fucking him until they can’t any more and it stinks of the come covering his face, streaking his thighs.

Isecke makes a low groan when he spills. Wünsche rams against him with his chest, breathing hard, jaw twitching tight as he follows silently.

A longer silence follows, punctuated by the shaking sound of their breath.

“So,” Isecke says.

Wünsche pulls him away from the tree and pats his back down vigorously.

“So fuck him.” He checks the time again. “Let’s go.”

Wünsche vs Peiper I

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Peiper just does not like Wünsche and his toothy grin. It makes his skin crawl.

Peiper could never do Wünsche’s act, the grandiose behavior, the boisterousness, the natural chumminess. He has to force himself to put on a face. He hates speaking to groups of men, all of them hungry to find a flaw, all of them distant and unpredictable and he can’t look at all of them at the same time to see which way they are turning.

Hordes are a nuisance to him. Wünsche however loves them, because the mind of the horde, unlike any individual mind, is very limited and effectively too stupid to see behind his jovial mannerisms. Men are drawn to Wünsche like moths to the flame or more precisely, Peiper thinks, flies to feces.

Peiper’s distaste for Wünsche is even more increased by his physique, which is so unlike his own. It’s not just Wünsche’s height. He is built like a bull. Standing next to him his presence is overwhelming. And he certainly takes advantage of it. He likes to get uncomfortably close, disregarding all personal boundaries which aren’t dictated by rank. He loves breathing down men’s necks. He is very generous with his touch too. Finger crushing handshakes, a pat on the back hard enough to make the unprepared stumble. All in good fun of course, except he dictates that it is fun and everyone else has to swallow it.

The one thing Peiper doesn’t realize about Wünsche is that he has the destructive curiosity of a child dropping the family china to see in how many pieces it would shatter. And Peiper made for fine china, the finest really Wünsche had ever seen. If it wasn’t for Peiper’s resistance to Wünsche’s charms, he would be only half as good to break.

With a little alcohol greasing his tongue Wünsche begins to try his best to scratch Peiper’s armor, tear down his unmerited arrogance and tease him out of that annoying uptightness. He is rude and boisterous, invades Peiper’s private space whenever the chance arises, in short uses all the mannerism of social warfare between men but to no avail. Peiper has a sardonic reply or arrogant look for every thinly veiled insult. When he isn’t staving off Wünsche’s attacks he sits stiffly in his chair, nipping on his drink. He disregards Wünsche completely and is silent except occasionally he laughs at the rough jokes of the other adjutants and bodyguards. It only serves to make Wünsche more determined to get to him. The task becomes easier with each person leaving the Great Room, hurrying to follow their bosses like the obedient lapdogs they were, until eventually Berghof is silent and Wünsche is all alone with Peiper. It is then that he finds Peiper’s weak spot: “So I heard the little bunny gave birth. Is that yours then or Himmler’s or one of her other bucks’?”

Peiper’s anger is reflected on his face much the same way Wünsche had thought it would be. His jaw is clenched, his brows drawn together and his lips a tight line. “Don’t speak about her like that,” he says and his voice wavers. What a relief to finally break through. Now Wünsche is in his element. Demonstratively slowly he gets up out of his chair and he is pleased to see Peiper doing the same. They stand toe to toe.

When Wünsche looks down at Peiper, it’s such an exaggerated movement, he seems not half a head taller but two. “What are you going to do about it?” He bares his teeth to the grin that is his greatest asset. The comeback is cheap, predictable but effective nonetheless.

Peiper strikes Wünsche in the face with the back of his hand. It’s not a strong blow, more gesture than assault, but it comes as a surprise and it’s not a gesture Wünsche is willing to take. His grin distorts to a snarl. He jumps at Peiper with the graceful violence of a lion, sending them both the ground. Adrenaline flushes over them like cold water. They wrestle on the ground, a black pile of wool and polished leather. Wünsche is too big, too strong and too angry to make the fight last longer than a couple of seconds. He flips Peiper on his stomach and straddles him. Peiper struggles still, his hips twitching between Wünsche’s thighs, his hands looking for something to hold on or attack but Wünsche is too heavy, it’s like holding down a child to him. He grabs Peiper by the arms and presses his weight on his back. It pushes the air out of Peiper’s lungs. The iron cross digs into his skin and suddenly the adrenaline is gone and he feels dull and empty and painfully aware of the weakness of his own body. The way Wünsche’s hands wrap so easily around his arm, thick fingers digging into the fabric of his tunic and leaving bruises on the skin underneath when he moves against their grasp. He remembers noticing the thick veins on them earlier. Something to make you stop for a second, deliberating the anatomy of man.

The adrenaline still tickles in Wünsche’s fingertips and Peiper looks good with his cheek pressed to the ground, glaring at Wünsche as if his gaze could somehow shame or, even more laughable, stop Wünsche by power of his will alone.

By now most women would just have whimpered or cried their eyes out until their faces were all puffed up and red. He could fuck a girl like that if he bend her over something hard or pressed her face into something soft so he wouldn’t have to see her ugly face. Wünsche enjoyed the feeling of them around his cock and the cries he could fuck out of them, but in the end it was just a forgettable distraction. Like a deep drag on a cigarette or a shot of bitter schnapps. A brief high that was over as quickly as it came. It had left him feeling disgusted at first and then eventually just empty, unfulfilled but always craving the next high.

But this is much better. Peiper has strong eyes, clear and bright and unwavering. That kind he needed to see filled with tears. Those silent tears which don’t drag the entire body down into a whimper, but just get trapped between the eyelashes and urge him on, taunting him to do worse so they would finally overflow. The anger that had itched in Wünsche’s arms wanders, spreads throughout his body, warm and seedy, trickles down into his lap where it settles and makes his cock feel heavy with lust.

Recognizing the change Peiper’s eyes widen subtly. Disgust mixes into his defiance.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” Wünsche snarls, presses his hand on Peiper’s face and rubs it on the floor, grating Peiper’s cheekbone against it like a rough caress.

Peiper closes his eyes, trying to shut out the humiliation and that greedy look in Wünsche’s eyes. The dark red of his eyelids amplifies every sensory input and now he can hear Wünsche’s heavy breathing and smell him, a mix of cigarettes, aftershave and dubbin. He remembers that dubbin smell, mixed with wet clothing and chlorine. He remembers the pale electric light, the cold tiles, the laughter and the hands. How little he had changed in all those years. Small Jochen with the sun dyed hair and the body too weak to fight back but just soft enough to tempt his comrades.

Wünsche is angry again, angry not because of the disgust in Peiper’s eyes but because of a deep-rooted dislike of everything Peiper stood for. The fake class, the useless touch of intellectualism, the arrogance over his so called decency. He doesn’t feel it in his head or his arms. The hate sits in his loins and he needs to make Peiper feel it too.

Wünsche fumbles for his belt buckle. Peiper squirms again and whispers for him to come to his senses, but Wünsche has never been more keenly aware of what he wanted. He closes his fingers around Peiper’s throat and squeezes until the words stop and turn to gasps for air. He lets go and the small body under him is slack and compliant, sprawled out for him to take. He pulls Peiper’s pants down, frees his own throbbing cock and presses the thick tip of it between Peiper’s buttocks. He wants to torture him, make him beg for mercy or better still, beg for his dick, but the urge to just fuck him raw is stronger. He forces his cock into him, squeezing past the resisting muscle and Peiper groans once, deep and pained, and then he only trembles as Wünsche pushes deeper into him, inch by inch like a blade parting flesh. Peiper is so tight around his cock he can’t last long. He fucks him quick and hard and before he is done spilling his last drop into Peiper Wünsche already feels disgusted and empty.

One Chance

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(A midnight encounter between Jochen Peiper and you, submitted by @ichhabekeinennamen)


The metal plating of the Panzer sends a shiver down your back as you sidle against it to prevent yourself from being seen. Only a few metres separate you from the café you are eyeing, and you can already see the dark outlines of men and women shifting on the windowpanes like characters in a puppet show. You suck in a breath when you hear the door open and shrink to sit on your hunches. You can hear the crunching of the snow under their feet, and you remain still until the sounds died slowly. Cautiously, you glance left and right before you jog – as quietly as you can – to the next Panzer. You peek out from the side of the vehicle and squint at the curtained windows.

To catch a glimpse of the famed Obersturmbannführer Jochen Peiper is what you most desire tonight. You ache to know if the handsome colonel in the news is as attractive in the flesh as he is on screen and on print. You long to know if he smiles the same way as he does for the photographers as he would for anyone else and if he talks with the same aristocratic flair as in the numerous interviewers for television and radio.

Your mind wanders to a newsreel in which he rewards one of his men. His fingers deftly undoing the fastenings of the camouflage smock to presumably pin the Iron Cross on the chest of his soldier. You can tell that he has done this before by the nonchalant way he pulled apart the strings holding the smock together. He takes his dear time as his country watches, and he flashes a smirk that melts you every time you remember it at his soldier.

You have always wished that it were your clothes that he was undoing – that you could feel the back of his fingers brush against your breasts as he works his way down the buttons of your dress. You think that he would be as deft as he was in that newsreel. After all, you have heard of numerous stories about him – stories that do not concern the war, stories from women who have been with him. And you cry to them sometimes because you know that you will never have this man.

In the winter air, you shake and try to warm yourself by pulling the wool cardigan tighter around your form. The noise in the café radiates through its wall. Music can be heard, and laughter covers it from time to time. You picture the scene inside. There must be dancing. You wonder if someone is dancing with Obersturmbannführer Peiper – if someone had her hands on him and his on her; if someone is receiving his smile or, even better, his kiss; if someone –

Your eyes widen, and you pause. A scream is at your throat.

“What are you doing here, miss?” The stranger behind you repeats in that familiar voice. You turn to him and drop your jaw. Obersturmbannführer Peiper stands before you. He has the black Panzer uniform on, the silver insignias on his collar stand out in the moonlight. You want so bad to lick the skin underneath them, but you say nothing as he approaches. He observes you with a hard expression; and you avoid his gaze, not because you were scared, but because you would reddened to the shade of a tomato if you ever looked straight into his oceanic blue eyes.

You catch his scent when he stops only inches in front of you. He smells of cigarettes and gunpowder, and you long to bury your nose into the crook of his neck to inhale more of that intoxicating scent. You know that you are being stupid. Every man smells of cigarettes and gunpowder these days. But something about Obersturmbannführer Peiper is different. He exudes a quiet sense of command, unlike the boisterous officers you have met.

In a soft voice, he asks for the permission to pat you down for any weapons, and you nod silently – surprised that he would even ask when other men from either sides would do so without consent. His palms are warm against your skin, and you stifle a gasp when he crouches down to examine your lower half. You worry that he would see your arousal seep through your dress but traitorously wish that he would put his hand exactly there. You watch as he meticulously searches for any signs of danger from you and admire his sense of duty. Your heart is thumping in your chest when he meets your eyes to say that you are clear. You always imagine him being on top of you, but now that he is down there, all you can think of is his being below you – pleasuring you with his mouth.

But that moment is cut short when Obersturmbannführer Peiper stands. Although he is only slightly taller than you, you feel yourself become small. There is something about him that makes you feel as if you are nothing – as if you are facing a god instead of a mortal man. He asks for the reason why you are here. He does not sound angry, and he does not at all sound genuinely clueless. He seems to only want you to vocally admit the reason why you are here. You stutter and swallow hard when his hand cups your jaw.

You cast your gaze on him, directly into his eyes this time. He no longer holds the hard expression from before as he has a somewhat amused smile now. You lean into his touch, and he takes it as an invitation to kiss you on the lips. You taste the tobacco on his tongue, and you are too overwhelmed to think about your actions as you let your hands wander his torso. He sighs into the kiss and then squeezes your bum which makes you jolt. He laughs deeply at that and pulls away hastily.

You see his eyes shift to the café, and you know why. It is way midnight, and the visitors of the café will be going home soon. You have to make this opportunity count. This may be your only chance with Obersturmbannführer Peiper. Thus, with a nervous and shaking hand, you touch his crotch, causing him to gasp and turn his attention back to you. He crashes his mouth against yours, seemingly able to read your mind regarding your intent. The aggressiveness of the kiss smoulders your control of the situation, and you willingly submit to him as he undoes the buttons of your dress and slips a hand inside. He massages one of your breasts, and you moan in pleasure. He grinds against you, his clothed erection presses onto your groin as he hoists a thigh onto his hip. You bite your lower lip to prevent yourself from being too loud.

Perhaps impatient, he turns you around, and you brace your arms on the metal of the Panzer as he pulls down your underwear. You hear him unfasten his pants and groans when he sheaths himself inside. He thrusts in and out of you furiously, which causes you to cry out in pleasure. He holds you still at your waist, treating you like nothing but a sexual device. The gentleman in him is gone as he builds up his own desire, and this makes you even more aroused – seeing such a controlled man fall into the throes of sex.

He plays with a nipple between his fingers whilst holding your breast. His grip on you is becoming harder and harder. He pants heavily behind you, and you take in every detail of this encounter. You need to document this in the recesses of your mind – to think back to when everything else seems to be taking a wrong turn. Courageously, you move his hand from your waist down to your arousal, and he complies to rubbing your clitoris. You nearly scream when you cum, your muscles clenching around his erection. He groans deeply. You feel his erection pulse inside you, and you close your eyes once more to welcome the hot spurt of semen inside you.

But Obersturmbannführer Peiper draws away unceremoniously, making you whimper in disappointment. Yet, you remain determined to take his seed in you as you kneel in front of him like an offering. He pulls his lips to a grin and positions his leaking erection to your mouth. You take him in willingly, revelling how he tastes like. He drags himself to and fro in your mouth, and you moan around the organ. The velvety sensation on your tongue makes you wet, and you touch yourself. He sees this and thrusts faster – too aroused to care that you choke more than once and cums. His seed coat the insides of your mouth, and you swallow everything. In spite of its bitterness, it is the best thing that you have tasted.

Obersturmbannführer Peiper attempts to hold himself upright with a hand on the Panzer. You see his chest heaving – his eyes slightly wet and still dilated. Spent and contented, you rise to kiss him, but he turns away after only a few seconds. He thanks you gratefully as he tries to remove all evidence of his previous actions by wiping the sweat off his face and straightening his uniform. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet, but you stop him. He cocks his head at you and, instead, offers you his cigarette lighter. You turn it around in your hands and sees his name engraved at the bottom.

“Take care of yourself, miss,” he says solemnly and departs with a nod. You watch him walk inside the café and bite back a sob. It is not enough to only be with him for a night. You barely even know him – barely skimmed the surface of his person. There are still so many things you want to ask him about. You want to know of his aspirations, of his past, of his viewpoints, and even of his favourite dish. Your curiosity for Obersturmbannführer Jochen Peiper surges, but all you could do is hold his lighter to your chest.

Stalingrad

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All the rotten bodies, piles and piles of it. The entire city is a slaughterhouse. Every day we drag our worn out, starved bodies to the slaughter. An endless stream of blood runs from concrete tables, seeps through concrete floors and trickles down the dusty walls. Every house, every room and every street is littered with bones. A red gruel of human waste fills sewers and basements. The smell of rot permeates everything. It creeps through every crack and cloth. It lingers under my finger nails and clings to the inside of my nose. To feel so sick and be so hungry at the same time. When I dream I am back home. Papa is holding my hand at the butcher shop. The one around the corner with the blue sign and the clean white tiles and rows and rows of birds, game, ham, sausage and all the fresh red meat one could eat. I think one day I might awake from that dream and the filth will smell delicious and the fat black flies will hum songs about Erika, Lisa and Rosemarie and I will fill my shrunken, yearning belly with all the fresh red meat I can eat.

Careful

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A quick and dirty bit of Bruno/Hermann smut set during the high flying days of the Great War

It’s dark and Hermann can’t see anyway since rolling over in his sleep he’s managed to make a rather good blindfold of his pillow. His lashes scratch against the linen as he blinks awake to a cool, firm line of pressure pressing against the nape of his neck and a familiar weight straddling his back, knees cleverly settled past his hips.

“Bruno?” Pillow muffling the name.

He tosses his head to the side with some effort. Straining, he can just about make out what Bruno is holding against his neck; the end of the blackthorn Geschwaderstock protruding from one of his fists. Behind that, out of focus and half stuffed between the bed and the wall, the balding teddy bear he’s kept since their days flying tandem in the Albatros is watching the scene from button eyes.

“Keep still!” Bruno’s voice is a hiss, the words delivered through his teeth.

His right cheek pressed to the bed, he listens to the sound of Bruno’s breath as he leans in close over him – the buttons of his uniform aligning with the vertebrae of his spine.

“I saw the state of your machine today, it’s more hole than plane,” Bruno says. “You should have a care.”

There’s a promise in the reprimand that makes Hermann’s cock twitch. He thinks of telling Bruno how magnificent it had been, coming down hard with his engine shot to pieces. At the moment of impact his eyes had been open, body braced, he had taken it perfectly – no change in his colour, no trembling limbs or voice. The memory of it swells his pride and that’s not all.  

“They won’t keep this one off my tally that’s all I have to say.”

“How far over the line were you?” Bruno draws the stick down his back.

“I’m not hanging around to take pot-shots at supply trucks.”

He says it with a grin wide enough to pierce the gloom. The stick stops suddenly at the small of his back and  Bruno raps it across his shoulder blades. Hermann tries not to squirm, despite the fact that the mattress is making a worse ache of his cock which pushes stiffly at the unyielding surface.

“It’s a shame you couldn’t land him breathing,” Bruno says. “I heard your last pet Tommy was shipped off last week.”

There’s no humour in the cool, colourless tone of Bruno’s voice. He had not appreciated Hermann’s bedside manner with the English Captain.

“I don’t want a pet, I want a fucking medal.”

What he gets instead is a knee nudging at the inside of his thigh and the rough feel of Bruno’s trousers sending a shiver through him as his legs are splayed apart. The neat sound of spitting and the self-assured rub of Bruno’s thumb down the cleft of his arse.

He growls at the first feel of Bruno’s cock, its head smooth and hot between his cheeks. Hands grip his hips, the embrace bitingly tight. The pressure is precise, and painful. He hears the fierce sound of Bruno’s breathing, underscoring the struggle. Then a groan of pure pleasure from the pair of them as Bruno slides in, packing him with heat and hardness.

“Take more care,” says Bruno into his ear, hips pressed flat against him. “They’re expensive machines you realize.”

Hermann laughs a breathless laugh and pushes back and pulls away and fucks himself on Bruno’s cock and almost laughs again when Bruno curses him for being shameless, sucking at the inside of his own mouth, sinking his teeth there until he tastes blood.  

Sedative

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A slow, warm night in Paris with Göring and Goebbels

Half-past ten in Paris, still warm on this cloudless night with the moon hanging high and luminous above the balcony; Goebbels sits outside and smokes and the breeze is enough to lift strands of his hair, unstuck with the muggy heat of the day.

He still feels a little sun-struck from strolling with Göring down the boulevards, from the reflected spectacle of their presence and Hermann himself, his periwinkle bulk awash with medals that flashed like spots of light upon the sea.

And down one narrow alley, shaded by tall brick buildings rising up on either side, he’d seen a man pushing a girl against a wall, his hand covering her mouth, her skirts up around her waist. Now he remembers it as if she had been smiling and touches his own neck, a brush of knuckles like a breath.

He stubs out his cigarette upon the railing. Inside, Göring is reclining comfortably on the bed, his silk robe half open to the waist.

“Ah, Joseph,” he says, smoothing down the sheets beside him and then. “Patience now.”

As Goebbels clambers onto the bed and pulls at the cord holding his robe together. There’s a slow, warm smile spreading across Göring’s face and he wants to kiss the haughty, devilish curl of it but Göring just repeats the word, patience, though he pushes his fingers into Goebbels hair, tugging him forward so they touch, brow to brow and when their lips meet Goebbels cannot help but thrust his tongue in, fast and greedy.

Göring growls, a slow, subdued rumble, and pulls him back.

“What did I say?”

His pupils are huge and black and unmindful of the expression Goebbels tries to affect, innocent of any wrongdoing as his hand still works insistently at the knot of the robe; the serpentine rustle of silk and his panting breath full of urgency. Göring bats his hand away and pulls him over to straddle one of his large thighs and the skin on the inside of his leg, as Goebbels steadies himself there, feels like silk too.

“Here.” Göring hands him the pills, a glass of red wine to wash them down with.

Goebbels obeys and swallows and like a reward Göring brings his mouth down onto his neck and licks along the twitch of his pulse, which seems to slow and ebb away from him as a numb and sublime softening of his senses falls upon him.

Then Göring kisses him tenderly. A brush of his mouth, the merest hint of his tongue. Goebbels melts against him, too busy sighing to beg for more – each breath he takes is a glorious effort and pulled from Göring’s warm exhalations as they lie pressed against each other, lips just touching and when he cannot hold his head up any longer he turns his face into Göring’s neck and smiles drowsily at the scent of him while Göring takes his pleasure in idly stroking him like a pet.

Ponderosa

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The Heydrichs invite Sigurd and Jochen Peiper over for dinner.


“Do you want to see me ride Reini?” Lina whispers into Sigurd’s ear.

“Ride him?” Sigurd glances at Lina with a skeptical look. Lina’s eyes are wide with excitement and a small smile raises the corners of her lips where the rose tint of alcohol has settled. Sigurd crosses her hands in front of her chest, a pose she often assumes without meaning to.

“Yes, sit on his back, like a knight on a horse!” Lina raises her voice again, unmistakably so that the two men sitting across them at the table could hear her.

Sigurd can tell just how uncomfortable Jochen is about the whole dinner situation, in particular sitting next to Heydrich, who is an awful conversation partner having only eyes for his wife and few words for his guests. She knows that thin lipped, barely concealed pout and the stiff posture. He always looked like that at work, which had drawn her to him in the first place.

Jochen perks up his ears at Lina’s words. Of course he would, Sigurd thinks. Always with the knights and horses, how transparent he could be sometimes, even Lina had picked up on it. Jochen stares at them now with eyes like nails.

“I’ll show you. It’s very funny,” Lina says and her smile becomes that wide grin which is just a wrong word away from condescension. She stands up, pats down the front of her crinkled dress and then motions with her index finger for Reinhard to get up. Jochen sees the gesture and thinks that she is calling over a servant, a child who misbehaved or Jochen himself, but the gesture is meant for a man who far outranks him. Without hesitation Heydrich drops his fork and stands to attention. Lina walks a few steps away from the dinner table, off the carpet onto the wooden floor that clicks under her heels. There is nothing elegant about her the way fair maidens are said to be. Nothing of the Nordic cold distance, which defines his Sigi. She looks like an ancient queen with a taste for ritual sacrifice. There is a demanding sexual energy in her posture and that thick body flattered by the cut of her dress. It asks to be wrapped in furs and adorned with gold. Another motion of her finger, the reverse, pointing downwards. Heydrich takes one step away from the table and falls to his knees. His heavy body comes down with a thud on the carpet, kneeling. Jochen stares in disbelief at the unfolding scene. He can see Reinhard’s face in profile, staring up at Lina. His skin is red with shame but the fox like features show a different, familiar expression: absolute awe. Jochen’s eyes flicker to Sigurd. He finds her studying his own face and he feels exposed. No one speaks a word as Lina motions her husband again to come closer and he does, shuffling on the floor on all fours. He looks absurd, ridiculous even in his wide breeches and tall black boots, in all those symbols of martial authority. His tunic is pulling at the back, it is not made to be worn by servants. The sound of his shuffling becomes louder on the wooden floor and then he come to a halt at her feet. Another silent motion and he turns 90 degrees, positioning himself in such a way that Sigurd and Jochen can see his profile. His narrow eyes are fixed on the floor, as if he thinks he can fall into it if he just stares long enough. He looks like a mixed breed dog at its master’s feet. An awkwardly proportioned yet endearing creature, despite all of his shortcomings he is still Diana’s favorite hound for the hunt. Lina pats him on the head. Jochen feels the pull of shame in his stomach, when he sees Reinhard close his eyes in pleasure as he receives the petting. Lina’s hand remains on Reinhard’s head for a moment, laying heavy on the slicked back blond hair. Then she traces the outline of his back. From the curved neck, across the hollow of his back, where the belt cuts in. When her hand reaches his bottom he becomes disobedient for the first time and jerks away from her touch. Jochen almost expects her to slap or kick him for it, but she just looks to Sigurd who smiles weakly and him who suddenly becomes aware again, that he is not watching a theater performance.

“He’s a little nervous. He’s not used to an audience. But he’s a good horse, he likes to be sat on even if he doesn’t always want to admit it,” she says to them.

She swings her leg over his back and sits down on Reinhard’s lower back. Not in the sidesaddle style, of course not, she is not that kind of lady. She has to spread her legs wide to hold onto his broad back. Her skirt is pulled up revealing the top of her stockings. They cut into her fat thighs as she presses them into Reinhard’s side, presses so hard you would think she was worried he could throw her off, but he doesn’t budge or move except for a slight quiver of his lips. She grabs him by the hair again, the strands slip through her fingers until she digs down to the roots. She clicks her tongue and Reinhard raises his torso off the ground like a rearing horse, lifting Lina with ease. She holds on to him, squeezing her thighs into his sides and laughs like there is no greater joy than feeling his muscles twitch between her legs. The scene lasts only for some seconds but it ingrains itself on Jochen’s memory, clear like a photograph which he could dig out again whenever he had need for it, to laugh at it or touch himself thinking himself sometimes the horse and sometimes the rider.