Goebbels returns to Carinhall to provide some lipservice.
Goebbels smiles bitterly to himself. He’s survived this long and seeing as he isn’t dead, he must be getting stronger – that’s what Friedrich would say, isn’t it? Naturally he can appreciate a slick mantra but there’s enough proof of Nietzsche’s fallibility right here with him now tonight. When Göring looks at him from across the room he feels as though he might evaporate in any particularly harsh light.
The goblets the staff are serving the wine in are ridiculously gaudy things, little golden buboes decorating each honoured guest’s stem. He’s only nursing his drink, careful of himself. He can see his profile cast on the wall, the movement of his arm raising the cup to his lips. He smiles at the pretty redhead standing to his left and his shadow shifts over the wallpaper too like a Peryton.
Lately everything has felt like minor puppet theatre, maddeningly inconsequential. Göring is charming some general and Goebbels is maintaining his smile quite excellently while what he aches for is to find himself in some dark, lonely corner of this hunting manor and hear the tread of heavy footsteps coming up behind him, the creak of the floorboards, that low, knowing chuckle.
He knows what Göring wants him to ask. He knew it well before the moment his car drove through the maw of Carinhall’s gates tonight. The difference between knowledge and action is his cowardice, casting its long shadow over everything.
It’s almost time to leave before he can bring himself to find the moment, the greater fear of another week strewing in purgatory propelling him on rather than some hidden reservoir of determination, approaching Göring without ceremony and affecting like it’s nothing, some personal aside, to entreat almost softer than a murmur – please.
–
“Let me see that pretty neck,” Göring purrs.
Kneeling between Göring’s feet, Goebbels fumbles with his neck tie. The expression on Göring’s face is exactly like the cat that got the canary. It suits him and Goebbels knows he should hate him for it, but that’s not what swells within him in response. He thinks instead with something like despair that Göring looks perfect from this angle, monumental really.
Would this be easier if it had been some waifish boy he lusted after? A delicate blond of indeterminate sex or even one of those fine soldiers, statuesque and emblematic of all they believed in – to make love to an ideal would perhaps be understandable. The rumours of his intentions toward Harald were vile things, but what of this? Göring’s erection is an obscene bulge in his periwinkle trousers, so blatant, he’s blushing to look upon it but he does look, doesn’t he?
“Open your collar for me, Joseph,” Göring says and Goebbels closes his eyes and undoes the top two buttons of his shirt.
The heat from Göring touches him a moment before his hand does, followed by the cool metal of the rings he’s wearing – especially for him it seems as
Göring
strokes his face roughly with the backs of his knuckles, a hard press of gemstone and bone. He pats his cheek; once, twice, like he would a pet.
“Kiss it,” Göring says, stentorian.
Goebbels looks at the ruby stone presented to his lips, Göring’s crest emblazoned there in silver. The theatre of it is is absurd but is it theatre? Göring’s stare has both the chill of drawn steel and the blue heat at the heart of a flame. He kisses Göring’s ring once, hesitantly, then again, slow and damp and lingering. His cock throbs with a deep, leaden fullness between his legs.
“Hermann,” he’s begging already, lips still pressed against the ring.
“Ask for it, my little sparrow.”
“Please…”
An aspirated plea that fades away, he clutches Göring’s knee and looks up at him, entreating, wide eyed, utterly hopeless. Göring’s crooked smile, the aristocratic arch of one expectant eyebrow, fills his mouth with cotton – the words seem so impossibly filthy to him, he shudders.
“Let me,” he says and kisses Göring’s ring again.
Göring takes his hand away and trails it over the tight, serious knot of his face, one finger down slow behind his ear and to the hollow of his exposed throat. He makes a mocking, chiding sound and Goebbels clenches his fists at his sides.
“Anything you want,” he says, in a small, constricted voice and Göring sighs, unimpressed.
He’s trying to compose a speech to excuse himself, his head is muddy with rhetoric.
“Please let me have your cock,” he whispers. He can hear how weak he sounds, hear the vacillation in his voice, and it sickens him. Göring will swallow him up, deserves to, even as he’s the one who-
Göring unfastens his trousers and as if from very far away Goebbels can hear the noise he makes, the whimper, as he watches his cock spring out, larger than he remembers or maybe it’s only that he’s kneeling before it now, a supplicant. He flinches back a little but doesn’t look away; the weighty fullness of Göring’s erection points toward the floor, thick as a club, still swelling. Goebbels thinks of bulls, of animals in rut; the male musk of him is heady, sweat and sex, the broad head of his cock shining wetly, just peeking out of the wrinkled folds of his foreskin. Goebbels has never seen another man’s erection this close in his life.
Göring’s large palm cups his skull and brings him closer, pulling him in, not to his cock but to the hefty purse of his balls. Goebbels inches forward on his knees, the marble floor is unforgiving and his right leg twinges slightly, the premonition of an ache. Steadying himself with a hand on Göring’s thigh he thinks of the scars that must be hidden just out of sight, he wonders if Göring would let him kiss those badges of honour and rubs his thumb over the seam of his trousers back and forth as the heat from Göring’s cock presses against his cheek like a glowing iron.
“Show me how hungry you are,” Hermann says.
“Hermann…” He breathes the name and his mouth moves against the thin, velvet skin of Göring’s balls and the sweat damp blond thatch of his pubic hair. I can’t, he thinks, bleating seriously to himself as he puts out his tongue and laps meekly, hesitant, at Göring.
“Marvellous,” Hermann clucks, holding him there, strong fingers on the back of his head that make him think of a clenched fist. “Just right.”
He means to say he is right in his place, Goebbels thinks, his head swimming dangerously at the thought of it; his mouth full of the flavour of salt and degradation. This lowliness of the act feels like peine forte et dure; he wants to smear himself against the floor, rub himself against it, his skin is boiling. He licks at Göring with less reserve, longer broader strokes of his tongue.
“God,” he gives a little moan and wets his lips and turns his head to reach where Hermann’s sack isn’t yet spit slick from his attentions. Göring’s cock slides across his face as he does it, it’s such an intimate defilement. He groans at the thought of what Hermann is seeing and then again when he spreads his knees to dip his head lower still and the stretch of his trousers pulls against his own erection.
A little longer and Göring pulls him backward with a wrench and he pants there on his knees, dazed while Göring smooths down the tacky ruffle of his hair. Looking up at him, his eyes are such a clear blue that they seem to reflect nothing, only pierce through into him and Goebbels senses at once the predator lurking beneath his jolly dimples and fluffed up plumage of medals, feathered hats and fur. It’s the most disturbing and arousing thing he’s ever seen.
“You want more don’t you?” Göring says, hand around the base of his cock.
Goebbels nods his head and bends his head to kiss Göring’s ring again where his fingers are curled holding his wide girth up before Goebbels face, so eager his teeth knock against the stone.
“Tell me,” Göring says.
“I want more.” Goebbels exhales, leaning back, eyes on the floor. “Reichsmarschall.”
Göring does chuckle them, that throaty jovial sound that has been haunting him now for what seems like an age.
How long has he wanted this? Goebbels can’t tell; the register of his desire has shifted to another pitch here in this moment, but it’s the culmination of so many more stains upon his conscience; his sallow romances, the pages of his notebooks cradling unpenned significant silences and outbursts of mania and despondency, the gradual curdling of his body and his mind.
“Do you think my prick is beautiful, little sparrow?” Göring asks with a lazy grin.
He looks at it, so large, so proud.
“It’s beautiful,” he says.
He stares at the tear of precome forming at the tip and the flutter of revulsion in his stomach is as frantic as the beating of his heart.
“Please,” Goebbels says, and then. “Let me suck you, let me taste you.”
He’s ashamed of the quaver in his voice.
“Are you going to cry, Joseph?”
“Please….”
“You can kiss me,” Göring says.
His voice is cloyed with magisterial magnanimity, thick as treacle. It makes Goebbels shudder and he feels as though he’s moving through a kind of golden tar too as he leans in slowly and then presses his lips to the head of Göring’s cock, a perversely chaste press of his lips that makes Göring scoff.
“Now, now, that’s not how you like to kiss, is it Joseph? Kiss my prick like it’s one of your pretty starlets.”
A choppy little glottal noise emerges from his throat as he kisses Göring’s cockhead again, mouth open, lapping up the glassy wetness pulsing from the tip with the twitching of his prick. The loving, desperate fastening of his lips there, with Göring’s words all he can imagine is the raw, pornographic framing of the moment on the big screen, softened perhaps with a vignette.
Göring pets his hair as he plasters more kisses, sloppy and sucking, down his shaft. The brush of fingertips next to the fine hair of his ears fills his head with a kind of white noise static of desire and cloistering heat, his touch hums like the murmur of a far off thunderstorm.
“Good boy, good boy,” Göring says, dragging him away again. “Now open your mouth.”
And he does, jaw open, tongue hanging out in what feels like excruciating accommodation and Göring merely looks at him for a long, long moment before pulling him down onto his cock.
Goebbels gasps mechanically as Göring fills him. He tries to ratchet his mouth open wider, tremulous over the idea of grazing Hermann with his teeth but already his jaw is aching.
“Look at me,” Göring commands.
He meets Göring’s gaze while his mouth is forced open, that’s all he can do really, look up at Göring with wide pleading eyes that are still not as wide as the stretch of his mouth around Göring’s invading prick. He thinks of the columns of red Veronese marble that line the banqueting hall here, it feels impossible to close his mouth by as much as a millimetre, as though he were swallowing that same unforgiving rock.
He feels it pressing at the back of his throat and he tries to unlatch something there in a panic as Göring doesn’t stop, merely drives harder, battering at his throat. He’s intoxicated by it, by his size, by his brutality, by his force and hardness and strength but there’s still so much of his length to take, so thick and there’s not an ounce of mercy in how Göring is jamming it into him; as though he’s less than a man, not even a woman, not even a person, just a lucky little hole.
His eyes start to burn, fill up as the pain in his throat increases and the awful, humiliating noises of his gagging reach his ears, as it becomes hard to harder to breath – he presses them shut and Göring pulls out, leaving him drooling and hyperventilating and then the sharp crack of Hermann’s hand slaps him across the face.
“I told you to look at me,” he growls.
Goebbels screws his eyes up, blinking away the tears, still burning he tries to keep them open, fixed on Göring. His body is failing to live up to any standard he has set for it, his cock so hard he’s pawing at it even as Göring presses angry fingers into his jaw and starts fucking his mouth again. His tongue flaps uselessly as Göring presses thumbs into his temples, holding him still, choking him, ravishing him and he can make as much noise as he likes, hidden from the sound of his own depravity by the cock stopping up his throat.
Göring spills wedged so deep inside him he has no choice but to swallow. It slides down his throat, a syrupy contamination that sticks to his tongue, the roof of his mouth, his teeth – he tries to lick his gums clean of the taste and almost gags again.
“Lovely.”
He thinks he hears Göring say it. He’s trembling, his cock still stiff.
Göring reaches for his cigarette case. His movements are languid, slow. Goebbels rests his head against his knee feeling like a jumble of glass shards. He wants to touch himself but he can only weakly rub the inside of his forearm against his thigh, both palms planted on the cold floor and his head bowed.
Göring lights two cigarettes in his mouth and hands one to Goebbels, blowing a line of smoke straight up toward the ceiling. Goebbels’ cigarette burns down between his fingers into a line of serpentine ash.
“Don’t worry my sweet,” Göring says. “We’ll retire to the bedroom soon.”
Bunker Archives 