You’re useless. Can you lift anything heavier than a pistol, pretty boy? Can you move the rubble, drag the corpses? Can you build a house, or plow a field? What did they teach you all these years, just to polish your boots and press your shirts, to clean your nails and part your hair, and to bark and to crawl? You wander like a lost child with eyes glazed over. You sit alone with your knees drawn to your chin, rubbing that spot on your uniform that just won’t come off. This is all your fault. I wish they’d taken you to Russia.
Tag: ficathon
It’s been too long since we’ve seen Max Wünsche getting fucked up the arse.
It requires only a look, the intense fixation of hunger, and a cheeky smile in the corner of his mouth and without words Max knows to follow Kurt away from the other men.
Behind the latrine Kurt grabs him by the scruff of the neck and pushes him down on all fours; trousers at his ankles and a bit of spit easing the way for a quick relief. The pain he is used to, but not the smell of cock and old sweat and urine and shit.
Back in the garden the men laugh as if they could see him now and he winces and Kurt comes with a stifled grunt and collapses on his back, breathing heavy and hot on his cheek.
He must wait a while and then Kurt will get up and leave and Max can wipe the filth off his arse, fix his uniform and his hair and with some delay return with a wide smile for another round of beers.
Bunker Archives 