Tag: hermann göring

Brunch

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[This is another version of this scene, which was based on a previous unfinished version of the fic you’re looking at right now. Both of which were based on an older unavailable fic. The starting premise is basically that the Görings invited Goebbels to spend Christmas Eve with them, he was thoroughly seduced and Bruno Loerzer arrived in the morning to join in the fun. Hence the perhaps otherwise confusing title.This fic is not so much fun for Goebbels as terribly cruel, so please avoid if you know that’s not for you.]

Goebbels
is rinsing their breakfast dishes in the kitchen sink at Carin’s
behest, his mind unfamiliarly
becalmed as he watches water pour into the body of the porcelain cup
in his hand. He has to keep rolling the sleeves of Göring’s robe
back up around his elbows every few minutes to stop the cuffs from
falling past his fingertips and into the stream; far too loose on him
to stay put for long, his forearms are already uncomfortably damp.
The action is mechanical and he’s so transfixed by the action of the
clear water spilling continuously over the lip of the
teacup as it overflows that the reflection of movement in the kitchen
window, a sudden shadow in the periphery  of his vision, startles him
enough to jump.

Bruno
Loerzer standing in the doorway, filling it up rather, arms folded
across his broad chest. Goebbels exhales audibly, his heart pit pattering
away. Is Loerzer smiling? His eyes are hard but there’s a faint
crease at the corner of his mouth.

“Is
there-”

Loerzer
cuts him off. “Come with me.”

Goebbels
places the cup carefully down into the basin and lays his palms on
the edge of the counter, leaning his weight against it, hesitating.
He wipes his wet hands across the front of the gown, shivers
slightly, turns off the tap and then dries his hands again.  Behind
him, Loerzer snaps his fingers twice and then whistles sharply as
though calling a dog.

Limping
half a step behind Loerzer, he follows him out of the kitchen and
down the hall, expecting to be led back to Hermann and Carin but
Loerzer doesn’t slow as he passes the room. Goebbels falters,
touching the door frame, his thumbnail digging into the soft wood as
he stares at Carin and Hermann nestled on the couch like two turtle
doves. Leafing through a photo album, Carin is smiling fondly down at
the book shared between their laps while Herman seems more
preoccupied with his regard of her.

There’s
a brisk yank on the collar of his gown.

“Don’t
dawdle,” Bruno snaps.

Hermann’s
gaze flicks over to them for a moment and Goebbels opens his mouth,
brow furrowed with a question he isn’t sure how to articulate,
stricken with the horror of his words failing him even as the
opportunity vanishes in a blink and Hermann’s attention has already
passed back to Carin and Loerzer is tugging him bodily away from the
doorway with enough careless force that he catches his foot on his
calf and almost stumbles to the floor.

The
bedroom Loerzer frog marches him into is not the master suite he’s so
recently become familiar with. It’s comparatively plain, neat and
decorated with the impersonal neutrality of a room intended for
guests. The winter sun is pushing through the weave of the curtains,
spaces where the light outside creeps in. Goebbels feels a chill run
through him and rubs the toe of his good foot against the back of his
heel. The austerity of Loerzer’s expression is no comfort. Reality is
pressing in uncomfortably from all quarters.

“Take
that off,” Loerzer says, nodding at the robe.

Goebbels
wraps his arms tight around himself, cringing from a wan sensation of
disgust, wishing he were properly dressed. Alone here, without
Hermann or Carin, he feels snapped out of some temporary madness,
left floundering in his bare feet with his uncooperative tongue and
the suddenly appalling thought of what Loerzer has brought him to
this bed for.

He
casts about his mind for something; a delay, a retort, a weapon.

“Göring
told me about how you both…” Goebbels pauses meaningfully.
“During the war.”

“Hermann
telling war stories?” Loerzer replies, his gaze not shifting from
where it’s fixed stonily on the belt of the robe still tied fast
around Goebbels’ middle. “Is that something to remark upon?”

“I
think it was quite remarkable.”

He
barbs his intonation like a threat, but he can’t disarm the looming
truth that it is all far too late for such tactics. He looks at
Loerzer’s hands, large and broad knuckled, what fists they would
make! The idea sends a fierce prickle of adrenaline through him,
familiar thistles under his skin like the heady flush from creating
the nascent instigation for some bloody, joyous street bawl; except
that here he is not the conductor.

“I’m
sure he was very colourful,” Loerzer says. “Get undressed.”

“The
two of you, against your machine.”

“Is
that what he told you?”

The
amusement in Loerzer’s voice engenders a worm of uncertainty to begin
nibbling at him. It must have shown on his face because Loerzer gives
a scoffing huff, shaking his head. Goebbels glowers, mouth a long,
straight line turned down deep at each corner.

“It’s
the truth,” he reaffirms. “I know a lie when I hear one.”

The
only thing to do in the face of doubt is to assert your position with
even greater confidence than if you were sure, he thinks. He manages
not to shrink backwards as Loerzer steps closer, filling his chest
with a deep gulp of air as if it will help root him to the spot.

“Do
you have a point you’re trying to make, boy?” Loerzer squints down
at him.

The
epithet slithers down Goebbels’ spine and before he can answer
Loerzer has a handful of his hair twisted around his fingers, yanking
him upward, yelping, onto his toes.

“Have
you been flattering yourself that any similarity exists here?”
Loerzer continues.

There’s
barely a hint of real curiosity in the question. He brings his face
in very close to Goebbels’ own, craning his neck down considerably,
but it’s not the sort of dashing inclination that leads to kissing
(the way Goebbels likes to picture his own self when he leans in
toward a seated little beauty) and the glint in his eyes has less to
do with interest in an answer than with the hard shine on the point
of a sabre.

Goebbels
doesn’t think he can hold that gaze for long, the question itself has
brought a rash of pink embarrassment to the back of his neck and his
ears worse than the burn of Loerzer tugging at his scalp. He resents
it, enough to be brazen.

“Are
you married, Loerzer?”

Too
sweetly innocent to be anything but an accusation.  

Loerzer’s
expression doesn’t change, just one slow blink and then – pain
explodes in a thunderclap along the left side of Goebbels’ face, like
a blunt skewer thrust past his eardrum, piercing down through the
nerves in his jaw, the sting against his cheek is a distant
accompaniment. He’s still reeling from the blow, trying to draw a
breath, as Loerzer drags him by forward by his hair and shoves him
over the bed.

“Where
did those good manners of yours go?” Loerzer sighs. “I could have
told him…”

Talking
to himself as Goebbels wheezes, doubly winded by the edge of the
mattress hitting his stomach and the dull agony still ringing in his
ear. He chokes on his breath as Loerzer hooks his fingers under the
belt of the robe and hauls him over the rest of the way, the knot of
fabric digging into his belly and falling half undone as he scrambles
to get his knees up over the side of the bed.

His
legs are getting caught in the robe, hands sinking into the soft,
white duvet and the mattress shifts and dips beneath him as Loerzer
clambers on behind; he feels like he’s struggling through quick sand,
the clamp of Loerzer’s hand fastening around his neck and holding him
down before he can even try and break free.

“How
many men have you had up here, hmmm?” Loerzer asks, his other hand
groping between Goebbels’ legs, thumb poking at his asshole. “Speak
up.”

He
screws the thick digit inside, compassionate as a butcher inspecting
meat and Goebbels hiccups in distress.

“What?
I don’t-”

Loerzer
rams the wedge of his thumb and forefinger hard against against his
perineum, his blunt thumbnail digging inside him like a pincer.

“You
don’t know?” he asks with scorn.

“No!”
Goebbels gasps. “No, it’s… Göring is the only one who’s
ever…he’s the only one.”

Loerzer
sighs as though he doesn’t believe it for a second yet cares too
little for the exact truth to bother dragging it out of him. Goebbels
winces at the sound of it, panting for breath, blood rushing to the
surface of his skin followed by a flush of cold sweat; perspiration
beading on the small of his back and between his thighs, his buttocks
and the place Loerzer’s thumb is too easily twisting back and forth
inside him. He fights the urge to clench against the moist, squirming
sensation.

“Stop,
I’m not…this is all-”

Loerzer
pops his thumb out, ignoring his reedy protestations and slaps the
top of his thigh.

“Up
on your knees,” he says.

A
mistake, Goebbels thinks dizzily, all limp and useless words not
worth a breath. Loerzer growls so low he feels it buzzing in the base
of his spine as he braces himself on his palms and tries to push
himself up.

“Just
your knees,” Loerzer barks.

Goebbels
drops his quivering arms back to the bed. The sheets slip and ruck up
around his shins as he struggles to get his knees underneath him with
his face still pressed firm against the mattress. The pressure of
Loerzer’s hand on the back of his neck is painfully tight as it pins
him there like a snare. Goebbels fights the compulsion to fight or
flee, a panicked creature ready to thrash itself into suffocation.
Loerzer could wring his neck if he wanted to; he won’t, of course
he won’t, but
just the sense of it lies feverish inside his mind as he manoeuvrers
himself into the obscene position.

“Stay,” Loerzer orders,
squeezing his neck in a final warning before he takes his hand away.

The outsized dressing gown has
fallen back down over Goebbels legs. Loerzer lifts the hem and tosses
it over his back, barring his backside and covering his face. The
weak light from the windows blankets out, the thick fluff of the
dressing gown tickling his nose as his humid breath washes back at
him. A stark contrast to the cool air on his exposed genitals, his
most private places in mortifying spotlight; his limp little cock,
his asshole still sensitive from Loerzer’s fingers, throbbing in a
way that feels so disgustingly blatant.

He doesn’t try to move the gown
off his face. He can hear the muffled sound of fabric shifting
against fabric, imagines Loerzer’s fingers pushing his trouser
buttons through their buttonholes, prepares to feel them spreading
and prying inside him next.

They don’t. Loerzer’s hands fasten
around the tops of his thighs, pulling them further apart, holding
him in a steady iron grip that stops him from bolting even as his
hips lurch at the feel of the solid, hot press of Loerzer’s erection
against his hole. He blinks furiously in alarm that Loerzer might try
to open him up with just the wide head of his cock, a blunt, abrupt
stretch, his body unprepared and tense and dry apart from the sheen
of nervous sweat that’s gathered down the cleft of his ass.

“Wait, wait!” he sputters out
and for a moment it seems as though Loerzer is listening, shifting
back, the threatening heat removed and Goebbels exhales and wrestles
with his stuttering tongue. “Wait, please, I just need-”

Loerzer rams his hips forward and
buries himself to the hilt in one brutal stroke.

Pain explodes like a flare.
Goebbels howls as the tight little knot of asshole is wrenched wide
open. Unreal, unbearable, a molten metal stab deep into his guts that
burns and bruises all at once. His hole spasms, clamping down, trying
to close back up, his muscles convulsing around Loerzer’s cock in
aching involuntarily waves.

The air is still knocked out of
him, not enough time to gasp, as Loerzer pulls out completely then
punches every last inch back inside just as hard and just as fast,
ripping his clenched hole open again, forcing through the friction
with a grunt of effort.

“Stop! Stop! Wait!” Desperate,
breathless cries like a drowning man bobbing up for air. “No!”

Only now can he realize the care
that Göring had taken with him when they fucked, there had been pain
at first but this? This is something else entirely. Loerzer’s not a
match for Göring’s size but right now he feels doubly so, impossibly
long, ungodly thick, the way he’s boring him out. He snorts like a
bull with each jack-hammer thrust, pulling Goebbels’ hips back to
meet him, shoving into him at an awful angle that feels like it’s
pounding his insides black.

Goebbels tries to push himself up
onto his elbows, pawing at the bedspread, but Loerzer cuffs him so
hard on the crown of his head that he collapses in a sprawl, the back
of his throat stinging with bile. Loerzer’s heavy paw follows, the
heel of his palm grinding into Goebbels’ cheek as he throws his
weight into the jerk of his hips; if it were a wooden floor beneath
his head and not a mattress Goebbels is sure his skull would crack.

“Please,”
he begs, weak and slurred from the press of the hand on his face.

Loerzer forces his fingers into
Goebbels’ groaning mouth, stuffing a wad of the dressing gown inside.
The fluff that had been tickling his nose is shoved over his tongue,
stopping up his pleas, making him gag and drool as Loerzer batters
the resistance of his body; fucking him until he’s lax and broken,
his sore hole gaping open every time Loerzer’s cock pulls out with a
filthy, sucking sound. Goebbels doesn’t struggle either, just moaning
softly as his saliva soaks into the the gag of material in his mouth.

The
hollow sense of shame at being used like this balloons up inside him
until he can’t contain it, tears pricking at his eyes. He gives a
muffled sob, no catharsis as the tears roll hot and tacky down his
cheeks, no change in the mechanical pistoning of Loerzer’s dick at
the strangled sound. He’s horribly aware how his own cock is hanging
plump between his legs; the indignity of the half soft, swollen ache
of it, no real erection, just blood plumping up the genitals of some
lowly animal in heat. Worse, really, there’s nothing natural about
this.

Loerzer
doesn’t seem to mind that he’s fucking into a rag doll, hefting up
Goebbels’ dead weight in an inflexible vice, excavating bruises into
bruises at his hipbones. He sobs again as Loerzer’s cock punishes
him, wrung out, biting hard at the wedge of fabric in his mouth but
unable to fence back the pitiful whine that cracks high in the back
of his throat and Loerzer’s laughter peals blackly above him.

“You
do like it don’t you,” he says.

Another
hot flush fares beneath his skin, deepens the ache behind his ears
and the itchy blotch of his cheeks. He can’t get enough breath,
panting in the dark as his tears dry to tight salt streaks. There’s
air on his naked, shivering thighs, keeping him acutely aware of the
ungainly arrangement of his limbs, but not under the stifling
swaddling of the robe where he gasps and chokes and struggles
internally against the crushing pressure of his degradation. The
scent of Hermann’s cologne impregnating the robe swells thick in the
warm damp, leeching into his saliva, acerbically floral in his
gullet.

He
retches as Loerzer’s cock stabs into him hard, a fast, pistoning
flurry of jabs at some tender red part of him until the pain of it
wrenches his body back into desperate resistance. Wet wool squeals
between his teeth, he dips his back in an even more severe arch to
ease the awful angle, exchanging one ache for another; the slap of
Bruno’s pelvis sending jolts up his spine, his ass pushed higher in
the air as if he’s making an invitation. Loerzer laughs again and
Goebbels flinches, clenching down tight against the still burning
stretch of the fat dick inside him.

“That’s
it.” Loerzer sounds strained. “You know what you want. A damn
eager hole. That’s all you are.”

Small
grunts between each word, his sweat on the back of Goebbels’ thighs,
second-hand clammy heat like something from a sickbed. His palm
presses down on Goebbels’ face, harder than before, as if he’s
forgotten there’s even a person underneath the gown and he’s just
bracing himself against the sheets.  

The
pressure of  Loerzer’s hand compounds the way his temples are
pounding, the way he can’t get enough air into his lungs, the
atmosphere around him too hot and tar thick to be able to pull into
his body. An awful flash from his childhood when he was tripped into
the mud and someone’s foot on the back of his head had held his face
down there, his breath bubbling out into the dirt, laughter as he
scrabbled against them and the shameful weakness of his body.

It’s
more than the physical, these pressure points of vulnerability.
Loerzer’s pushing the worst, most craven emotions through him too.
Harder to excuse.

Loerzer
jams his hips forward, holding Goebbels tight in place as he finally
climaxes. The heat of his spunk filling him, three hard spurts. The
feeling makes him flinch and struggle weakly, involuntarily milking
Loerzer’s cock for all it has to give as Loerzer groans in
satisfaction, breathing rough and ragged through his nose. As soon as
he’s done he shoves Goebbels away letting him topple onto one side, a
quivering little pile.

The
bed shifts beneath him. Swallowing, Goebbels slowly creeps his hand
to his head and pulls the wet wedge of Hermann’s dressing gown out
from his mouth, then away from his face. Fresh air rushes over him
and he takes a greedy gulp, chin and mouth all pink and wet and raw.
Not as raw as between his legs. With tentative fingers, not caring if
Loerzer is watching him or not, he reaches down and gently touches
himself there, then draws his hand back quickly with a hiss of pain.

It
hurts so terribly and he feels so swollen and slick that his eyes
actually widen in astonishment when he raises his fingertips to his
face and sees there is no blood, just the glistening mess of what
Loerzer had pumped into him.

He
hears Loerzer chuckle.

“Sloppy
little tramp,” he says, seizing Goebbels’ wrist and forcing his
fingers to swipe over his mouth. “Still hungry? Come here.”

Goebbels
grits his teeth and turns his cheek but Loerzer’s strength is
superior and what little battle remains in him is a fractured,
foregone conclusion. Loerzer wrenches him up to face his sticky cock,
semen still oozing slightly from the tip, just softening.

“Go
on,” Loerzer says.

Goebbels
tries not to look at anything apart from the bare bedroom wall to the
side. For a moment he can almost imagine seeing some projection of
himself there, refusing, pushing Loerzer away.

He
isn’t opening his mouth to protest as he lowers his head. His tongue
frozen with a paralysed sickness just a breadth away from Loerzer’s
cock, his abdomen stone taught with the effort it takes to push past
that feeling and lap at the thing in front of him without the
contents of his stomach rising up too.

“Maybe
Hermann wasn’t all wrong,” Loerzer says, sighing with pleasure.
“Even the whores one pays aren’t always willing to do everything.
It comes naturally to you doesn’t it?”

Goebbels’
eyes dart up, mouth humiliatingly stretched full of dirty cock. He’d
felt like some mere object for Loerzer’s use but now he wonders if
there’s not some personal dislike in all this too. He can only catch
a flash of the sneer on Loerzer’s face before his eyes are tearing up
as two strong hands grab the back of his skull and force his lips to
mash against the sweaty mat of Loerzer’s pubic hair.

Loerzer
pats him brusquely on the cheek when he seems happy enough with his
efforts. He takes the time to dry his cock off in Goebbels’ hair
before he climbs off the bed, rearranging his trousers while Goebbels
scrubs his tongue against the roof of his mouth, swallowing over and
over to try and staunch the tide of nausea shivering up from his
guts.

When
Loerzer leaves the room he doesn’t command Goebbels to follow. He
doesn’t even turn to look at him.

Goebbels
sits very still for a while and then lets out a shuddering
exhalation. He surveys the minor agitation of the sheets, traces his
fingers over the little eddies and currents left over that (apart
from the wreckage of his body) are the only signs of what just
happened here.

There’s
a burst of laughter from the other room. Wincing, he slips his toes
onto the floor and pulls the dressing gown into as good a shape as he
can make of it on his frame. When he stands, the hem dangles
uncomfortable wet kisses against the backs of his legs. He sits back
down again.

He
isn’t sure how long he has been sitting there, one hand clasped
around his wrist, stroking back and forth with placid
lack of purpose while he studies the small imperfections of the wall
paint, when Carin enters.  

“Carin!”
he exclaims, along with an awkward flurry of movement as he pats down
his hair, wipes his hand against his mouth, sensing himself turning
crimson.

“Darling,”
she says as she crosses the room. “What are you doing just sitting
here on your own?”

“I…”

She
lowers herself gracefully to sit beside him and he shakes his head in
distress, torn between the urge to lean into the white floral scent
of her and the urge to scurry away like some dark thing exposed
suddenly to sunlight.

“What
is it, Joseph?” she asks. “Was Bruno that rough?”

The
back of her finger strokes down the side of his face, he can feel her
gaze on him acutely but he can’t bring himself to meet it.

“I
think I should be leaving,” he says quietly. “My clothes…do you
know where they went?”

“Oh!
You’re upset!”

She’s
touching him so gently that it’s setting all the fine hairs on his
skin on end; an almost tickling sensation, but in the strangest way,
painful too.

“Carin,”
he says, hearing the urgency rising in the timbre of his voice.
“Really this whole thing was a mistake, I need-”

“Shhhh.”

She
presses her finger briefly to his lips as she hushes him and then
brings her arm around him, drawing him in close to the perfect
softness of her body, her hands slim and elegant yet brooking no
argument.

“Hermann
and I understand what you need,” she says.

She
sounds so sure, a soothing, irresistible sense of absolute authority
that makes Goebbels’ heart ache and his body unwind toward her, his
tense little shoulders dropping until another peal of laughter from
down the hall makes them tighten right back up again. She hushes him
once more as he flinches at the sound, stroking him until he’s pliant
enough to allow himself to be prised from the bed and led back to the
family room.

The
conversation becomes more clear as they walk down the hall, Carin
taking small steps, graciously accounting for his ginger pace. He can
hear Loerzer’s deep voice as they approach the doorway.

“…where
they’d call it ‘failure to thrive’, better off culling the little
runts, what is this bizarre affection you-”

Silence snaps into
place as they enter hand in hand.

“Christ,
he looks shell shocked,” Hermann says after a moment, whistling as
he casts an eye over him before turning to raise his eyebrow at
Loerzer. “Hardly seems like you had a disappointing time there,
Bruno.”

He’s
relaxing in a deep chair opposite Loerzer, leaving the sofa empty for
Carin and Goebbels to settle down in together where she can continue
her careful handling. Goebbels has an itch in the back of his throat,
a barely contained entreaty for her to stop running her fingers
through his hair, knowing what Loerzer has only just been using it
for, but he craves the comfort of it too much and the thought of
admitting it is too deeply humiliating to put into words either.

“I
never said I was disappointed, Hermann. You pestered me for an
opinion and I told you; he’s adequate for purpose. More than that is
a different matter, he’s not my sort.”

Loerzer’s
beating time on the side table as he speaks, cigarette between his
fingers. It’s as close to his face as Goebbels feels like looking. He
would like that cigarette very badly at this moment.

“Oh?”
Hermann sounds gleeful. “What’s your sort then?”

“You
know very well.”

“Hermann,”
Carin interrupts, fond exasperation paired with a hint of warning.

Goebbels
can’t help but look up then. The way that Hermann and Loerzer are
staring at each other is some silent conversation he is completely
excluded from. A chilly sense of his unimportance passes without
effort through the huge fluffy gown, his flesh, his lungs.

But
then Hermann turns his smile upon him and, oh, there’s the
burn of the spotlight.

“You
were only his second though, Bruno, isn’t there something in that?”

Loerzer
makes the same snorting noise of derision he had when Goebbels had
professed it to be so.

“And
you actually believe that?” he asks Hermann.

“Why
shouldn’t I?”

“Rather,
you actually believe his ability to be sincere at all?”

Hermann
hasn’t taken his eyes off of Goebbels during any of this exchange,
still smiling inscrutably, small adjustments in the curl of his lip
or the creases at the corner of his eyes. Goebbels stares back at
him, watches as he shrugs a little, inclines his head to the side a
fraction.

“I
understand you enjoy the notion of such virginity,” Loerzer
says with a drawn out sigh. “So it must be true, naturally.”

“I’m
a romantic,” Hermann says, smile broadening into a grin, showing of
all those teeth.

“Romance?
This is about conquest,” Loerzer objects.

“Exactly
the same thing!” Hermann exclaims, finally tearing his inquisitor’s
regard away from Goebbels to shoot Loerzer a look of mock amazement
that he should have to point out such an obvious fact to him.

Carin
laughs delicately and turns Goebbels’ face to meet her own. Calm
eyes, beatifically serene he would have described at first. She sits
there, so close to him and something shifts. Not quite in her
expression he thinks, unsettled, but in his own apprehension of it.
Shades of other women’s faces, real and imagined, he’s laid upon her
own like an imperceptibly fine veil, stirred for the briefest moment
by a breath.

“Our
little doctor is being so unusually quiet, but you agree don’t you,
Joseph,” she says. “About conquest.”

“Romance,”
Hermann adds.

Of
course they are a perfect pair, he thinks as he glances between them;
his eyes widening and Carin’s nails sketching away on his suddenly
goose-pimpled flesh, a murmur of appreciation hissing gently through
her teeth.

“You
will tell us all
about your feelings about what it was like with Bruno too, won’t you,
Joseph?” Carin says.

His
voice is hoarse by the time he can manage to find the words.

“If
you insist.” A painful whisper, head turned into his angelic
captor’s embrace.

The
other three laugh as if it’s the funniest thing they’ve heard all
morning.

daemon AU

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aus-der-traum:

The sunlight streams through the lace covering the windows in a
dappled pattern, sending all the cream of the wainscotting and the
blue of the rugs into a washed out haze, dust motes drifting through
the air, all that white and bleached periwinkle
like a photograph left out for years in the sun and they’re  both
still as the figures in a photograph too, Carin in her chair and him
on the floor beside it, his legs tucked under himself – those legs
are going dead and the air is thickening to treacle (even those specs
of dust, in suspended animation now) but Carin’s skin, her wrist,
draped over the arm of the chair, remains so vibrant he cannot tear
his eyes away and his mouth parts slightly as he thinks of pressing
the tip of his tongue to her pulse there, just for one moment.

The plush, stocky body of Ragnar, Carin’s
wildcat daemon
reclines on a little patch of floor where the sun is beating in
hardest, in the relative shadows nearby Ursula has her nose to the
floor, snuffling around, creeping slowly around the perimeter with
her tail in the air and her little paws making small incursions,
drawing back, scuffling forward again, all the while Ragnar’s tail
lilts dreamily from side to side and his eyes are half closed in
pleasure from the warmth beating down on his belly.

Hermann lets out a little sigh and when Carin’s
eyes meet his he finds he’s clenching his jaw so hard it hurts and it
does hurt,
not the grinding of his teeth but how badly he wants to confess that
the only word he can think to describe her is ‘goddess’, that no one
has ever made him feel this way, amazing that someone could matter more than
him, that if she would only give him one single, intimate touch, he
would be hers, utterly, forever and as he’s staring up at her,
feeling like a small boy, Ursula pounces on Ragnar and is instantly
swatted away by those large, heavy paws, swatted and then pounced on
herself at the same as Carin pushes off one of her shoes and presses
her foot into Hermann’s groin and tells him, stay.

@reichblr-ficathon

the power of yes

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“Get on the floor, next to the bed, on your knees,” Göring instructs Goebbels, and he quickly scrambles down to the cold, hard wood.

(Once, as they sat side by side, Göring’s slow regard of him slanting more predatory by degrees, he had asked, do you miss Confession, Goebbels? Turning his rings on his fat fingers. You must, I’ve heard that sort of…upbringing is impossible to completely scrub out.)

“Lower,” Göring says, maintaining an aura of the beneficent and, a queasy yet unavoidable lurch in Goebbels’ stomach, the paternal even while he grips the back of his head and pushes him lower beneath him, trapping him against the bed, smiling at the tremble in Goebbels’ shoulders

(Your lot must have some more grandiose term for it though? The amusement in Göring’s voice had Goebbels turn his scowl toward the window, wanting to deny him the satisfaction, wanting to bite back at the implication of ‘your lot’, to tear apart the utter audacity of Hermann Göring of all people to scoff at grandiosity. Instead, he cleared his throat and said, quietly, the Sacrament of Penance and Reconciliation.)

This isn’t a ritual or an unburdening of sins. Those aren’t the things he misses. He looks up at Göring’s cock, the bed frame is a dull ache at the back of his skull. Göring smears his erection around his cheeks, lips, forehead, and back again and again. The hot, wet tip of his prick slides against the side of his nose and presses against his eyelid, leaving a sticky stripe of precome in its wake. The oily salt-tang of it fills his nostrils. A tiny retch hiccups at the back of his throat.  

“I am going to fuck that pretty little face,” Göring says, then pulls Goebbels’ head back, so he can look up into his eyes as he positions his cock in front of his mouth.

(All the words spilled out of him in the end, escaped while he wasn’t watching. Göring pressed a thumb against his mouth to stop him but he continued until the outpouring became a trickle, stuttered in-between desperate flicks of his tongue and the suckling of his lips around Göring’s fingers until finally there were only two words left.)

“Yes, please,” he says in a soft little tone, widens his mouth and sticks out his tongue.  

Scene From a Birthday Party

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Hermann comes down glittering and really it should be ridiculous but that’s not the feeling tying Joseph’s guts into tight little knots. Hermann is strutting; effortless, enormous and graceful and commanding, all eyes on him and Joseph’s as well naturally – his stomach turns queasily at the knowledge he’s just part of this crowd, caught in this eddy too, unable to resist though he knows better.

Up close he can see a peacock swipe of colour across Hermann’s eyelids. He’s powdered and rouged and draped in some chimeric confabulation that’s half Roman emperor and half Renaissance Duke.

“Really, Joseph?” Hermann is smiling but the reproach feels genuine as he looks him up and down in his drab little suit. “I did tell you to wear something appropriate.”

And he does feel out of place amidst this close circle of party goers in masks and feathers and gold. He tries to summon the will to feel disgust at them, at their opulence, even at Hermann’s corpulence which is excess made flesh, writ large, in the most literal way.

What he feels is paltry and ragged. What he feels is the desire for Hermann to pull him in close so his nose is pressed into the soft, fragrant patch of skin behind his ear – the private scent of Hermann’s flesh.

You’re abhorrrent, he wants to say, looking at the way Hermann has painted his lips, the way it matches the nails on those hands that could crush the very life out of him, that have been, in spectral form, pulling the trigger on an ocean of arms vast and ceaselessly moving as the shells of beetles in some gargantuan infestation.

“That could have been my birthday present you realize.” Hermann smiles from ear to ear.  

“What?”

“Really, Joseph,” Hermann repeats, though whether this echo is a question or a statement seems uncertain. He makes a small gesture that has someone immediately scuttering along to hand him a flute of champagne which he presses at once into Goebbels’ hand.

Later, as they sit together on the couch and Joseph toys with his empty glass, rolling the stem between his fingertips and trying to retain his borders, Hermann tells the white-blond boy who comes to refresh his drink to stay and stay must mean kneel since that’s what he does, at Joseph’s feet, irritatingly beautiful – though almost sexless really, like the statues he saw in Greece where the chastity of marble was self evident and all appreciation could be pure.

The boy touches his knee and Joseph swats it away unhappily.

“Let him touch you,” Hermann says.

He strokes the back of Joseph’s head and the lazy, feasting way Hermann’s eyes roam over his body almost make him capitulate. There’s so much certain authority in the way Hermann pets him, as though the warm drag of each firm finger is remaking him as a simple ornament for Hermann to play with and no denial of his could ever change this fact.

“Can’t you call over one of them?” Joseph snaps, flinging a hand in the direction of a gaggle of girls in skirts short enough to flash their garters with every little movement.

“I’m just trying to make you more comfortable,” Hermann says.

“Comfortable with what?”

“Accepting pleasure, without these parochial restrictions of yours.”

Goebbels considers the smug, pitying look on Hermann’s face. The condescension washes over him in a hot wave not unlike arousal. He lifts up his refilled glass as though to make a toast and then, quite definitely ceremoniously, upends it over the boy kneeling in front of him who gasps and sputters and looks to Hermann with wide, lost eyes.

Hermann only laughs and effortlessly pulls Joseph closer to him, ignoring the black little look Joseph knows is scrawled across his face from the tightness in his jaw to the vein at his temples, pulls him in with one strong arm around his waist and  kisses him on the forehead so Goebbels can feel the greasy smear of his lip colour marking him and calls him his dear sparrow and beckons over another tray of champagne.  

Alamut

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It’s not often they have a night alone together. At times they can carve moments out – on Hermann’s train where the door can be locked and stiff and diligent men steadfastly ignore any noises that come from the compartment they’re guarding. 

But when they do, Göring likes to sleep with his arms around Goebbels, his forearm resting against his throat. A claustrophobic feeling – that huge body warm against his back, one arm wrapped around his waist and the other pressing against his windpipe just enough that he feels controlled, knowing that he couldn’t move even if he wanted to.

When he wakes early, in the grey before dawn, still half caught in a dream of typewriters, he feels Hermann’s arm tightening around his throat. Another hand starts making slow, soft circles on his belly, growing wider and wider and edging closer to the throbbing urgency between his legs.

He bucks his hips but the forearm against his throat tightens until it’s hard to breathe. He doesn’t care about the lack of oxygen, it would be better to choke himself to death if he could rut against the hand pressed between his thighs. His balls are drawn up close to his body, he’s dripping from the head of his cock.

He leans back and tries to turn his head to kiss Göring but Hermann tightens the grip on his throat again and slaps his cock.

“Stay. Still.”

No gentleness in his voice at all, but the fingers gliding over the wetness leaking from his prick are feather-light. Goebbels whimpers with every breath, and every breath is a struggled gasp as Hermann chokes him.

“Please,” he manages to force out.

“Shut up,” Hermann says.

And pushes all the way inside him without hesitating and despite how those fingers have stretched and felt their way inside him it’s still almost too much.

There is no better feeling than the pain of Hermann’s cock driving into him and the pressure of his grip around his throat and the sense of possession, of being his.

Hermann thrusts into him deep and hard. Now he’s melting and moaning and bucking against him, pushing back on the cock that’s fucking him so beautifully.  The moan that comes from him is a despairing plea.

“Shhhh. Good boy,” Hermann says. “Go back to sleep.”

His forearm tightens just slightly against Goebbels’ throat. Göring’s fingers slide into his foreskin and his knee pushes between his legs, holding him open. There is no part of his body he has control over.

Monday, November, 1938

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“I know what you want,” Göring murmurs the words in a low somnambulant purr that drifts up from the wide chest where Goebbels’ ear is resting and out through his mouth, barely audible.

Goebbels isn’t sure Hermann’s not sleep-talking, honestly, despite the fact that every so often one eye will crack open a touch and consider Goebbels inscrutably for however long it takes for him to reach a satisfactory judgement of what he beholds. Perhaps it’s merely, as Göring had snapped earlier, to check that Goebbels is still tucked next to him on the bed and not off tossing all of Emmy’s good glassware from the windows.

“What do I want?” Goebbels asks, playing with the ridiculous lace adorning the front of Hermann’s nightshirt idly. The jagged edge of a nail he does not remember biting to such a sorry state catches and he pulls it free with a grimace. Hermann pays no attention to either the question or the grumbling little flurry of movement.  

Of course it’s the drugs that have sent Göring off to the land of Lotus-eaters and Goebbels would have his objections at any other moment but he will admit, for now (no warranty for even so much as an hour younger than the present) and only silently to himself (an unscrupulous biographer he trusts on necessary sufferance  and since he is a prophet and not the one to employ prophets) that after the entire lousy uproar of the week. It’s nice.

It’s the first time since the unpleasant business at the air ministry (where naturally Hermann had to throw his weight around and bellow and stab his finger into his palm and all about the economic question for pity’s sake) that each spare space in any room between them  hasn’t felt as though it were packed with thorns.

Goebbels is more careful with the lace this time as he passes his hand across the broad, solid expanse of Hermann’s belly. He does it again and is startled by the sound of his own sigh. Like an out of body experience to witness his own hunger. The weight of Hermann’s body draws him, settles the pricking knowledge of so many whisper cloaked daggers behind his back –   the sheer, unabashed presence of so much Hermann Göring: a bulwark to all of it. He stretches his greedy fingers over the country of Hermann’s body and then brings them back to himself.

(His own whispers asserting even now as he rubs Hermann’s stomach in relief and adoration that of course it had been him, Goebbels, who had been the more gracious in admitting perhaps there had been some calculations that had not occurred to him. Or a complete lack of calculation at all as Hermann may have, possibly, most emphatically, put it.)

“You don’t understand what I want,” Goebbels whispers. Partly to Göring.

He can feel the smile in Göring’s fingertips when a heavy hand finally works it’s way into his hair and takes hold.

Hunger

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What do you want? Goebbels asks him, despairingly, a little broken shrill note creeping in to the end of his plea like a hiccup after beginning so earnestly in low, deep tones, the black depths of his eyes, skin luminous pale; porcelain, not marble, he looks as though he might shatter at any moment and how Goering enjoys seeing him like this, exposed by hunger, pleading.

Not defenceless, even crazed by desperation he’s not that. His teeth shine sharp, inhuman, his lips draw back to put them on display. But he can’t just take.

And that’s where Hermann has him.

Those old wives’ tales have such much wisdom to dispense. How vampires can hypnotise, how they can entrance. But they always need an invitation. And as it seems…not just over the threshold, not just into your hearth and home, but to feed as well.

Goebbels is gasping on his knees, his nostrils flaring, pressing his tongue flat to Hermann’s arm and Hermann allows it, allows him to lap over and over again at the soft inner skin of his wrist, over his pulse – this little keening choking sound coming from the back of his throat.

When at last Hermann tells him what he wants (I am the administrator of the Prussian state theatre, your ministry will cease trying to muscle in) he’s barely cognisant of it. He nods feverishly.

He only hears the yes and then he’s feeding.

The blood comes so fast it feels like he’s suffocating on it, this sublime asphyxiation. He’s choking on it at the same time he’s trying to rut against Hermann’s great bulk and when Hermann pulls his wrist away he still juts his hips against the air and his tongue falls out of his mouth and he whimpers.

“Yes, whatever you want,” and he snaps his teeth together.

But it’s seeing Goebbels pant and beg and rut against his leg that makes Hermann imagine what he could do for him. What Goebbels never asked for, but what he can take, Just the gasping cry as he pulls away.

This lovely exotic creature, his fangs showing. There’s a pretty golden collar to put around his neck.

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.

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.

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.