Tag: jochen peiper

Physical Exam

bunkerarchivesLeave a comment

Just a few parameters make the difference between clinical and humiliating, none of which were for Jochen Peiper to set.

Firstly there is the motivation. In any regular clinical setting it’s the patient that seeks the treatment. It’s not the doctor who demands that the patient makes an appointment and punishes him if he objects, but the patient who employs the doctor to relieve him of pain and illness. In Jochen’s case Heinrich Himmler had demanded his examination following the death of his brother. Horst Peiper, who had also been a member of the Schutzstaffel, had died under suspicious circumstances – labelled an accident – and rumours concerning his sexuality had reached Himmler’s ears. Himmler was always very alert when it came to the cleanliness of his subordinates. It reflected badly on Jochen, who now seemed in a different light to Himmler. His beloved boyish looks and will to please suddenly appeared like the telltale signs of a 175er. Overcome with paranoia Himmler devised a test that – although impractical to apply to greater populations such as the prisoners of the Gestapo or the concentration camps – should clear this nasty matter up definitely and hopefully reestablish the trust he had in his young protégé. Himmler left Jochen very little time to mourn the loss of his brother as the man was likely not worth mourning over at all. He promptly put his patient down for an appointment to see whether he had fallen ill with the particular sickness Himmler detested so much.

Secondly there is the setting. White tiles, bright light and educational posters on the walls transform any room into a doctor’s office and different rules apply in those places. Just like a beach is the perfect place for sunbathing and the church is not, it’s the setting that makes it acceptable to strip naked down to the bone and unravel your insides for the doctor to see. A room that is clean in form and color enforces the purely rational nature of any interaction in it. The setting Himmler had chosen in a spontaneous hurry was a hotel room. It was not white and clean, square and practical, but a dark and decadent room. Paintings on every wall, colourful carpets on the floor, wooden furniture and warm electrical light invited for a friendly conversation with a glass of wine and when Jochen entered that evening – despite knowing better – he dearly wished he had simply misunderstood the invitation. And how he hated that table. It was placed in the centre of the room, almost like in an operating theatre, but it was made of dark marbled wood and richly adorned with carvings, so to kneel on it made him feel not like a patient but a meal prepared for dinner.

Thirdly there is the doctor. The doctor dons clothing specific to his profession. The white coat or an armband, red cross on white cloth, transforms a human like any other into a trustworthy medical professional. One could say it’s actually the reverse and the human is merely inhabiting the cloth and role of the doctor, like the hand of the puppeteer, who slips on the puppet Kasper. Kasper defeats the crocodile and saves Gretl, no the hand operating the puppet. Once the hand slips out, it retains no memory of its heroic actions and jest, it remembers merely the movement of its muscles, not the meaning attached to it. Whatever a doctor sees and does, it’s the white coat and the paper of his degree that carry the weight. Karl Brandt was certainly a fine doctor. There was no doubt about this in Jochen’s mind nor about his decent nature, but he did not look like a doctor wearing that black uniform and riding boots up to his knees, an awfully long way up for a man of his stature, and he did not look like one either when he took off his tunic and rolled up the arms of his shirt like a butcher.

Lastly and most importantly there is secrecy. Even those who have never heard of Hippocrates and his oath, instinctively know that a doctor must not divulge whatever he sees or hears in the course of profession. Brandt did not have to break the oath he had sworn to, Himmler simply demanded to be present during his experiment. Since it was his invention, he had to be the judge of its outcome. Jochen complied quietly, careful not to bite off his tongue. Himmler took a seat in the front row, a garish, red armchair, from which he watched Jochen intently through his round spectacles, eventually leaning forward, resting his chin on his hands to outright stare at the patient.

Jochen undressed in the awfully luxurious bathroom and was grateful for the last bit of privacy. He took off his uniform and underwear, and placed each item hastily folded under the sink next to his boots. It took longer than usual, he struggled with the buttons, his fingers were weak, he felt numb. He didn’t recognize the feeling, but he thought it was anxiety, he just couldn’t remember ever having been so dully anxious, not in school, not while climbing trees or mountains, not with a grenade in his hand or in anyone’s hand.

He looked at himself in the mirror above the sink. Two dark eye sockets stared back at him and a thin line, and under that was an angular pair of shoulders, bones protruding like clipped wings and under that every muscle was tense. You could see the line on his neck where the uniform covered his skin and the colour of it changed from pale to transparent nothing. Hardly hidden by that membrane the veins shone through, a fine blue net spanning across his chest. He scanned his own image for blemishes and irregularities. There was no sign of sickness, but then again not all sicknesses did have visible symptoms and when had his brother ever seemed ill like that?

Jochen told himself it wouldn’t be any different than the examination he had gone through when he joined the Schutzstaffel. He hadn’t felt even a tenth of this anxiety then and his entire career had depended on that moment. He imaged it, like eight years ago, when it was all white and distant and that image calmed some of that awful feeling in his stomach but as he opened the door and was back in that dark room, now naked and feeling as thoroughly naked as you can only feel next to men in uniform, the anxiety returned and would not subside again.

Jochen had wondered if Brandt would act differently as a doctor than as a person. If maybe he was one of those men who slipped into a character, all smiles and kind nods. He was definitely not that kind of doctor. He was even less humane now in his persona. All pretence of nicety that socializing demanded from him was gone. He treated his patient like cattle. No word was spoken, no order given if Brandt couldn’t just move the patient’s body like one of the puppets they used to train medical students. A firm grip on Jochen’s chin, head up, head down. Brandt’s eyes crawled over Jochen’s features, scanning. They were dark, dull, impossible to read anything in them but a distant hint of disgust, not personal, but all-encompassing. 

Head up again, two fingers prying his mouth open. Brandt ran the flat of his thumb over Jochen’s teeth. Left, right and over his tongue, pressing down on it too and leaving the taste of humiliation and also of something chemical, disinfectant or maybe just the base note of the doctor’s skin.

One unexplained silent procedure was followed by the next. Arms up. Spread your fingers. Stand straight. Stretch. Taller. Brandt dragged his palm over Jochen’s sides, up from his hips and under his arms and there again his thumbs, pressed into his armpits with a circling motion. Himmler moving in his armchair, fingernails in his hair and his racing heart; only sounds like these were amplified in the muffling silence of the room.

Brandt pointed to the dinner table. Get on there. On your knees. Jochen baulked at the thought of it, of him on there, exposed, ridiculous, but he did of course do it, crawled on the table, eyes averted from the spot that he knew held Himmler.

The surface was cold under his knees, because Brandt’s hands had been so warm. The doctor grabbed him by the neck and pushed him down on his hands, impatient but without anger, purely practical. Jochen naturally resisted, his mind was willing to follow any order but his body tensed and pushed against the pressure, instinctively fighting the force that wanted to push him down on all fours until they overcame it together, the hand on his neck and his own will subduing that primal feeling in his stomach that told him to run, run, run and bite.

 His resistance was entirely irrational, he could not find words to describe it, but he clearly saw it, a visceral image of a shorn dog shuddering and digging its claws into the smooth surface under its paws. There were no claws of course and he did not shudder outwardly, but he was a pet, one that could be put down any moment its master didn’t like it any longer. 

He could see the master from the corner of his eyes now, a black and white spot encased in red leather, staring at him, his glasses reflecting the ceiling light just right to create the illusion two huge, perfectly round white eyes, a insect with magnifying glasses for eyes. 

On the other side of him Brandt was leaning over his doctor’s bag and rummaging around in it. The noise was metallic, followed by the sound of rubber gloves pulled over his fingers. The kind of sound that once you have heard it you could never forget.

Brandt returned and there they were again, his now rubberised hands on Jochen’s back, counting each disk of his spine, tap, tap, regular like a clockwork. Jochen understood why Brandt had made him get up on the table, why kneel like that and why he had put on the gloves. Certainly not to count his bones. He would touch him in other places, touch him inside and he would make sure Himmler could see and judge and punish or reward accordingly. The knowledge was cold water in the back of his mind and it ran down his spine with each of Brandt’s touches, lower down into his core and quickly his entire body knew, goosebumps forming and a numbness in all limbs as they were drained of blood.

When Brandt let his thumb slide between Jochen’s cheeks and into the concave of his asshole he expected it, yet his mask slipped and he bit his lip to muffle his protest and then bit harder to concentrate on the pain, concentrate on anything but that feeling when Brandt stroked him there, entirely unsensual, like you would rub a spot of dirt on your clothing. But it didn’t feel unsensual and that was worse than the invasion of privacy. It felt like an itch offset just slightly on the sensory scale, a needy pleasure that demanded repetition and a harder, deeper satisfaction. New and unnerving, because of how sexual it was and should not be. He was fighting it, biting harder and thinking about anything but that sensation and in these days anything but the material was his brother and it was those hot summer days when they had been conquering forests in the improvised uniforms of the early Hitlerjugend and to think of any of that while being so wanton made his skin crawl with disgust.

Suddenly Brandt withdrew and went back to his bag. Clear metallic sounds. Himmler adjusted himself in his seat. Brandt returned and placed a heavy item on the table in front of Jochen. It was made of shiny polished metal, like a pair of scissors except it did not have blades for closing and cutting but round spoons to be inserted and opened. It looked like a modern make of a medieval torture devices, entirely awful, because he couldn’t help but stare and image what it would feel like to be spread open by it.

“If you don’t behave we will have to use this,” Brandt said and it wasn’t a threat but a fact. Without further ado he pushed Jochen down until his cheekbones touched the table and his ass was propped up, leaving him even further exposed. The metal tool reflected the white of his face back at him. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from it.

A wet sound, lubricant spread over Brandt’s hand, a pleasantly clinical smell followed by a finger, cold and wet, finding his opening and then pressing into him, slow and steady. His body complied all too easily, welcoming the intrusion to a point, then resistance and with steady pressure Brandt pushed past that and into him to the knuckles. It didn’t feel like he thought it would from the tingling outer sensation, it was erotically neutral and mildly uncomfortable. It felt foreign and that was good, because it didn’t feel good and there was nothing to hide.

Brandt curled his finger downwards, scraping his insides. Searching and finding his prostate and then it felt good in the way that Jochen didn’t want it to feel good, deep in his body, a warm pressure and buzz that he could feel in his cock too. A second finger probed him, pressed alongside the first and slid in just as easily and as hard as the first and then hastily a third one and this one hurt like something was tearing and he felt stretched and full, but looking at the speculum, measuring with his eyes just how wide it could be opened, he knew it was nothing and the shame he felt was nothing compared to what it would be like to be opened by that for them to see.

Three fingers, stretching and wiggling and then curling again to stroke the spot inside of him and it was worse, one kind of pressure mixing with another pressure, heightening both sensations. And of course Brandt knew and he would not stop teasing that spot with cruel precision. First with taps, just like on his back and slow circling motions and then subtly, gradually he started moving his fingers in and out, twisting them and jabbing them into him so abruptly Jochen thought it would rip him. And that sound, wet and sexual. It was just his fingers, and Brandt did smell like hospital, but he was fucking him, fucking him like any other man would with his dick, greedily pushing deeper. Another finger, four now, and that really hurt, but Brandt wouldn’t cease, like he found some perverse pleasure in seeing just how much Jochen cold take and Jochen pressed his eyes shut and swallowed his moans, but it was pointless. His cock was hard on his stomach, pink and leaking. Impossible to hide, impossible to hold his voice back any longer. So he was sick after all. He had always known there was something wrong with him, him or his entire kin, but not this.

The first moan was a croak and embarrassingly loud. They didn’t laugh or punish him. Himmler was still silent, motionless except for that slight change in the angle of his head, reflected on his glasses. And Brandt jabbed harder at his insides, one hand on his hip to steady him, again and again, building up some boundless pressure with each trust and the pressure wasn’t wrapped around Brand’s fingers any more or in his cock but spreading down his spine and down his trembling legs, not in waves but gradual, permanent, almost unbearable that it wouldn’t end, that it would just keep going like that. He heard himself sobbing, taste of salt on his lips. And then he stopped caring, stopped eyeing the looming black figure and stopped building the damning image of himself in his head and just pushed back against Brandt’s hand to feel him just a little deeper. The pain of that pushed him over the edge but there was no fall, no waves or twitch, just a violent feeling like being rent apart very, very slowly, but there was no pain, but a deeply satisfying, finally releasing pleasure.

Jochen was lying flat on the table, sticky spunk under his belly and salt burning his cheeks when he felt a hand on the back of his head, stroking him there. “You did very well, Jochen,” Himmler said.

Tauschhandel

bunkerarchivesLeave a comment

You are reading at your desk when he opens the cell door. You know him, he is a frequent visitor. He steps inside and locks the door behind him. The old game. He pulls a letter from the inside pocket of his jacket. Crayon flowers adorn the envelope.

“Look what I have for you, a letter from…”

He pronounces her name like a brand of cereal. 

You carefully close the book you were reading and put in a bookmark on page 48. You stand up and reflexively move your hands to straighten out your pants and pull down your tunic. You walk over to your visitor and kneel in front of him. You stare at up him, patiently waiting for the ritual to commence. 

“You’re a good boy, “ he says and pats you on the head. He is ten years younger than you.

He waves the letter back and forth like a treat.

“What does the American dog say?” he asks.

“Woof,” you say.

“What does the German dog say?”

“Wau.”

“What does the Nazi dog say?”

“Please.”

He clicks his tongue and shakes his head.

“No, no. That’s not right. That’s not what it sounds like at all. More passion!”

“Please,” you say dragging out the vocals, letting them vibrate in the back of your throat.

“Oh, that’s nice,” he says and fans himself with the envelope.

He drops one hand in front of your face. It smells like piss. You wonder if they do that on purpose or if they actually are this filthy. You lap at his hand.

“Good boy,” he says. Unimaginative.

He opens his pants. He’s hard. You don’t want to look at it, but you always do. He presses the tip of his dick on your lips. He reeks like arousal and more piss. 

“So what does the Nazi dog say?” he asks and cocks his head.

“Please,” you say and your lips drag over the wet glans.

“Please what?”

“Please let me suck your cock.”

Funny, you realize you have never said words like these in German. What an awful language they speak.

He jabs his dick into your mouth. The taste is vile. You suck him off.

“You’re getting good at this,” he says.

He’s right, you are. They aren’t content with just fucking your mouth anymore. You have to put in the effort and service them. It’s a little more humiliating and little less painful. He comes so quickly. They are all children. You swallow his semen. You’re not allowed to spit it out. You used to do that once they were gone, put a finger down your throat to get the dirty seed out of your belly and burn their taste off your teeth. But then you got very skinny and you thought of the people who needed you and now you swallow and smile when they slap your face, and when they ask if you liked the taste you nod and say “Ja” with that funny intonation that they like so much.

He wipes his cock on your face and drops the letter at your feet. He turns to leave, but then he stops, reaches into the pocket of his pants and pulls out a piece of candy wrapped in red and gold. He drops it in front of you. You pick it up and say “thank you”. When he’s gone you add the small nugget to the collection under your pillow. You’re so happy. Eight pieces in all the colors of the rainbow, eight pieces for the eighth birthday of your little son. It’s not much but it’s all you can give him.

Zuckerbrot und Peitsche

bunkerarchivesLeave a comment

Peiper is still looking at the map, gloved fingers holding firmly onto it, so the cold wind can’t tear it out of his hands. He’s got his head drawn in deep into the collar of his leather coat, worn out body hiding under those cracked folds that look like the remains of a starved animal. He has no idea where we are, no one does, the sky is a cacophony of detonations and fire and we all, whatever is left of us, just need to get out, but where to? And we all look to him, hoping he will lead us to safety, willing to follow him into certain death.

There is an American on the side of the road. Plump, brown and half frozen to death. He’s got no coat, his fingers are blue and he doesn’t speak at all. Peiper won’t even try to talk to him. He’s still looking at that map and then throws just one quick glance at the American. I’m close enough to see the change in his expression, for the fraction of a second there is disgust in his eyes, so familiar it makes my stomach churn. Then it seems like he looks through the American, so endlessly bored, and back to the map. No command, no comment. His silence grows louder, it muffles my ears, almost swallows the rumble of artillery in the distance. I know what he wants me to do. He’s not even studying the map, just looking at single point on it, thinking maybe, as he waits for me to remove the nuisance and finally get rid of the man.

I lead the American a few steps away to the wall of a bombed out building, not out of sight or hearing distance, just far enough that no stray bullet can hit one of our men. The American doesn’t understand what’s going on, he looks at that wall and back to me and back to the wall. I drive a bullet through his head and he instantly drops down like a wet sack.

Peiper hands me a handkerchief to clean the blood and other, grislier residue off my hands. I keep it, because he doesn’t demand it back. It’s white with a blue line around the edges and his name embroidered in one corner.

It smells like I imagine he smells, gasoline, old leather and the faint hint of women’s perfume. It’s probably just the pocket of the coat it’s been in, probably just that he used it before to wipe some spilled liquid, but the smell becomes inseparable from him in my head and the note of blood I added to it too.

He despises my love for him, but he doesn’t reject it. He gives me small gifts. That handkerchief, a piece of chocolate, a dazed smile when the high hits him, a firm hand on my shoulder, a pat on my back, concerned questions about the condition of my hand and that awful fracture. He’s so moody though, all smiles one moment and his boot on the back of my neck the next, hissing at me through clenched teeth, how I could dare to look at him like that, calling me vile and disgusting when I squirm and twist to taste the sole of his boots and I say yes and sorry and I think about how he could have me shot or hung or worse for having these thoughts, but more terrifying than the fear for my life is knowing that he is right and I do deserve it.

In the end dreams and reality become hard to separate. It’s all one, my depraved desires, little thoughts in the back of my head, the taste of his skin, the hardness of his body and the cold of his eyes, half experienced, half imagined. One of these nights I find myself kneeling and begging at his feet and how kind of him, he allows me to rub my face on the front of his pants and lick the coarse wool of it as I pull myself off with freezing fingers. Clumsily because my dick is only halfway peeled out of my uniform and every touch is a painful burning sensation. In a moment of compassion he closes his coat around me. I am engulfed by darkness and then slowly warmth and that smell of leather, gasoline and mud. I don’t get a single drop on him, but I faintly wish I had, so the stain could serve as a sign later to discern memory from fantasy.

Jedem das Seine

bunkerarchivesLeave a comment

(part two of Lerne leiden ohne zu klagen)


When Prieß finally turns to look at him it’s still no release. Muster would be the more appropriate word to describe it, as if he was surveying a landscape of his own, equally observant as unaffected, taking in every little detail from the hard line of Jochen’s lips to the tensely curled toes. That sort of gaze could strip a clothed man and peel the skin off one already nude; like layers of an onion, unravelling and tearing, down to that hidden core and then in a sudden bout of primal urge crush the small thing between his teeth and taste its sweet water.

The thought tickles the back of Jochen’s neck and makes his hair stand as if someone had gently placed a kiss there or not so gently ran fingers through his hair whispering in his ear of private matters. 

If only he wasn’t so romantic about things. Such trivial thoughts.

“When I see you in your uniform, out there,” Prieß says, “I am always reminded of a little boy playing dress-up in his father’s clothing.” And taking a step closer he does not fail to notice the effect he has on his subordinate, who holds his breath and raises his chin higher in a laudable but failed attempt to cover weakness with pride. It wouldn’t be seemly to ask Jochen if he was scared, to humiliate a man who had already delivered himself up. A true nobleman hates slavery in every form, most of all, that which could emanate from himself. Jochen recalls reading that line once in a book on a cold Sunday evening in Berlin, and it resonated with him then, such an idealistic thought, one that would never hold up to reality, as he suspected then and knew now.

When Prieß stands in front of him – quiet, composed, yet undeniably menacing, not like wild beasts, fire and iron but like bleak prison cells and scaffolds and the drab grey of his uniform – he doesn’t have to say it, even unspoken the question is on his lips, that uncontrollable smirk, which mocks and hurts Jochen yet brings him some joy to see too, marvellous as it is, enviable and so familiar, he can almost feel it on his own lips. Jochen can only answer the unspoken question in the affirmative by the common and commonly understood gesture of lowering his eyes, the innocence of that gesture so very jarring for one who just yesterday washed the enemy’s blood off his hands (under cold running water, the filthy sink filling up pink as endlessly he scrubbed under his fingernails not quite managing the get them clean but in his vanity also refusing to cut them to a more practical brutish length).

Disregarding the order of things, ranks, names, deeds, forgetting the war and its benefits and unpleasantries, stripped naked and toe to toe with Prieß the differences between them are painfully obvious: Prieß’ age, his composure and less complicated, more immediately demanding attention, his towering height. Jochen is staring at the collar of Prieß’ uniform, looking through it and waiting for a sign, for an order or a touch. It comes with a stroke of the fingertip along the scar on his arm. 

“I think I prefer you this way,” Prieß says. 

His touch is gentle but not without pressure, like the touch with which one would inspect for wounds a skittish animal. It wanders along Jochen’s arm, stomach, hip, finds traces of battles, pretty and not so pretty ones, red and white and purple. Under inspection the feeling of objectification returns inevitably but now, strangely, the feeling is welcome.

How little separated him from the abysses of the human condition. If he was to be the servant – the pet, the slave, all the same, what did it matter? – he would not be subdued against his will. Would that make it better or worse? Still the thought is exciting, how easy it is, like flipping a coin, one moment master, the next slave, if everyone played their part.

Prieß’s hand remains on his hip, a firm hold, and his breath on Jochen’s forehead, tickling and warm. Jochen does not look up at Prieß, has been neither forbidden to nor allowed, is left hanging in between and the moment stretches, and to his surprise he finds his arousal growing, entirely out of his control, cheeks reddening, breath quickening, and he knows it’s up to him to put an end to it, he won’t be ordered, this is his choice, he wants this, twisted as it may be (and how twisted it was, he knew that).

Prieß is waiting patiently, more statue than man, while Jochen debates the options of proposing a course of action, such as suggesting he could be trusted to keep quiet if Prieß wanted to use him again, like last time, or any other way, as he wished, he wouldn’t mind if it was going to be an unpleasant experience, no, not at all – and hoping he would be understood with phrases that in their childish vagueness embarrassed him, yet were still easier to assemble than to say out loud how much he craved Prieß’s cock, to touch it again, to taste it, to feel it inside of him and to suffer.

A graphic image forces itself onto him, bestial filth of the lowest kind. As if watching from a distance he can see himself, naked as he is now, on all fours, writhing and moaning, and Prieß on top of him, mounting him, and the two of them copulating like animals. In that grotesque scene they are one, like man and wife or two parts of the same. This is what he wants more than anything else now and it’s a relief, the way being defeated reliefs one of the struggle.

He looks up at the familiar face. It seems comforting in its lack of emotion. 

“If you want to fuck me in the ass,” he says, pronouncing the ghastly phrase like he’s holding filth at an arm’s length, “I think I could enjoy it.”

Prieß pats him on the head in a fatherly fashion. He takes Jochen’s hand and guides it to rest on the closure of his trousers and Jochen can feel that this time Prieß is hard already, waiting to be served. It gets to him, that silly, womanish sort of pride to please and to be desired, teacher’s pet, sunny boy. He drops to his knees, eyes up, asking for approval, given with a silent nod. Eagerly, like he would want it himself were he in the reverse position, he mouths at the hard outline of Prieß’s erection, bitter taste of wool on his lips. Before he can lap at it Prieß grabs him by the hair and pulls him away.

“Wait,” he says and Jochen waits and watches, staring, as Prieß opens his belt with a clink and very slowly unbuttons his trousers and then finally pulls out his erect cock. The musky smell of it so strong it’s revolting.

“Open up”, Prieß says and Jochen opens wide, stretching out his tongue. The tip of Prieß’s cock is glistening wet with precome. He wipes it on Jochen’s tongue. “Swallow,” he says and Jochen swallows the fluid that tastes like nothing first and then salt and urine. He feels like throwing it up again, emptying the contents of his stomach at Prieß’s feet just to rid himself of that taste.

Prieß smiles at the apparent expression of revulsion on his face. “Do you withdraw your offer to serve?” he asks.

Jochen clenches his teeth. “No.“

Prieß yanks him by the hair and Jochen wishes he did not, but he follows the implicit order, opening up again. Prieß slides his cock into Jochen’s mouth all the way and then some, tightening his hold on Jochen’s head, pulling him closer, adjusting the angle to push his cock in as deep as it can go and as Jochen gags on it Prieß only pushes deeper, sliding down his throat. Then he fucks his mouth. Jochen can’t breath and he can’t stop gagging. It’s worse than before, deeper, more brutal and he can still taste it, salty, filthy, going down his throat and his own spit is sour from the acid welling up with each stifled gag. The invasion is ruthless, nonstop. After a painfully long while his throat stops twitching, he is opened up. He feels lightheaded, hears only the wet slurping sounds of his throat being fucked like a cunt, and he feels nothing. Prieß pulls out and lets go of him. Jochen slumps to the ground. 

As he’s lying there, coughing, dizzy and without drive to even wipe the spit from his mouth Prieß is standing over him, his engorged cock in one hand, the tip of it is grotesquely red and covered in thick yellow mucus, the other hand opening the buttons of his tunic for ease. The image is banal and Jochen can’t look away.

“Do you want me to stop?” Prieß asks. No, he does not, not now. I am yours if you want me, it echoes in his head. How very naive. 

Prieß bends down and flips Jochen on his belly. Jochen lies still, listening to the rustling of clothing, knowing very well what was to come, nervous anticipation sinking into his stomach. Prieß gets on top of him, his full weight resting on Jochen’s hips as if he hadn’t voluntarily submitted and required to be wrestled down. Some fumbling, readjusting, and he pulls him up by the arse, stroking and squeezing the firm cheeks for a while before spreading them to slide his cock between them. 

“You’re beautiful,” he says, “as good as any girl.” He sounds different, the lust in his voice is crude and obscene. 

Holding his erection in one hand, and holding Jochen still with the other, he still struggles to squeeze the slick tip of his cock into Jochen’s tight arsehole. It doesn’t hurt yet but it feels like it would any moment, the hard thickness of the erection pressing in, to rip into him, to split him open, like a finger through the eye socket or a bayonet through the abdominal wall. In a sudden rush of panic at the intrusion Jochen tries to jerk away but he is held firmly in place. 

“Calm down,” Prieß says and it’s no reassurance, It’s an order and an insult, and he leaves Jochen no time to calm down, forcing his cock into him with a brutal stroke. Jochen cries out in pain. Now it does hurt and it feels foreign, not sex, no union, just an awful assault, stretching and aching and on the basest level, most shamefully he just feels like he needs to defecate. 

“I thought you were used to this,” Prieß says but it doesn’t feel like it, the ways he’s clenching around his cock, tight pink ring around the base of it, he can barely pull out. “Fuck, has no one ever had you like this?” he says not expecting an answer. He covers Jochen’s mouth. He pulls out and thrusts into him again and again and harder and faster, breaking him in, until he is loose enough to be properly fucked. And Jochen learns to arch his back and he hates how it feels, offering himself like that, taking that cock deep, but only for the pain, only so it wouldn’t hurt so bad, wouldn’t leave permanent damage. Muffled screams die down to a whimper. Jochen is crying and he’s glad Prieß can’t see it. The pain won’t subside. He can’t move, Prieß is lying on him, the heavy weight of the man crushing him, making it hard even to breath. His thrusts get more rapid. Like a humping dog. He grunts into Jochen’s ear. He holds him tighter, fingers digging into his hips, hand hard on his face, pulling and twisting it back, so close to snapping his neck. One last thrust and he’s buried to the hilt in Jochen’s arse. His cock twitches, pulses and he ejaculates deep into him with a satisfied groan.

Some seconds pass with Prieß just lying on Jochen’s back, the older man spent and exhausted, his cock growing soft. Then coming to himself he begins to fuck him again with slow rolling movements, pulling all the way out of the puffy red hole just to see it gape open and twitch, before thrusting his cock in again. Jochen lies still, trying to ignore the wet slurping sound of it and waiting for it all to be over. The burning fades to warmth. He feels like he urinated, warmth spreading under him and he realises with helpless revulsion that his cock is half hard and leaking come. He tries once more to get away from Prieß but the man won’t let go of him. He fucks Jochen until his own cock is too limp to force it back into him.

Then he gets up. He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes himself clean. Too weak to stand up just yet Jochen crawls back to his uniform. Prieß throws him the handkerchief. Jochen looks at it with disgust before picking it up to wipe the sticky mess off his arse and off the floor. Prieß watches him while he buttons his trousers and tunic back up. He looks unaffected. 

“Did you enjoy that?” he asks matter-of-factly.

“No.”

“I got a different impression,” Prieß says and

cruelly

lets the silence hang between them. 

Jochen pulls up his trousers. Prieß’s come is dripping out of him again, forming a wet spot in his underpants. 

“Will you report this?” Prieß asks.

“No, of course not,” Jochen replies.

Prieß nods and leaves him without any further word, like nothing happened.

Jochen closes the last button of his uniform, then the little clasp that tightens the high collar around his neck. He slides back into his boots, walks over to the window and looking at his reflection fixes his hair. It is like nothing happened. He feels whole again and clean.

Lerne leiden ohne zu klagen

bunkerarchivesLeave a comment

(sequel to 

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


The lack of agreed upon rules makes it hard to determine what is and isn’t allowed. They haven’t negotiated a language of their own, no contract was made when afterwards Jochen sat panting at Prieß’ feet asking only for a pat on the head. So when he meets Prieß again it’s like nothing changed and Jochen’s offering wasn’t any different than any of his other services, leaving no mark on Prieß’ impeccable bearing. They are still soldiers foremost and the distance in rank between them does not allow for camaraderie even if Prieß was willing to extend it, and Jochen admires that he does not.

It shouldn’t make any difference, it is his duty to serve, sentimental attachments belong to the home front. And to expect favours in return, even of only an interpersonal nature, leaves the sour taste of prostitution in his mouth.

All of his feverish fantasies wiped away by Prieß’ unchanged, cold demeanour Jochen proceeds as he did before, finding small pleasures in standing to attention under his uncaring eyes (or maybe there is a hint of amusement in the corners of his mouth), in the prim salutes and the ever unconditional affirmatives of his orders. And then in the rare moment of privacy again in helping Prieß out of his coat and out of his boots. Only when he’s kneeling at Prieß’ feet, hands clutching the leather shaft of his boots, does it overcome him, an unseemly desire to drop on all fours, to crawl and to beg with his tongue and watch his own reflection in Prieß’ cold eyes. It’s only a flicker of lust and he does control it, merely glancing up at Prieß, submissive in so far as the lowered position makes it seem that way and in that he can not help the sadness in his eyes.

His eyes meet Prieß’ and he realizes that he has been watching him intently. “Haven’t you had enough?” Prieß asks and it sounds like an honest inquiry but it still hits Jochen like a slap to the face, his attempts to control the sickening twist of his stomach visible only from the clenching of his jaw. Now all the tension is back and he needs to carefully choose his words, but there are no words that could save his face when he’s been called out so pointedly and before he can form a sentence Prieß speaks again.

“I can’t allow it. You are well aware of the legal situation and the ethical implications, especially in my position. If we are seen and, when put to the test, you lose your temper, I will hang for it.”

The words come as a surprise but also a relief. Jochen knows he’d never incriminate his superior and it’s easier to refute this idea than any implication about his own desires. “I don’t lose my temper,” he says with slight indignation, “I offered myself to you of my own accord and if questioned I will take all responsibility on myself. Anything else is beneath me.” His unwavering return of Prieß’ stern look seems to convince him of his sincerity if Jochen reads the softening of his expression correctly, so he tries, adding, “I am yours if you want me.”

Prieß smiles at that, a strange sight, equally disconcerting as it is gratifying. “Lock the door,” he says and Jochen does so, slowly to keep his impelling anticipation in check. When he turns around again Prieß is standing by the window looking outside, the pale light casting shadows under his cheekbones invoking the image of a death mask. Straight and proud with his hands crossed behind his back and like in thought still or in observation of the outside he doesn’t turn to look at Jochen when he says, “take off that uniform, I don’t want to see it.”

The prospect of following that order is unsettling to Jochen. Not being nude, that isn’t an issue per se. He isn’t dainty about these things, as a soldier you can not afford to be and it isn’t becoming to any German to be squeamish. The body is a tool and first and foremost just that. But to slip out of the uniform and the protection it provided, discarding the very thing that justified his obedience to Prieß, that makes them alike, is another issue entirely.

His hesitation is clear to Prieß from the long silence in the room, only filled by the occasional sound of water dripping from the roof and downstairs doors closing and steps in the mud.

“If you can’t do it, you may leave,” Prieß says.

A gracious promise, and what should Jochen do then, lose himself in fantasies completely, tie a shoelace around his neck one day and never come back from it? Pathetic. Retreat is not an option. He takes off his uniform. Belt and tunic and shirt accompany his cap on the floor. He folds them carefully as they have been taught in training, the collar tabs displayed, and before he proceeds he halts and for a moment looks at the neat little patch declaring his rank and he finds some comfort in knowing that taking off the uniform doesn’t strip him of his rank.

The boots must come off without help and while he gets out of his breeches, socks and underpants Prieß doesn’t look at him once and Jochen thinks maybe it would be easier if he did pin him down with his eyes, the intensity of his order visualized. But he is on his own and regardless of his bearing it makes the simple act of undressing feel seedy.

Now he’s standing naked in the dim light of the window, his pale body beautiful but like an eyesore, out of place in the dark, sparse room. He has the build of a swimmer thanks to his favourite way of spending a summer afternoon and despite not having had that sort of entertainment in a long time. His torso tapers to a slim waist, a pronounced Apollo’s belt and a patch of thick dark hair, which proceeds in a thin line over his stomach up all the way to meet the hair on his chest in the deep dip of his sternum. The veins shine under his skin in a cool shade of purple. He looks worn out, lean like a hunting dog and entirely lacking in softness. He is standing like a soldier, hands at his side, eyes forward, but he feels like a slave on the market square.

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

bunkerarchivesLeave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

Triumvirate

bunkerarchivesLeave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.” Max sounds winded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nachspielzeit

bunkerarchivesLeave a comment

(an addendum to this)


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

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

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

Theodōros

bunkerarchivesLeave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

Wünsche vs Peiper II

bunkerarchivesLeave a comment

Max Wünsche and Georg Isecke find themselves discussing an infuriating Kamerad

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah.”

“That must have felt good.”

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

“You have no idea,” he says.

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

“Brückner had your back on that?”

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

“The right person.”

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

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

“Christa’s keen on him.”

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

Isecke shrugs. “Girls go for that attitude.”

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

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

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

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

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

“A proper beating.” Wünsche nods.

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

“You think so?”

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

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

“Make him choke on it,” Wünsche grins.

“You could.”

“What?”

“Make him choke on it.”

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

“What else?”

“On his hands and knees.”

“Cover him like a bitch.”

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

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

“That’d be a picture worth printing.”

“Fuck.” Isecke groans.

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

“You think he’d cry?”

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

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

“Come on,” he urges, “come on.”  

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

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

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

“So,” Isecke says.

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

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