Bronze sheen of sweat on his bared chest, and the eyes of boyish innocence, merely a reflection of the sky above, bright, so very bright, glaze of drug mania melting into eyeball whites. He coughs up a bit of blood, wheezing like a cat struggling to get out a hairball. “You’ll be fine”, Peiper says (his hand in Werner’s, kneeling by his side) and Werner smiles with blood speckled lips and grape juice stained teeth and he calls him Jochen under his breath as if the medic wasn’t allowed to hear.
Tag: jochen peiper
Peiper and a bottle of Hennessy
:: visions of Peiper laid out with uniform undone under a tree in the
dappled shade on a rare day of rest from battle ::Visions of Jochen laid out with his uniform undone under a tree in the dappled shade on a rare day of rest from battle. Distant memories, the smell of dry wood and rotten fruit and the taste of his hot mouth meeting mine as we roll in the grass like children both eager and anxious to get each other out of our uniforms. When I hand him the bottle of Hennessy he smiles at me like he knows what I’m thinking about, his sweet boyish smile, but that day couldn’t be more distant now; there are dark circles under his eyes, his lips are chapped, his skin sore from the wind and the cold and when he drinks from the bottle, untypical greedy desperate gulps, I think maybe he’s drinking to forget.
Peiper? I’m desperate
Maybe
it’s the whining that makes him so callous, that it’s her fault
that he has no patience for it, that when she can’t help but twist
her blouse between her fingers and beg, please, please, she’s so
desperate, she needs it, that he looks at her with that impassive
gaze and keeps writing the important letter he’s involved with.She
has no permission to leave, he just chuckles at how her swollen, wet
slit drips onto the floor even when it’s not touched at all. There
are a pile of letters he needs to get through and with each one he
drags the stamp through her cunt before affixing it and she’s so, so
happy for the attention.
coercion
Wünsche
had no shame about declaring the terms of the interview and perhaps
Peiper should not have been surprised by this (not by the lack of
shame, at the least, in that vacant, carnivorous smile) but no matter
how little he had thought of Wünsche before or how jaded time and
circumstance had left him grimacing about the notion of brotherhood
as it manifested in men rather than in the ideal, it still left him
numb and silently reeling when Wünsche
had explained it to him.The smug satisfaction on
Wünsche’s face as he
balanced a pen on two fingers, raised an eyebrow at Peiper from
behind his desk and asked, are you really going to let your family
go hungry over a matter of pride? I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.Wünsche
said it as though it was only further justification for this whole
exercise. If he expected Peiper to do him the great service of
allowing a war criminal to be his assistant (at the possible
great cost to his own sterling reputation of course) he needed assurance that Peiper realised his place, that he understood he should be
grateful. How can he trust Peiper’s usual arrogance not to rear it’s
ugly head? This is an object lesson.Put on the skirt.
The
skirt that Wünsche had given him. Just a little demonstration,
Wünsche had told him, to show sincerity. Just the once. There are
plenty of other girls who are eager for this job after all.Peiper
changes in the executive bathroom and walks back into Wünsche’s
office with his head held resolutely high. It seems infantile
to dwell on the feeling of exposure, that’s the whole point isn’t it?
And he tries to clench his jaw against an onslaught of blushes,
against a pin point focus on how the hem of the skirt wraps around
his thighs, the places it leaves bare, what it fails to protect,
where the dull grey cotton hugs and emphasises parts of his body he’d
rather not think about here.“I might have a place
for you yet,” Wünsche says.He
touches Peiper’s arm, lightly, a finger running up from elbow to
wrist, circling around him in his smart suit and his nicely combed
hair and the bestial huffing of his breath. There’s silence apart
from that, amazing, Peiper thinks, how it makes him yearn for the
usual asinine small talk Wünsche would try to make back when they
ran into each other on the Eastern front.Casually, deliberately,
Wünsche pushes an empty coffee mug
off the desk where it lands with a dull thud on the carpet.“Pick
that up,” he says.Peiper can hear the smile
in his voice as he bends at the knees to fetch it, can feel Wünsche’s
amusement at the distress he is trying to hide and it hurts like a
limb that is dying but still attached to his body. Wünsche’s
hand cups his ass as his fingers close around the mug and stays there
as he stands up and places it back upon the desk.“You
know what really industrious girls do to get their jobs, don’t you
Jochen?” Wünsche huffs moist, stale air against the back of his
neck, squeezing with his hand before slipping it up the bare,
unprotected inside of his thigh, pushing him bodily against the desk.
“You don’t think you’re above that do you? What good German women
do?”“This doesn’t-”
He begins to say but
Wünsche slams his head down onto
the desk so hard he sees stars and coughs and retches at the blood
that slides down his throat at the same time it starts pouring out
his nose, that dizzy sensation of drowning all bound up with the
thick, coppery taste of his own blood. He’s snorting in frothy red
trying to get air as Wünsche grinds an obvious erection against
him.“En français,
Jochen, I always thought it would be nice to have a French bitch do
my filing. You speak it don’t you?”And in the end Wünsche does get very many pretty French phrases out of him before it’s apparent the only French conversation he’s really interested in is between Jochen’s tongue and his cock.
I heard Max Wünsche needs to be punished? Pls tell me all about it!
Max is sitting on the floor between Kurt’s spread legs, his knees dusty with dirt, leaning on Kurt’s thigh, sleepy, content, waiting patiently for a pat on the head, a heavy hand in his hair, any treat, but not today, today Kurt is angry with him, because some barriers may not be crossed and Max did cross them with Jochen, tore them down and pushed Jochen’s face in what remained of them and that can not be tolerated, justice must be served. Light steps, Max doesn’t hear Jochen coming, but when he feels cold fingers on the back of his neck he recognises them instantly from the way they held onto him before, small and weak and desperate – now they grab him hard like something they own and then Jochen pulls Max head back by the hair so he can spit in his face and calls him disgusting and degenerate and when Max tries to laugh it off, teeth bared like a sword, his body tensing, ready to strike, Kurt punches him in the stomach so hard that he throws up. He’s still spitting, coughing, barely able to breathe when Kurt presses him flat on his stomach, his face pushed into the puddle of his own rancid puke, twists his arms back and kneels on him, a knee in his spine, like he’s livestock to be shorn or branded, holds him like that for Jochen to do as he pleases.
When Max’s pants are pulled down he’s almost relieved (an eye for an eye), but it’s not quite what he expected, something cold and metal is slid between his buttocks and he can’t see but he knows it can only be a dagger or a bayonet and he becomes very still when it tickles him, the tip of it pressing into his ass – no, it’s not sharp, it’s in its scabbard, it won’t kill him but it is unrelentingly hard and stiff and long. He is granted as little mercy as he has shown himself, no spit, not a word of encouragement from Kurt when Jochen pushes the scabbard into him so deep he can feel it pull on his guts and then he thinks maybe it will kill him after all and he screams, muffled and still gurgling on his own puke. Kurt laughs, the sound reverberating through his body, a jolly laugh that returns again and again, as Jochen fucks Max with the sheathed blade, thrusting with precise brutality, jabbing into his insides, the dull edge cutting into his skin until he’s so numb the pain is nothing but a distant burn but it still hurts when Kurt calls him an faggot and a cocksucker and shoves a fingers into him alongside the blade and then another one to spread his gaping hole open and when Kurt giggles and says “Jochen, dear Jochen, my Mäxchen wants you so bad, look how bad the bitch wants your dick.”
It does not hurt, when finally – it comes as a relief – Jochen pulls out the dagger and instead slides his own hard cock into him (it gives Max some twisted satisfaction, just how hard Jochen is) and it shouldn’t be that easy but he’s loose and he’s bleeding and he wants Jochen’s cock more than even just one more second of that dagger. Kurt sighs at that as if it was the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, Jochen up to the hilt
in Max’s ass and his own fingers too, spreading and stuffing him together, and then Jochen fucks him, thrusting more brutally now than with the dagger, fine fingernails digging into his hips, but it’s not the horrible mechanical penetration, not the narrow blade, it’s a thick cock that fits just right and rolling hips and it does hit him where it feels good, just a little, just an inch of pleasure on top of it all but that is enough to make him clench and twitch around Jochen’s cock. “Do you like that, Max?” Jochen asks and it’s the first thing he has said ever since he started fucking him with that blade, and Max hates it, that his throat is still burning from the puke, the way he stinks, how ugly he must look and the utter loss of control of being used like that, a dirty hole, presented and fucked, and then the absolute contempt in Jochen’s voice, which needs no insults, reminding him again why he’s got that cock up his ass and why he likes it too, because he can’t control himself, because he’s not a man, just an animal and it’s not even punishment, he has simply been put in his place and he can’t hide his nature, can’t hide the way his muscles tense and his body trembles and his low moans as the orgasm rolls over him.
Peiper breeding at Lebensborn
Jochen first saw the girl’s husband (Gerda was her name, he did not know his nor did he care to know) when he dropped her off one day, maybe the fourth meeting, he could not recall, but it looked more like she dropped him off, put the little boy in the car’s driver seat where she left him to play with the wheel or the console (to keep him entertained as Jochen was entertaining her, again and again, until he could give no more and she lay next to him on stained sheets, sweaty, panting, with a blissful smile on her smeared lips), and that was of course the reason she came to Lebensborn – in contrast to his tall blonde wife the man was lacking in all racial assets: dark hair, dark eyes, mole-like features on a stout little guy who was nervous like a mouse and in height but not in circumference smaller than Jochen who wasn’t particularly tall himself, a rarity in these establishments where blond giants towered over him (he would have felt inferior had he not understood then already that race was more than the quantification of bones and expressed in deeds and bearings as much as the colour of your hair).
Like a mouse the guy was nosy too, eventually he dared to venture out of the safety of his car (or she let him out) and into the little villa with the discreet Lebensborn sign by the front door, where once he had begged his way inside he awkwardly stood around, looking here and there, down empty hallways, at white walls and at every so very superior young man that passed by, which is how he spotted Jochen too and watched him with unconcealed jealousy, while Jochen stood on the veranda, back in his uniform, his hair slicked back, looking neat as ever and smoking as he watched the birds in the garden, unconcerned with his own observer, and inside just a few rooms away the little guy’s wife had two fingers up her pussy to stop the cum from running down her thighs.
When he next saw Gerda’s husband it was coincidentally also the last times she came to use his services (he had done his duty, already visibly so when he stripped her out of her conveniently loose fitting dress, and she could not come up with other excuses to see him again), the encounter was by coincidence: Jochen had left his gloves on the nightstand and went back into the bedroom to fetch them when he found the man kneeling at Gerda’s feet his arms around her like a slave pleading for his life and his head between her thighs up to the nose in her wet folds eagerly drinking the bitter swill dripping out of her, then he understood what that jealous look had been about and he considered reporting the man but he did not, he thought the sobbing creature with its greedy little eyes was punished enough by its own existence.
leaning on his shoulder
You’ve been carrying heavy ammunition cases for miles now in total darkness except for the occasional flicker of enemies in the distance, you’re exhausted, physically weak, mentally frail but you hold on, you do your job, you need to follow your leader, it’s the only way to survive and even if you don’t survive, Peiper needs you and you follow.
Finally a break – you put the heavy weight down, look over to Peiper and see him talking to his adjutant, and when coincidentally your eyes meet, in a moment like from a dream, you see that he’s making a motion, calling someone closer, but there is no one there but you and he nods at you again, come here, and you follow, come trotting to his side, confused and more confused when he sits down and invites you to sit next to him like friends.
He gives you a pat on the back, a sip of whiskey and his shoulder to lean on and you thankfully accept all of them, feeling very warm from the alcohol or maybe it is the feeling of your head on his shoulder, his body so comfortingly close, and his breath on your forehead hot against the freezing cold of the night and his hand on the back of your neck, holding you there as he tells you how proud he is of you all and you specifically, but as you nod off you tangle with stray thoughts and you wonder if he’s really rewarding you or this is just another form of service to him, but you will do it gladly, very gladly.
Gorgeous Peiper’s big cock, Beautiful innocent girl…
They had told her the Germans were barbarians, huns, horrible monsters, ugly inside and outside, but the young officer she found in her father’s stable (stroking her favourite horse’s nose as if it was his own steed) was anything but that: in contrast to that stern uniform he looked so young and so gentle, the faint smile on his lips, the depth of his blue eyes and a ray of sun from the window that fell on his face made him look angelic – only the intensity of his gaze gave her goosebumps, no man had ever looked at her like that, there was something dangerous about it, a dagger with delicate ornaments still had a blade and any blade could cut.
He had noticed how nervous she was when he put his hand on hers (how could a soldier have hands that soft?) and stepped closer, closing the distance between them, breaching the space that was socially acceptable for strangers to keep, the shiny tips of his boots nearly touching her tiny shoes, so he spoke to her encouragingly in soft words, French and German too because he saw that she liked that, not knowing what he said, just looking at him, caught by his eyes like a pretty bird in a net, and she wanted to see more of him, take off that uniform, see him, touch him, feel his body against hers; he waited patiently for her to lean in for a kiss.
He was big, much bigger than she had thought from his slender frame, jarring really how fat and heavy his cock lay on his stomach, pink on white, bits of the straw they were lying on already clinging to his skin, his gorgeous body finally for her to see, yet she couldn’t help but feel fear welling up when he placed her hand on his cock, to make her feel the weight of it and how much he wanted her, and suddenly she remembered what the others had said, the Germans were conquerors after all, not brutal ones, polite neighbours, but conquerors nevertheless and it was only fair if it would hurt her a little – and it did, despite how wet she was for him, she bled when he pushed into her, slowly, very slowly, coaxing her body to submit while he kissed her neck and pressed his hand on her mouth so her parents wouldn’t hear her cries.
Peiper, von Westernhagen, and Pervitin
One of these nights, their shared sleepless nights when Jochen is high on pervitin and Heinz is suffering from the insomnia that has afflicted him ever since the head injury, Heinz takes Jochen’s hand with familiar tenderness, holds it for a long time while staring at Jochen out of his bloodshot eyes before he raises the hand to his temple, places Jochen’s fingers on the thick ridge of his scar and calmly as if giving a factual report he says: “this is where the demons came in.”
It was of course not demons that got in but brain fluid that leaked out and metal that pierced his frontal lobe, irreparably damaging the parts that made Heinz fully human, that made him want to sleep and eat and fuck, and Jochen knows that, has seen it and now sees it in front of his eyes again, that very moment when Heinz lay there with his skull cracked open, eyes rolled back into his head, the whites staring at Jochen and that pulsing pink slit where his brain was laid open – pulsing like the blood flow under his fingertips as Heinz presses Jochen’s fingers harder on the scar and with pleading eyes mutters that Jochen must take them out, get them out, let them out.
Jochen can’t get himself hard, no matter how much Heinz in his well-meant attempts to assist pulls on his limp cock, digging nails into the sensitive skin, and kisses and licks and bites him, the pain hardly registering as more than a tickle, and Jochen gives up on it, has no time for that, suddenly his heart is beating fast and he’s thinking fast and he can not wait; with a bit of spit and blood scraped from the roof of his mouth he shoves two fingers in Heinz’s arse and fucks him like that, hard but rhythmic, and Jochen can almost believe what Heinz said about the demons when he begins to tremble and then his head and limbs convulse and Jochen has to hold him so tight as he clenches around Jochen’s fingers and drools spit on Jochen’s neck, the come trickling from his soft little cock like urine and his eyes roll back into his head for an unsettling long time.
In which Peiper teaches Werner Wolff a thing or two
Werner was a bit like a school boy who threw little paper balls at girls he liked, on one of them he’d write ‘I love you’, you simply had to pick up the right one, it was just boyish incompetence in expressing his feelings, he was essentially good at heart, obedient and kind and he had to be, as Peiper’s adjutant he was his shadow by day and his bedmate by night and he was a sweet, innocent bedmate, once given permission he drew his superior’s smaller body to his chest and held him tight and he never did follow up on his arousal in those moments, fearing if he tried to touch him indecently Peiper would swat his hand away and he wouldn’t get to hold him again, so it came as bit of surprise when one of these nights Peiper grabbed his hand, put it down the front of his trousers, and pressed his palm on the hard bulge of his cock telling him – in a tone not unlike a command but Peiper’s command weren’t usually sharply spoken unless they needed to be – to take care of that, now, and he did, gladly, sucking up every quiet moan and stilted breath he was given in return.
Unspeakable things were better conveyed by acts than words, one of the following nights Peiper grabbed Werner by the scruff of the neck and he pulled him down on his crotch rubbing his adjutant’s face over the front of his trousers, until he was hard and Werner could feel it, feel Peiper’s cock pulsing through the fabric and he made sounds like a young dog, begging with scratching fingernails to get him out of his trousers; he had evidently not fully understood, when he was finally given permission (he pulled down Peiper’s trousers and the erection sprung up, the pink head wet on his lips), he suddenly was no longer quite so bold, he placed kisses up and down the length of his cock and on Peiper’s belly and his thighs and when he let his tongue dart out it was only a grazing touch.
Do it right, Peiper told him with a slap on his cheek and it was only a gentle slap but there was something about the way Werner apologetically smiled up at him (the expression certainly benefiting from the cock across his face), that made him hit him again and harder and like a good servant Werner only smiled wider as Peiper hit him again and again until his cheeks were swollen red and tears welled up in his eyes and the tears ran down his abused cheeks when Peiper pushed his fingers in Werner’s mouth, shoved his slender hand in as far as it would go and two fingers – one of it with the ring Himmler had given him on it – down the lion’s throat (he did not dare bite), fucking the wet, retching gullet with murmurs of approval when Werner managed to calm the twitching of his throat and with disappointed sighs and brutal jabs when he did not, until his adjutant had learned to hold still and not to gag and he was only choking on his own thick drool, so much of it, spilling over his lips and running down his face;
Peiper
pulled him on his cock and made use of his sore throat and he used him many more nights and taught him many other tricks until one day the bright young man was taken away from him.
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