Jochen woke up with a headache and a sore throat, feeling sore too, worn out and sticky like waking up from a feverish night, clothing torn from his body in a sick frenzy that he could not recall, but it came to him slowly, first behind closed eyes: vague shapes, moments and words, the voice of a trickster, good boy, a tickle down his spine, rough hands, hate, his pungent lust and how much of a good boy he had wanted to be. When he opened his eyes he found himself stark naked, wedged between Meyer and Wünsche. He managed to crawl out of their arms without waking them up and stumbled to the bathroom where he threw up in the sink; it didn’t erase the memory of what he had let them do to him but it burned pleasantly.
Tag: kurt meyer
Do you feel the noose around your neck?
“Do you feel the noose around your neck?” Kurt whispered into Max’s ear when he closed his hands around his neck and lifted him right off his feet. Jochen couldn’t help but smile at the sight of it, Max whole body stretched out, toes extended, just about touching the ground, the muscles of his torso and his legs standing out from the intense effort of it and his fingers twitching, out of his control, the entire machinery of his body on the verge of snapping in some place; it reminded him of the way Max looked when Kurt was buried in him to the hilt. Kurt must have noticed the resemblance too, “do you want to fuck him like that?” he asked and Jochen considered it for a moment when he saw how Max rolled his eyes in protest, but he decided against acting on a whim, he lit himself another cigarette and stubbed the old one out on Max’s chest.
Punishment administered by Kurt Meyer
The first blow comes as a surprise, it wipes the smile off Max’s face leaving only a comical disbelief, childlike, a boy who had his sweets nabbed from sticky fingers. Before Max can beg to know why he deserves to be beaten (he surely must deserve it) Kurt hits him again and again, heavy handed slaps to the face, cold precision that makes his cheeks burn and his ego sting. All too quickly he finds himself crouching at Kurt’s feet, staring up at him with tears in his eyes and snot dripping from his nose, waiting for Kurt to smile again, to laugh and pat him on the head and to tell him that all is forgiven, but no, not yet, he will have to endure a little longer.
Kurt Meyer is captured by members of the resistance and before they get him a doctor they have some fun with him
Three Belgian partisans in shorts and stolen tunics who look more like schoolboys than soldiers drag their latest catch, SS-Brigadeführer Kurt Meyer, into a dusty kitchen. They had treated him a little roughly, shot him when he didn’t surrender – or so they would say once they hand him over to the Americans – for now the wound in his shoulder needs to be treated.
The room is lit only by a bright lamp hanging over the kitchen table. The table has been swept clean and standing next to it is an old man with round glasses in a blood-spattered white coat who watches with a nervous expression as they boys throw Kurt at his feet and then push and kick him to make him crawl onto the table. Once Kurt is on it, lying on his back and breathing heavily, they decide they won’t let the doctor do his work just yet. They tell him to leave and he does so looking very relieved.
When they are alone with Kurt the boys cut open his uniform to have a good look at his wound: a small bullet hole oozing blood. They touch it and laugh at the way it makes Kurt twitch and they try to outdo each other, putting their dirty fingers on it and in it, giggling as they move them in and out and they say “excuse-moi” as if their fingers simply slipped. Kurt has something to remark about their filthy minds, but the pain takes his breath and he holds on to the table and grits his teeth grinning at them instead.
That puts them in the mood. They pull off his boots and trousers and put Kurt on his stomach. One crawls onto the table and one stretches Kurt’s arms out holding him still with his bloody hands around his wrists. Suddenly remembering that their prisoner is not their toy but a dangerous Nazi soldier the third one holds a pistol to his back. The one on the table lifts Kurt up by the hips. He tries he to get his excited little penis into Kurt’s arse, a task that he has evidently no experience in as he struggles with the weight of Kurt’s body and a lack of compliance. With an amused look over his shoulder Kurt sniggers at the boy’s attempts, which he shouldn’t have done, it rather upsets the young man who gets his revenge when (after begrudgingly lubing himself up with some spit) he screws Kurt as if he hoped he could kill him that way. He succeeds in shutting Kurt up first and then in coaxing tired groans out of him, mostly though only due to the way the boy’s enthusiastic thrusting makes Kurt’s upper body and that bleeding shoulder rub over the table. Only the third one with his admirable stamina and some natural talent manages to make Kurt spill more than his blood. It’s a painful orgasm that comes so slowly, his tired body barely able to muster the strength for it, and it lasts so long that by the end of it he’s coming dry and his captors get confused and worried thinking they might be witnessing the man’s death throes.
When they realize what they’ve done to Kurt they naturally see his enjoyment of the situation not as opportunism but some deep rooted defect and they mock him and they call him a Nazi whore and other more creative insults that Kurt has never heard before but he barely takes note of it. Feeling tired and utterly content now, the buzzing pain of his shoulder snuffed out by a numbness of his whole body, he just sighs and arches his back a little more, waiting for the proceedings to come to an end.
It is however rather humiliating when the doctor returns to patch him up and he has to lie in his own ejaculate and suffer the old man’s raised eyebrows.
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.
You never kiss a whore on the mouth
It
wasn’t something he ever meant to tell Kurt, there were things you
could take to your grave, lots of things really, men did that all the
time, and for a time (time is a thing that goes on and on, you can
stretch it as small or as long as you like) it seemed more sensible
to do that anyway, a tactical decision based on a theory he had
cobbled together in his bed alone at night, that if he buried this
long enough inside himself, without oxygen or light, it would
disintegrate to nothingness, a memory that was no longer real, just a
faint smudge, residue like the grease spot from a dead body that’s
been moved, out of sight and out of mind, the idea is limitless –
move as many bodies as you like, stamp over the freshly trodden earth
and enjoy the sweet scent of pine, nothing is moving beneath your
feet.It’s
been so long but there’s no way he could forget the
promise/threat/insinuating impregnation of heat that comes when Kurt
lets his hand rest on the nape of his neck, the way Kurt smiles, two
fingers stroking where they could be pinching, right where his hair
becomes fuzzy and light and delicate and those two fingers might as
well be digging at the back of his throat where his gag reflex is
delicate and then he vomits it all up, this confession, what they did
to them, those English, what he begged of them – some of these
things he had forgotten, but now the sluice-gates have opened they
keep pouring forth, on his knees, sitting pretty, begging them to
piss on him, it’s more than he deserved, oh god please let someone
stick their cock down his throat because maybe then they’ll stroke
his hair for a moment and he can imagine he’s a person again, not a
urinal, not a thing, he’ll whimper eagerly if they’ll only look him
in the eye but they never do.And
after all this dirtied gauze has been unwound from his wounds, for a
moment he feels relief, and the expectation of absolution (it was so
hard to strip himself bare, perhaps he can even be called brave for
doing so) makes him hopeful for the same sort of touch Kurt had given
him before the end of the world, but Kurt has drawn back, his brow
furrowed, he seems to be considering, and at the last moment he
actually laughs, disappointed, and says you should have let them
shoot you before pressing his face into the mattress so there’s
no worry he might be kissed while he’s fucked.
Kurt Meyer pegging!!!! (Maybe he holds a little educational speech for the lads about the pleasures of taking it up the arse)
The young lad’s heart beats a little faster when his commander’s drunken stagger leads him to that very campfire that the lad is sitting at all alone and he can’t believe his luck when Kurt smiles like a cheshire cat and sits down next to the lad, so close that they are rubbing thighs when Kurt stretches himself and spreads his legs with the satisfied groan of an old man after a long day of work (the lad’s heart makes another jump), and even closer then when he puts an arm around the lad’s neck and pulls him in as if they were not strangers but long-time comrades. “Boy,” he says, “you look like a virgin and that’s a shame,” the boy becomes as red as a tomato, “Listen to this old man, when all of this is over and you’re back home and you find yourself a nice young lady, before you marry the sweet thing you make sure she knows how to treat you right – some girls, nice as they may seem, some girls only think of themselves, but men have needs too, it’s not always about making her feel good, sometimes you just gotta – I see you don’t follow, what I’m talking about is this,” he pats the lad on the rump, “Yes, that’s right, I mean taking it up the arse – nice arse by the way, has anyone ever told you that?” The lad hastily shakes his head as if he was warding off more than just that question and he feels the need to protest something or if he doesn’t have the balls to do so with the goddamn Panzermeyer himself breathing three different flavours of booze on his forehead (he most definitely does not have the balls) at least he needs to find some excuse to escape his commander’s well-meant advice, but Kurt interrupts him before the lad can embarrass himself: “I tell you there is nothing wrong, nothing at all, with a good wife making sweet love to her man and love comes in so many forms, like when I’m wearing her lingerie and she’s ramming my guts til I’m pissing spunk, that’s a real man’s kind of pleasure.”
Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf
Oh, Kurt, what big eyes you have! – All the better to see you with, said Kurt as he stripped the little lady out of her pretty red dress and feasted his eyes on her delicate frame and rosy flesh.
Oh, Kurt, what big hands you have! – All the better to grab you with, said Kurt and made her feel the weight of his fingers around her throat and between her coyly opening thighs.
Oh, Kurt, what a horribly big mouth you have! – All the better to eat you with, said Kurt with the widest, toothiest grin and he had scarcely finished speaking when he put his big mouth on her wet cunt and ate the poor girl out; as soon as Kurt had appeased his appetite, he climbed into bed, fell asleep, and began to snore very loudly.
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