“Maybe he can play dead,” says the heavyset major. He rips the Luger from Wünsche’s teeth and wipes the spit off it on the front of his trousers. With a theatrically exaggerated gesture he pulls a long magazine from one of the pockets of his tunic and holds both pistol and magazine up like a magician presenting rabbit and hat before performing his famous trick. He replaces the pistol’s empty magazine with the loaded one and then pulls back the striker to feed a bullet into the chamber. “Ah, beautiful German engineering!” he exclaims with a wink directed at Wünsche who is still kneeling at his feet. The other men chuckle. They fall silent when the major holds the pistol to Wünsche’s head, and they hold their breath and Wünsche does too looking down the end of the barrel and it all becomes very quiet, like that moment in the cinema when the lights go out. Despite all the years of service it’s still frightening, the sight of that tiny black hole and knowing death was just a pull of the trigger away. Sometimes it’s easier to be a dog than man. He bares his teeth and snarls. The major laughs, deep and jolly. “Well I’m afraid that is a trick he can do only once and wouldn’t that be a waste?” The men exchange murmurs of approval. “But there is one other trick he’s very good at, very good indeed. And I didn’t even need to teach him!” He lowers the barrel of the gun to Wünsche’s lips. “Suck it.”
Tag: max wünsche
Pilfered Goods
Max, built from pride and snarled watchfulness, never killed a soul in his life before he knew Meyer, still bristling with the need to prove himself.
In the ditch of some godforsaken village with a name that doesn’t bear pronouncing, Kurt has seen from afar, the misty silhouette of Wünsche pushing a blade down into the sweet spot of a man’s chest, careful not to waste a bullet that doesn’t need to be wasted.
Bringing back half a packet of cigarettes with a child’s smile.
Turning over a sodden body with the heel of his boot, Meyer spots the pack of rubbers and snorts. Thinks for a moment and then pockets them himself.
Max sleeps like the rest of them do, snatching the best rest they can on ragged blankets, always one eye open, like wolves. Ready for the next fight, ready for the smell of blood on the air. Restless even in their dreams, half wasted away to nothing.
Just a touch at Max’s temple and he’s wide awake, red rimmed eyes fixing on Kurt in the dark. Meyer gives him the comfort of his palm, stroking his cheek.
“Good boy,” he murmurs.
Produces from his pocket the tangled balloon, sticky with the cunt slime of the girl he’s last fucked, sometimes streaked dark brown with blood. A winning smile on Meyer’s face that fills Max’s heart with contempt for any woman who beat her fists against his chest or sobbed with regret and not ecstasy.
Max opens up his mouth and lays his tongue out into the cold air stinking of dysentery from the soldier shivering next to him.
The semen drops, clotted, thick into his mouth as Meyer pushes it down out of the condom. Max won’t swallow until Kurt gives him the go ahead, he lays there, panting, spunk oozing between his teeth and seeping toward the back of his throat.
Sometimes Kurt brings more than one, a handful of party favours that Max can stretch out his tongue and beg for, silently. Kurt will pincer his tongue and pull and wonder if a knife in the right place wouldn’t do better. Until Max is begging to lick every filthy part of his body clean, lapping at places that haven’t seen water for days.
Facade
Max was all facade and nothing but insecurities behind it. He could be charming of course if he knew who he was dealing with and what he was allowed; and sometimes brutal if he did not. Looking down the familiar lens of a camera he could strike an impressive figure. He practised his grin every morning. He fixed his hair in every mirror if no one was looking and he hated when Jochen tousled it with a sly smile. No amount of preparation could get rid of his nagging doubts and in unfamiliar surroundings he often fell back on silence, smiling stupidly and hoping that breeches of a fine material or a pair of shiny boots would be defence enough; and usually they were, when Jochen wasn’t kicking his feet apart and pushing his hand down the back of his trousers. It was always a pleasure for Jochen to see Max’s phony grin freeze and his body stiffen, when he ran his thumb between Max’s buttocks. He preferred to do that to him when Max was drunk, as he often was. The alcohol induced loss of control made for a delicious difference in power. Then the slightest sexual touch made Max bend at the knees to make up for the different in size between them, eagerly presenting himself to be fucked with an arched back and moaning like a versed whore. He became an unintelligible mess as soon a Jochen made him feel his cock – not fucking him just yet, only pressing it between Max’s ass cheeks, rubbing it on his asshole, prodding, teasing, but not giving him what he needed. Max also looked very photogenic when he was sucking on Jochen’s fingers to get them wet and even better when Jochen shoved them into him and the facade crumbled and fell and he just looked so pale and weak and ugly. Eventually the fingering wasn’t for the sake of preparation anymore, Max became well-accustomed to the size of Jochen’s dick, it was however useful to make him beg for his cock, especially if Jochen wasn’t actually feeling like fucking him and could just easily walk off. Jochen occasionally called Max ‘pretty’ and ’a doll’, usually when his dick was inside of him all the way and he was spreading Max’s fat ass to get in just a little deeper, never too often to make the insult lose its weight. It was a good way to get Max’s ass to tighten, so Jochen could to be done quicker, when there were knocks on the door or steps around the corner of a hallway. Once Jochen had been transferred to the Eastern front he did miss Max a little. He wouldn’t have done that sort of thing to any of his comrades, who were good, honest men like him. So he was rather happy to find that even in the Russian tundra he managed to run into Max now and then and as it turned out war hadn’t affected Max’s most useful traits a bit.
Captive
It doesn’t start with a knife. The burning stick comes first. About a foot long, sharply crooked in the middle, the last three inches or so a glowing red ember. The Tommy holds it like a weapon; there’s no mistaking it for a gesture of warmth, of trying to bring the heat of the fire to him after a long cold night in the miserable swamp they’d caged him in. He holds it close enough for the ember’s heat to warm his cheek, and then moves it closer until Max can no longer look at it and the warmth becomes pain.
“I can make you ugly,” he says, his voice thick and low. “So ugly the girls will scream and even your father will not want to look at you.”
Max stares at him, meets his eyes. He does not nod, or flinch or show his fear. Being burned does not seem more horrifying than having a noose around his neck. All of this is more than he can face and so levels of terror become irrelevant.
When he doesn’t move, the soldier puts his stick back in the fire to heat.
“You don’t care if you’re ugly? I don’t believe that. The last pretty German boy let me break his fingers, but when I threatened his face he cried. You don’t know what’s important. Hands, you need to work. To make something of yourself. But you are so soft, you think you need your looks.”
He pulls the stick out of the fire again, bringing it towards Max’s left cheek, then shifts trajectory at the last second and pokes it at his right eye. Max wants to jerk back, to drop to the ground, tighten the noose around his neck and escape them once and for all. He wants to keep still, his eyes on the face of this thug and away from the stick, and somehow he gets his wish. The stick comes closer and the smell of burning hair pricks his nose. He feels the terror flare in his eyes, sees the chuckling British soldiers around him notice, and is relieved that something in them is satisfied by it. They laugh and the man in front of him throws the stick on the fire, where it can’t be retrieved unless he wants to lose the skin on his arm.
Max’s relief is short-lived. The stick is replaced with a knife. A hunting knife with a four or five inch blade, it is designed for close-in work. The man kneels down in front of him, runs the point of the blade down the side of his nose. He grabs Max’s fringe and pulls his head up. “If ugly doesn’t bother you, how about I cut your face right off?”
Max is sure he feels the scrape of metal against the bone of his skull. The blood in his eye feels like hot oil. He flinches then, hard.
‘”No,” he says. Pleads. Using their language. He doesn’t know if it’s the firelight or the wash of blood that makes these men’s teeth gleam red when they grin.
“No. You’re right,” the British soldier says. “It would be a shame to ruin those pretty looks so soon. We have time, I think.”
The man who had been happily carving away at him leaves the circle with a grunt about needing to take a piss and Max realizes he isn’t even sure what rank he holds, who is in charge here? The dark is folding in all around, a lead blanket that confuses all these ugly Anglo faces together. The horizon is lit up with artillery like the dawn – there is still hope isn’t there?
None of the British in this camp seem to be moving. Four English men are watching him from the other side of the fire. He wipes the blood from his eye with his fingers and presses his sleeve to the stinging cut. The seep is warm against his wrist. He is so thirsty that he wonders if there is enough blood for him to drink some.
One of the Englishmen throws a biscuit into the dirt.
“Eat it,” he says.
“Essen…it,” says another and then bursts into laughter.
At the edges of the campfire he watches a man walk past with a long moustache and all the signs of a Field Marshall plastered to him. Their eyes meet for a moment. The gentleman nods to his men and then keeps walking.
“Here.” Max hears the voice at his ear before his face is pushed down into the mud.
–
They give him a tin mug of water and a piece of bread with some sort of paste smeared on it. It tastes like blood and dirt.
The next time they lay out his ration on the ground and piss over it. They don’t make him eat it and he doesn’t.
They shove him into a tent, where the bedding looks like heaven and he collapses on top of it without a struggle.
–
When he wakes someone is pulling his trousers down without undoing them. Five days with little water and less food mean that even the button stays intact.
He concentrates on the feel of the pillow under his face as fingers are dug into his hips, lifting him, and ripping into him with no further warning than that. He doesn’t cry out until a calloused hand pulls his dislocated elbow up behind his back. The nauseous, intense agony of it forces him back into his body; each thrust pushes tears of pain to his eyes, his hands hurt where they grip so tightly into fists.
The British soldier grunts when he comes, hot, heavy breath against Max’s ear as he thrusts his dick into him as far as it will go. He can’t feel it but he knows he’s being bred like a woman. The clammy breath against his ear mirrors the awful stickiness that leaks out between his thighs as the cock inside him withdraws.
–
The next time Max wakes, he’s tied to a tree by his ankle like a stray dog. He hardly has time to wonder why his hands aren’t tied before he sees the man on an ammunition crate stool pointing a rifle at his head from less than five feet away. Suddenly even the ankle-leash seems overkill.
These British boys like to visit his tree. They ask him questions in a language he doesn’t quite understand. After a while, starving, it doesn’t even sound like human language at all.
–
He’s dancing in the dark, eyes fixed on the cold grey horizon, trying not to move too much so he doesn’t rub his wrists raw. Someone pulls him up by his collar, pries his mouth open, and with a rifle-toting guard laughing, pushes his filthy cock past his lips and down his throat.
Max doesn’t mean to bite him. It’s a reflex, like retching.
They cut the rope tying him to the tree and between them they carry him closer to the fire. They lash him on his side, facing the crackling logs so he can’t roll away when they kick him, and so every kick has the threat of immolation as a counterpoint. Unconsciousness feels like death.
When the next Tommy fucks his face with a pistol, he says, “This time if you bite it breaks your teeth.” Every time.
–
The spoon holds something that looks like porridge.
The ropes around his arms and chest that tie him to the stake prevent him from feeding himself, but the English occasionally shove bits of bread in his mouth, pouring water after it, leaving him to figure out how to chew and swallow without choking.
This is not just oats and water, but milk and sugar and salt. The taste of something like real food is something amazing and Max almost cries with the pleasure of it. When he’s offered a second spoonful, he opens his mouth eagerly.
The man feeding him tips the food to the ground and pushes the empty spoon over his tongue and down his throat, holding it there, his face impassive, as Max gags and gasps, then thrashes. The world begins to grey from lack of oxygen.
“You eat like a pig,” he says. “You don’t deserve food.”
Caesar
“Show me,” Kurt said, “how did they patch you up?”
A tremor went through Max’s body, hardly noticeable were it not for Kurt’s hand on his stomach, placed there like one would place one’s hand on a small animal, careful not to break it.
“Perfect, good, it’s fine. It won’t be a problem at all,” Max said, his gaze fixated on Kurt’s forehead. The sweat on his upper lip exposed the lie. That was unacceptable. “Then show me,” Kurt said, smile drawn up to his eyes, which in contrast to the friendly curl of his lips perfectly matched the cool tone of his words.
The shrapnel had grazed Max across the stomach like a Caesarean section, a horizontal cut a hand width below his navel, just under the waist of his pants, which had clearly pressed and rubbed on the bare skin for a while. The cut was roughly stitched with thick, white thread now turned pink, the same colour as the sore skin around the cut. The blond fuzz of his lower abdomen did nothing to hide the condition of the wound. Kurt comically tilted his head and bent down to examine the piece of body exposed to him. Having scrutinized it for as while he pressed his index finger on the cut. Instantly, like a gun firing as you pull past the last resistance on the trigger, Max’s abdominal muscles clenched, very obviously so to Kurt, who was almost close enough to kiss the quivering body. He shook his head disapprovingly. “So this is what you call good, Max? It looks awful, frankly disgusting. They didn’t even bandage it and now look at it. Appalling.”
“It won’t be a problem,” Max repeated through clenched teeth. It was endearing really, in good spirit, but also entirely stupid and dishonest too.
“Ah, Maxi, Maxi, Maxi.. It’s really admirable what you’re doing,” Kurt said and he followed the line of the cut with the tip of his finger as if to emphasize how much praise Max deserved, causing the exact opposite effect, painful punishment. The gash in Max’s flesh though felt exciting, above and below was the soft, fuzzy skin and in the middle the sharp, very faintly moist edge of the cut and it was trembling too when he touched it. It was the sort of thing you wanted to touch again not just instinctively like an itching scab but deliberate and consciously, to feel every tiny sensation it had to offer, like the wet cleft between a woman’s thighs. The stitches were so far apart that when Kurt pressed on the slit, lips curling again in that familiar u-shape and a delighted twinkle in his eyes, the flesh yielded, split like a thin mouth and spread open to reveal the red, wet insides. Max gasped.
“Does that hurt?” Kurt asked pulling one corner of his mouth up even further, the crooked smile looking particularly cruel. Max nodded slowly as if any hasty movement could cause the finger to be plunged into the wound on its own. “Splendid,” Kurt said and with that word he did push into Max, under his skin, just a bit, but enough feel the wet heat inside and more than enough to make Max squeeze his eyes shut and groan, the sound rolling from the back of his throat and trembling when he exhaled it. Kurt thought it sounded an awful lot like the sort of noise Max made during orgasm.
Once the first onslaught of sharp external pain had faded into the dull pain of internal penetration Max looked down at Kurt again and that funny looking finger inside of him, eyes wide, struggling to comprehend the reality of the scene. “What doesn’t kill us only makes us stronger, don’t you agree?” Kurt said, winking. He gently curled his finger inside of Max like he would do inside of a girl to feel the rough texture that made her clench around him, but it felt all the same inside of Max, like freshly cut meat and fat skin that he could peel off if he wanted. He rubbed it anyway to see what would happen. There was that groan again, more controlled but still ripe with memories and then Max put his hands on Kurt’s shoulders, steadying himself that way to endure the pain, breathing out loudly every time Kurt teased him with another caress.
Max had that particular quality of instantly recognizing and submitting to authority of any kind, whether authority deriving from chains of command or from charisma. He fit right in, without complaint, doing his duty and what qualified as his duty was not up to him. It was essentially a good quality, but horribly encouraging to men of sadistic character. Fortunately Kurt loved him too much to find any enjoyment in prolonged abuse. “Well done, boy,” he said as he pulled out, drawing one last gasp. “You are not going to lie to me again, are you?” Max shook his head and still panting smiled wide. When Kurt squeezed his shoulders, mirroring where Max was still holding onto him, Max bared his teeth into a grin that swallowed all of his other features. They looked like two very happy hyenas about to embrace each other.
Caesar
“Show me,” Kurt said, “how did they patch you up?”
A tremor went through Max’s body, hardly noticeable were it not for Kurt’s hand on his stomach, placed there like one would place one’s hand on a small animal, careful not to break it.
“Perfect, good, it’s fine. It won’t be a problem at all,” Max said, his gaze fixated on Kurt’s forehead. The sweat on his upper lip exposed the lie. That was unacceptable. “Then show me,” Kurt said, smile drawn up to his eyes, which in contrast to the friendly curl of his lips perfectly matched the cool tone of his words.
The shrapnel had grazed Max across the stomach like a Caesarean section, a horizontal cut a hand width below his navel, just under the waist of his pants, which had clearly pressed and rubbed on the bare skin for a while. The cut was roughly stitched with thick, white thread now turned pink, the same colour as the sore skin around the cut. The blond fuzz of his lower abdomen did nothing to hide the condition of the wound. Kurt comically tilted his head and bent down to examine the piece of body exposed to him. Having scrutinized it for as while he pressed his index finger on the cut. Instantly, like a gun firing as you pull past the last resistance on the trigger, Max’s abdominal muscles clenched, very obviously so to Kurt, who was almost close enough to kiss the quivering body. He shook his head disapprovingly. “So this is what you call good, Max? It looks awful, frankly disgusting. They didn’t even bandage it and now look at it. Appalling.”
“It won’t be a problem,” Max repeated through clenched teeth. It was endearing really, in good spirit, but also entirely stupid and dishonest too.
“Ah, Maxi, Maxi, Maxi.. It’s really admirable what you’re doing,” Kurt said and he followed the line of the cut with the tip of his finger as if to emphasize how much praise Max deserved, causing the exact opposite effect, painful punishment. The gash in Max’s flesh though felt exciting, above and below was the soft, fuzzy skin and in the middle the sharp, very faintly moist edge of the cut and it was trembling too when he touched it. It was the sort of thing you wanted to touch again not just instinctively like an itching scab but deliberate and consciously, to feel every tiny sensation it had to offer, like the wet cleft between a woman’s thighs. The stitches were so far apart that when Kurt pressed on the slit, lips curling again in that familiar u-shape and a delighted twinkle in his eyes, the flesh yielded, split like a thin mouth and spread open to reveal the red, wet insides. Max gasped.
“Does that hurt?” Kurt asked pulling one corner of his mouth up even further, the crooked smile looking particularly cruel. Max nodded slowly as if any hasty movement could cause the finger to be plunged into the wound on its own. “Splendid,” Kurt said and with that word he did push into Max, under his skin, just a bit, but enough feel the wet heat inside and more than enough to make Max squeeze his eyes shut and groan, the sound rolling from the back of his throat and trembling when he exhaled it. Kurt thought it sounded an awful lot like the sort of noise Max made during orgasm.
Once the first onslaught of sharp external pain had faded into the dull pain of internal penetration Max looked down at Kurt again and that funny looking finger inside of him, eyes wide, struggling to comprehend the reality of the scene. “What doesn’t kill us only makes us stronger, don’t you agree?” Kurt said, winking. He gently curled his finger inside of Max like he would do inside of a girl to feel the rough texture that made her clench around him, but it felt all the same inside of Max, like freshly cut meat and fat skin that he could peel off if he wanted. He rubbed it anyway to see what would happen. There was that groan again, more controlled but still ripe with memories and then Max put his hands on Kurt’s shoulders, steadying himself that way to endure the pain, breathing out loudly every time Kurt teased him with another caress.
Max had that particular quality of instantly recognizing and submitting to authority of any kind, whether authority deriving from chains of command or from charisma. He fit right in, without complaint, doing his duty and what qualified as his duty was not up to him. It was essentially a good quality, but horribly encouraging to men of sadistic character. Fortunately Kurt loved him too much to find any enjoyment in prolonged abuse. “Well done, boy,” he said as he pulled out, drawing one last gasp. “You are not going to lie to me again, are you?” Max shook his head and still panting smiled wide. When Kurt squeezed his shoulders, mirroring where Max was still holding onto him, Max bared his teeth into a grin that swallowed all of his other features. They looked like two very happy hyenas about to embrace each other.
Triumvirate
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
(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.
Fire & Wünsche [x2]
The wind blows in from the North East – tacky with fumes, thick with smoke. The stink of raw fuel burns the hairs in Sepp’s nostrils. The grass in front of the culvert he and Max are lying side by side in is all ablaze, fed by the leaking tank of their own car scuppered on the bridge overhead. They’ve mucked about like pigs to cover themselves from head to toe in mud, a little help against the heat. It’s dried to a hard dark mask on Max’s face, only his eyes are bright and wide and flashing from the flames. They’re trapped, fifty meters in front of the enemy with the din of artillery and heavy machine gun fire thundering above, cut off from their division with nothing to do but wait and pray. Max is shaking badly, his whole body rattling against Sepp’s shoulder and when Sepp says his name and Max’s eyes roll toward him, glassy and unfocused like staring at the flames has struck him blind, what else can he do put his hand on the scruff of his boy’s neck and squeeze and pull the lad into a rough embrace. Max turns into him readily, his breath panting in a strung-out anti-rhythm against the mud caked crease of Sepp’s neck and Sepp tightens his arms, holding him close as he shivers. Papa has you, Maxi.
–
Meyer watches as Wünsche plants his heel square on the Russian’s skull and pushes his face down into the mud. There’s an unimportant sound of brackish water popping up a scant few bubbles, a fatty sort of gurgle like phlegm caught in the throat. Wünsche’s smile is loosely drawn upon his face. Behind him there’s a perfect shepherd’s sunset in the flickering backdrop of the rest of the town going up in flames but they only have eyes for each other and certainly neither of them look down to see the dying man’s hand as it flails and twitches knocking out a last tap tap tap against Wünsche’s boot. Meyer smiles back at Wünsche; he’d have to step on the corpse to get any closer, to put his nose an inch, a fraction away from Wünsche’s skin. All he can smell now is greasy barbecue and char but under Wünsche’s uniform he knows it’s ripe and damp and filthy again from too many days restless campaign. Fresh sweat is glistening on Wünsche’s brow and above his mouth and Meyer thinks of the beads now rolling down his back and into the private creases of his body. He touches his tongue to his top lip and Wunsche’s gaze, with his pupils blown and blazing-black, follows it as he licks a wet stripe across his mouth. “You got here just in time,” Meyer says and Wünsche blinks at him slow and lazy as a cat, then rips his smile into a grin. “Yes, sir.”
Foreign Correspondent
You are so lucky, you will get to meet Max Wünsche, Hitler’s bodyguard and the Leibstandarte’s most handsome tank commander. You are so excited. Many times you have looked at the photos you cut out of the German newspapers, where he smiles so wide. You had wondered how tall he actually is and what his voice sounds like and what he would smell like when he leans in to kiss you.
You put on the outfit you have picked out just for this day and pored over so often. A purple dress resembling a dirndl, as short as common decency allows, a pair of black heels that make your legs look so shapely and a cute little jacket that draws all the attention to your neck.
You regret your choice of clothing in the unheated army truck that brings you to the front. You are freezing. You never knew Russia was this cold. But the night is clear, the stars shine bright and you think of how romantic it would be to kiss Max under the star-spattered sky and a full moon.
You forget all about the awful car ride when you make it to a little Russian village that is still smoldering from today’s battle. There are German soldiers everywhere singing, drinking, celebrating but you have only eyes for Max. He is easy to spot surrounded by his men, towering above them and sucking up their admiration. He is so much more handsome than on the photos and he sounds just like you had imagined. When he looks at you and smiles, teeth flashing, you get weak in the knees. He asks about where you come from and what you are doing in this awful place and all the while he looks down at you as if he wants to eat you. You would not mind at all if he did.
You can’t believe your luck when Max leads you away from the other men into the quiet dark of the village. He doesn’t put his arm around your shoulder as you had imagined it, but you are happy anyway that you are so close and so alone with him.
Away from the camp fires you are cold again and you regret not having brought a coat, but you wouldn’t be here now with Max if you had wrapped up your cute body, would you? You tell him, shivering and giggling, that you hadn’t thought Russia was so cold. You hope he will get the hint and give you his jacket, like men that look like him do in the movies.
Max instead points at a nearby tank and says that this is his Tiger – the way he says ‘Tiger’ makes you want to meow – and that it is still quite warm in there from the heat of the engine. He suggests the two of you get in the tank. The thought is exciting, seeing a tank from the inside and not just any tank but his tank and he will be in there with you too. It feels like he invited you in his home, you just have to make it to the bedroom. Shaking with excitement you can barely walk on the frozen ground. The heels make matters worse. Max notices and extends his hand. You hold on to it feeling like butterflies in your stomach, but it’s so many of them, it makes you queasy too.
With Max’s help you walk safely to the tank. You don’t know anything about tanks, but you know it’s his tank and therefore it’s absolutely magnificent and suddenly not boring at all. You don’t have much time to look at it. Max grabs you by the waist, his hands almost closing around it. He is so much bigger than you. The touch is electrifying and you squeak in surprise. He chuckles, lifts you up and puts you up on the tank. He follows you up onto the tank and while you are still thinking about the way his hands felt on your body he opens the tank’s hatch and motions you to get in.
It’s light enough from the moon and distant fires to see outside but the opening to the tank is a black hole. Looking at it those nervous butterflies return. “I’m right behind you,” Max says and winks and you could melt. You climb into the tank, sit on the commander chair – his chair – and look around. It is not as dark as it seems from the outside, rays of light shine in through narrow slits. You are amazed there is so little room in such a big vehicle. There are two other chairs and then a lot of things you don’t understand, metal bits stick out everywhere, and the ceiling is so low. But it is warm and you think you don’t need much space to sit on Max’s lap anyway.
You get out of the way and Max follows you inside. You can’t see his face, you wish you could. He crawls closer and into a ray of moonlight. He looks so charming. He can’t see you blush, but you think he must hear the frantic beating of your heart and he must know why you are pressing your legs together when leans in closer, so close you can feel his breath on your cheek.
There is movement outside. Your hear footsteps and whispers and then much louder the metallic sound of boots on the tank, walking over your head. Someone comes climbing down the hatch. You look at Max with wide eyes and raise to say something, not knowing what. He silences you by putting his index finger over your mouth with a sharp ‘psst’. You don’t understand what’s going on, but you obey, you trust Max.
Another man comes down the hatch and another. It is getting very crowded. They are all around you now, you don’t know how many. Maybe four, five or six. Wool, hair and skin appear and disappear in the rays of moonlight. They act so strange, silent and shrouded in rustling darkness.
Max still smiles wide when he covers your mouth with one hand and with his other grabs you by the hip. He pulls you around to sit on his knees like a little child. This is their signal. Suddenly they all crawl towards you. They smell like alcohol and sweat. Their silence is broken and they speak with low voices, much too fast for you to understand. You feel their fingers on you, rough and dirty, tracing the outline of your body through your dress. You understand now and you scream but the sound is muffled by Max’s hand. You try to get up, but Max holds you firmly in his lap. You punch and kick but your body is weak and they have many hands. Your panties are pulled down. You are grabbed by the ankles and your legs are spread. Max’s trousers feel rough on your bare bottom. You try to focus on that feeling and on how broad and strong his chest feels in your back. His breathing is shallow and rapid. When you twist your head you can see his face out of the corner of your eyes. The sharp line of his jaw and a wide grin like he wants to eat someone but it’s not you. He never does look at you, no matter how much you cry and scream into his hand and that hurts even worse than when the men rape you. It hurts that he only looks at them when they fuck you, like you are just a piece of meat stuffed between them. And it hurts that he doesn’t fuck you, doesn’t mock you or spit at you either, just leaves you used and discarded.
Bunker Archives 