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.
Tag: max wünsche
your secrets are safe with me
He’s tapping his cigarette box on the flat, metal table, he’s counting out one, two, three and with each tap he looks at
Max Wünsche‘s face and he knows the smile on his own face (it’s his face that’s pleading, not Max’s, his face that is blushing, bashful, that can barely meet Max’s eyes) is ingratiating and Max isn’t looking at him either, he knows the best he can hope for is that Max will look at the cigarette between his fingers with desire (never him) and how it makes his hand tremble as he tries to formulate his questions.
At some point they leave them alone together and when that happens he gets down on his knees and rests his face against Max’s thigh and apologises over and over and over, he brings a square of good chocolate out of his pocket and tells him how the Russians will never take him away, don’t worry, says he’s sorry and still Wünsche looks down at him with disdain, with disinterest, with mild amusement.
He knows where Max was when the massacre happened, no one else has worked it out so far, no one has put the time lines together; Max hadn’t meant to give it away either but he had despite himself and how his stomach had lurched when he’d heard Max let the detail slip that gave the game away – but he’ll never tell, all he can do is beg forgiveness for his country winning the war.
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.
bonding over music
Perhaps you’re the last port in the
storm, it could explain the surreal act of Wünsche
sitting down heavily beside you and resting his head on your shoulder
as though you’re part of the architecture or like he doesn’t
remember the way his lips pulled back from his teeth and his brows
drew together the last time he saw you and he spat a warning before
his friends tugged him away from
your incipient brawl, now his beery breath is huffing hot on your
neck and he pats you on the knee
like he’s banging a drum and starts mumbling with a slurred tongue:“I
can still hear them singing, and the
lad who wrote that, Horst, I think he had…I think, I don’t know,
well no education in music, or maybe he went to university, yes, he
did study somewhere but, I forget, but he was a construction worker, a fucking fighter, he puts bricks and stuff together, used his hands, right, and, and stood on those fucking streets and there, somewhere in some fucking Red cunt’s house, he had a room and he sat
there and composed that song and anyway, my point is….(Wünsche’s
lips are slurring the words against your neck and you wonder if he
has a point or if he’s just been pouring over copies of Der
Angriff as he vibrates on Pervitin and pilfered schnapps)“…Peiper
when you hear it, when you sing it, don’t you think, isn’t it just, isn’t
it just, at the heart of everything, the anthem of our great,
glorious nation, and could you sign your name to Versailles while
listening to it, or any, any other treaty, no matter what, no matter where
we are now, I don’t think you could, I don’t think it’s possible,
and that should really resonate with the motherfuckers who have
robbed, cheated, and abused this great country, we deserve better, we
deserve better…”His
knuckles have gone white where they’re tugging at your collar,
wanting to bring your mouth into consonance into his, begging for the
union of shared breath and touch since you’re sticking to your
silence over his little rant – at last you pluck out a cigarettes
from your case and put it to his lips and he sucks on that as you
press a brief kiss to his temple and let a light spark for him to
draw from.
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