Tag: ofc

Jochen Peiper/OFC

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One last time to let the heat of the stew warm her shaking hands as she set the bowl down beside a platter of bread and potatoes for him. One last time to smooth a wrinkle on the tablecloth adorned with flowery prints for him. One last time to step back from her work to make sure that everything as perfect as it can be for him. It was not much, she had to admit. The meat in the stew was far too few, the bread old, and the potatoes lacking spices. Hell, the utensils did not even match each other! But that did not matter any more. This will be the last time she would ever do this for Jochen.

She knew that being involved with him was wrong. The man was married with children, for the love of god. How could she be so stupid to fall in love with him? And to actually believe that he loved her back? She was not even his only mistress. That was how much she was worth to him. Why would she even care about what he would think about her tablecloth? He had no right to do so, and, if he wanted to, he could marry her or at least leave his other mistresses for her.

Unbidden, tears stung her eyes, and she hastily blinked them away. Jochen was not worth the tears. There were other men – better men out there, men who would be faithful husbands. Yet, when a knock at the door announced a visitor, she bounded to it like the obedient pet she was and swung it open. The sight of Jochen flashing his charming smile at her was enough to burn away her previous thoughts, and she fell into his arms like dough – ready to be moulded in whatever form he wished.

In one swift motion, Jochen swiped down to kiss her on the mouth – a chaste kiss that reminded her of the carefree childhood years when there had been no war and when romantic relationships were nothing but light-hearted games. Perhaps that was what drawn her to Jochen, whose boyish demeanour and playful attitude reminded her of days gone by; but little did she know that his playfulness only meant that she was nothing but a toy to him.

Pressing his forehead against hers, Jochen professed how much he had missed her over the months, how much he had thought of her everyday; and she, caught in the moment, nodded and believed him, failing to note how he had smelled like another woman or how his eyes had sparked with mischief, instead of a certain depth reserved only for official duties. Was there truly anyone who has seen the hidden depths of his eyes? Or was Jochen that private of an individual that he hides it behind a blank stare in which shallow emotions only ripple through it like a stone thrown across an ocean?

She did not know as she kissed him again, content and amazed at how soft his lips were against hers. She had kissed other men before, but none of them were as delicate as Jochen. Many of them had short prickly hairs on their upper lip that, though not at all unpleasant, was quite distracting. But Jochen never had that, in fact, he was always smooth and so clean-shaven to the point that she wonders if he ever grew hair at all. Kissing him was kissing a sense of individuality in a world wherein rigid masculinity was advertised as the only sort of manliness, because, even if Jochen was softer than most men, he exuded an air of authority and unquestionable bravery that some of the most exorbitant men lack.

“Would you like to come in?” She whispered between pants, wanton desire pooled in her stomach and flooded her nether regions. Jochen nodded silently and followed her inside. He gave her no time to offer him a meal as his hand at the small of her back subtly pushed her to where he wanted her to be. He kissed her neck hungrily when they fell onto her mattress as his fingers tore recklessly through the buttons on her blouse. She moaned when he ran his palms down to her core, his thumb pressing her clothed clitoris when he reached the end of her midsection. Soon, her skirt and knickers were off, leaving her bare for Jochen to prey upon.

Yet, instead of forcing himself upon her, Jochen eased into the mattress and pulled her on top of him, smirking when she promptly undid the button of his pants and took out his erection from the restrictive confines of his underwear. She played with his cock as if she were in a trance, mouth slightly open, eyes dazed, and hips grinding down blindly for anything that can lessen the pressure in her core.

“Suck my cock,” Jochen muttered below her, voice low and even. With neither another word nor a complain, she slid her torso downwards until her mouth was positioned directly at the tip of his erection and then took the organ in. Jochen snorted in amusement at the sight – he, laying down on his back with someone above him, still remaining to completely in control of the whole situation. That was how he sought the favour of those around him – how he made everyone believe that he was their sweet little Jochen who can do no wrong.

With her mouth around his dick, she bobbed her head obediently, shifting between a slow deliberate pace and a fast shallow one. Jochen whimpered in pleasure, causing her to flick her eyes to his face in order to catch every second of his reactions. And, Jochen did what he knew she wanted. He moaned her name in that breathless tone she loved, told her how good it felt in between perfectly timed gasps, and shivered according to her actions. Jochen always knew that people desire to be validated, and that was exactly what he does to the people who matter in the course of history in exchange for unsaid rewards and consideration. Soon, she was moaning around his erection, sending thrums of vibrations from the tip to the base and making Jochen let out a rather embarrassing cry of pleasure.

“Enough,” he groaned, breathing deeply through his nose to stave off his orgasm, and pat his thigh as if beckoning a dog. Whispering an okay, she straddled him and let him slip through her entrance. She watched in delight as Jochen fluttered his eyes shut. It was a sight to behold – the face of ironic innocence. How a man so untameable, rough, and sinful be akin to a helpless and vulnerable puppy baffled her.

Mouth agape, she ran her hands through the dark blonde strands of his hair as she ground her hips against his. Jochen trembled and cursed softly when she began to move at a rate particularly favourable to him. Hearing Jochen curse always made her snicker. Such hideous things seemed completely out-of-place in his world – his accent was too aristocratic and clean, his choice of words proper, and his mouth delicate.

But what of the disturbing reports of Jochen in the front-lines? What of the horrible news she had heard of that delicate mouth commanding his subordinates to raze a village to ashes? What of the rumours about that aristocratic drawl being the reason why more than twenty unarmed prisoners-of-war lost their lives in a short span of ten minutes? Would simple swears be so out-of-place then?

She stared at the man beneath her and bent down to kiss him. She had wanted to kiss those horrid thoughts away, to assure herself that her Jochen could not have done such crimes; but he declined her that comfort. Instead, he canted his hips fervently and greedily took whatever pleasure her body can offer until he spilled his seed into her without a care for consequences. Feeling the warm rush of semen inside, she cried out in distress and tried to wrest herself away from him, but he gripped her hard until he was drained and breathless.

“I have to leave,” Jochen then said when not even ten minutes have passed since they had sex. She shook her head into his shoulder, but he pretended to not know as he pushed her away. She watched as he got dressed and felt her stomach drop when she realised that this would be the last time she would allow him to come see her, to let him use her like some cheap whore. Strengthening her resolve, she followed him to the door and tugged the sleeve of his coat just as he walked through the doorway. Jochen turned to her with a questioning gaze, and she opened her mouth to forever ban him from her home. Yet, no words came, even if she had practised this moment for months; because, in the end, Jochen Peiper always got what he wanted.

Foreign Correspondent

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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.