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War Memorial

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They always send Kurt to meet the Hitler Youth boys. For reasons, which he did not understand himself, they loved him so much. They liked the way he carried himself, stern and alert. They liked the sharp line of his cheekbones, those deep set eyes and how the corner of his lips subtly curved upwards, when they came running like a pack of young dogs. They loved the fit of his uniform. That belt, so tight in his waist, made his shoulders look so broad. And what a nice uniform it was, made of silky material so much more fancy than the rough black wool of their uniforms. They liked how he wore his hat, the angle of it and how crushed it was; it looked like the hat of a daring veteran, someone who was hard in his actions but warm in his heart. And they liked his many medals, which assured them of his great deeds. The bravery and the wounds, honour both in victory and defeat cast into delicate forms: eagles, swords, helmets, tanks and laurel. But above all they were drawn to his iron cross. That solemn Prussian design, so beautiful in its simplicity. All the little magpies wanted one for themselves.

The smallest and most daring of the lot asked quietly: “May I touch your iron cross, Herr Offizier?”

“Of course,” Kurt replied and he smiled shyly.

Everyone fell silent and watched as the boy traced the outline of the cross following the iron border with the tip of his index finger. He touched its velvety black core and finally after drawing the act out so deliberately, he gently stroked the swastika placed in the middle with the flat of his thumb. The boys did not notice how the officer shivered. To Kurt it felt as if it was not the medal being touched, but his naked skin underneath the iron and cloth.

The boy looked up at him again. His eyes were beaming with admiration. “May I kiss it, Herr Offizier?”, he asked. Kurt was caught by surprise, yet how could he refuse such a polite request? How could he while everyone was watching so expectantly? He nodded. The boy stepped closer and stood up on tiptoes, but they were still not eye to eye. Kurt wanted to bend down to close the distance but the boy would not let him. He stretched the last inch and gently placed his lips on the iron cross. Kurt saw the eyes of all the boys fixed on that kiss, everyone holding their breath. He was reminded of a painting depicting people and events he did not recognize, yet the painting’s meaning resonated deeply within him. Whether they were worshipping him, the cross or some greater intangible thing manifesting in him and that cross, he could not tell, but suddenly he wished it was him alone with an intensity he had never known in himself. The moment passed, the lips broke away and Kurt felt empty.

The boys would not cease their conquest. There had not been one coordinated approach, yet somehow they were all so close to Kurt now. Their bodies pressed into into him. He felt hot. An older boy, more of a young man already, held Kurt’s arm with the gentle gesture reserved for comrades. Another hand was placed firmly on his shoulder. A palm caressed his side. A finger gently brushed his hip. They were pawing at him, the little kittens. He thought that he must say something, that he must stop them. It felt right, but it was not right, it was maddening. If he had found a way to conceptualize this madness, he might have had the power to stop them, but he found no words and without words and concepts he was helplessly left to his senses, which demanded more of that touch and the heat and the worship.

“May we touch you, Herr Offizier?”, asked the oldest boy. Were they not already touching him?, Kurt thought and then he did not think anything anymore when the boy placed his lips on Kurt’s neck just above the stiff collar. His lips were rough but his kiss gentle, almost familial. The first touch sent shivers through Kurt again, but now half a dozen hands or more were touching him and they all felt the pleasure resonate through him. They were so fascinated by it. How nice he felt under their fingers, how curiously red his cheeks were, how handsome he looked with his lips slightly parted.

“Herr Offizier, are you not well?” A low giggle came from all of them. To Kurt they were just one mass of hands and heat now and their voices ran together into one. “Your heart is racing.” – “Are you hot?” – “Take off his uniform.” – “Hold him.” “Kiss him, kiss him.” – “Let me see.”

They were now taking Kurt’s silence as consent. Certainly such a daring and highly decorated soldier would know how to make them stop if he wanted. One boy took off Kurt’s peaked cap to wear it himself. Two boys fought him for it, while a third was more fascinated by Kurt’s hair. It was shorter than any of the boys – even the older ones – wore it, but still long enough that the boy could comb it with his fingers, his nails scratching along Kurt’s scalp in a way that reminded Kurt of the way his mother had soothed him to sleep as a child. The boy grabbed a shock of hair and pulled on it. He was delighted to see Kurt bend willingly with the movement, curving his back and leaning his head on the shoulders of the boy behind him. Another boy took the invitation and kissed his exposed throat. The taste of his aftershave was bitter, yet there was something intoxicating about the act. The officer reminded him of a statue he had seen in a church once, naked, bent, covered in richly coloured wounds and displaying the same longing expression. He remembered the silver wound badge on Kurt’s tunic.

“Can you tell us about your wounds, please?”, he asked. Their curious fingers stopped long enough for Kurt to snap out of his haze and run down his wounds as he had done so many times before. “A bullet from a Russian partisan penetrated me here, went right through,” he said pointing to his torso just below the rib cage, “Another time I was hit by shrapnel from a tank shell here.” He pointed to his shoulder. “And yet again artillery shrapnel cut my leg open from here”, he indicated the inside of his thigh just above his knee and then drew a line across his thigh ending near his hip bone, “to here.”

A murmur broke out. They liked that one. The stroked the line he had indicated, feeling no trace of the scar through the stiff gabardine of his pants, but just the thought of coming so close to it excited them and made them eager to touch more of him. They traced the seams of his uniform and followed the lines of his anatomy. Kurt’s body stiffened when they innocently brushed the front of his trousers. He became aware of his own arousal, hot and pulsing. His erection was pressed to his body, trapped under his rigid uniform, which he hoped would hide his carnal weakness from them as it hid so many weaknesses. Alas, they were keenly observant little black birds. Some of them giggled again. It was without malice, yet Kurt could not help but feel that there was something threatening about the boys now. Like the pups had grown teeth and would tear him to shreds, if he did not comply.

They had their unspoken plans. Kurt’s uniform had to go first, not entirely, they liked it of course, its look and feel, and the small details they would not miss – the leather gloves, the boots, the iron cross – but enough of it so they could have a look at what he hid underneath. They watched holding their breaths in excitement once more as the buttons were undone. Below Kurt’s protruding rip cage there was the scar just as he had said. A small white spot that was clearly visible for the lack of hair, that covered the rest of his chest and stomach and stood up around his bellybutton like the mane on the back of a wolf. That hair was so much more fascinating than the scar all of a sudden. None of them were quite as furry and none had hair that dark and none of them had that lovely trail down their bellies. It was like an arrow, they just had to follow it. One boy unbuttoned Kurt’s trouser and the officer was overcome by a sudden panic. For a moment they had to hold him, stroke his head and tell him how marvellous he looked. Kurt could not force himself to look at any of them, crouched and kneeling at his feet. Their compliments were clumsy, but the words did not matter as much as the sound of it. The low purr went right to his cock. Those cruel mouth, that would kiss his iron cross so devoutly but kiss his flesh so shyly. How nice it would feel to fuck them. He flushed red with the indecency of his thoughts.

The boys freed his erection from the constraints of his underwear. When it sprung out they laughed at how silly it was, trying to laugh away how nervous they were to see the size of it. It sounded cruel to Kurt. And it was cruel how slowly they studied him when he just ached to be be touched. They stroked the scar on his thigh up to the skin just under his balls, ran their fingers through the curls of his pubes and watched his cock twitch whenever they drew a little closer to its base. He pressed himself into the embrace of the boys, who still held him, but they would not kiss him again, they just stared, mesmerized. Voicelessly he begged them, or anyone, to kiss him, touch him, fuck him. Eventually a low whimper escaped his throat. That encouraged the pack. They kissed him to draw out more of those curious sounds. They kissed his mouth, his chest and his cock like you would kiss a pet on its cold nose, but he was hot and salty and they liked it because it reminded them of the way they felt after wrestling with each other.

They were quick learners. To make their pretty officer moan, they just had to lick the length of his cock or wrap their lips around the head and if they were particularly daring they would push it in their mouths. They were well-mannered about it, everyone got their turn. They made pleasuring him a contest, because they always did make everything a contest. Just like it was important to know who could run the fastest, they needed to know who could swallow his cock the deepest. Each boy held Kurt differently, some kneeled like choirboys, some held on to his hips, some prayed and some conquered. Each mouth felt different around his cock. Full and thin lips, teeth scratching and the tongues pressing, humming, the twitching of their throats, that wet sound when they withdrew. That repeated withdrawal was a special kind of torture. It was dizzying, painful even, to be so close to the edge over and over again. He wanted to push into them, fuck their mouths, but they wouldn’t let him. They just laughed like it was all a joke.

There was that boy who had kissed his iron cross. When he swallowed the length of Kurt’s cock he flushed red. Kurt saw that the boy had placed his hands between his own legs, stroking himself through the fabric. He felt him tremble and moan and gag around his cock and he felt awful for making him cry and wonderful and finally the pain dispersed and he felt only the pleasure and he came.

The boy swallowed obediently. He was quite proud of it, having thus won the contest.

sharing body warmth

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aus-der-traum:

It was cold outside, not Moscow cold, or Siberia cold but Aachen cold, which was still cold enough when you slept out at night and had only the clothing on your body (a Landser uniform, worn and probably died in before, the holes fixed again, the whole assemble still too big for his teenage body, shoes reappropriated from the corpse of an American found by the side of the road and earmuffs from his mother stuffed under his cap because it too was too big anyway). When he was lucky they found not just a hole in the ground, a crater or a trench, but an abandoned home or at least a barn – no fire of course, so they had only each other for warmth. Each man or not quite man picked himself a mate for the night to share a blanket with and that wasn’t all that bad, not the worst of the war, more like a sliver of home found in the close embrace and sometimes, he didn’t mind, also in hot breath on his neck and fumbling hands.

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Against the ice cold metal of the panzer

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aus-der-traum:

aus-der-traum:

They got that one
detail wrong about hell: it wasn’t hot here, it was fucking freezing,
too cold even for snow fall; the only heat in this frozen wasteland
came from artillery fire, and it you did your best to stay away from
that, and, in this particular case, the breath of his comrade, short
and laboured against the back of his neck as he pushed him against
the icy metal hull of their tank and kicked his feet apart. It wasn’t
the first time this happened and it would certainly not be the last,
unless of course his comrade froze his dick off by courtesy of an
extra-cold gust of wind straight from Siberia or was taken out by a
well-aimed shot from a hostile weapon, which were both reasonable
enough things to hope for, out here at the Eastern Front, but Günther
didn’t want to get his hopes up. So far he had not been that lucky,
and his comrade seemed eager to prove himself an embodiment of the
three virtues the Führer had demanded of them, be tough as leather
(who in their right mind would expose his genitals at this
temperature), hard as steel (the quality of his erection left nothing
to be desired) and (thankfully) also fast as a grey hound (in that he
never lasted particularly long), and like all the times before
Günther closed his eyes, thought of his sweetheart back home and
hoped for it to be over soon.

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A comrade kisses
the frozen blood staining his chin in the half light, crouched near him on a spread
of canvass meant to keep the cold from out their bones amidst a graveyard
cluttered with the stink of oil and rust, stray pieces of machinery
and, what terrifies him most, that gentle touch he knows is a debt
that must be paid back.

You’re so beautiful, Günther
hears it murmured against his still, so still body (please, in his
stillness let him leach away to an architecture of nothing, to the
abandoned guns, to the slaughtered, splintered landscape of dead
trees and frozen arms of fallen men that may as well be branches of
the same)  and he
knows the price he will pay for hearing that confession; predictable
when it is his gentle whisperer who ratchets
his body off the ground by a rough thrust of fingers, shovelling snow
and ice deep into his ass, ignoring his screams and weak thrashing,
grinning at the other men.

Until
he breaks and begs, fuck
me, (any scrap of warmth to sooth the aching, cramp inside him) the
words barely it past his chattering teeth, proving who has been
at fault here all along.

Dirty and reeking of horse

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aus-der-traum:

They called themselves kazaki, cossacks, proud and swift horseback riders, some fought for mother Russia, some for Germany, but all of them always fought for themselves, a brutal bunch, knights of the steppe, Mongol hordes who knew no chivalry as the steppe knew none, they couldn’t afford to foster ill-placed ideas like dignity or mercy (they learned that quickly, the Germans and the Russians alike) and they always smelled like horse, whether they still rode them or not, that smell wouldn’t wash off them, but that was the more pleasant aspect, worse was the stink of their clothing, beautiful, fancy clothing, with many buttons on them and fur hats, drenched in sweat and blood and sweat again.

They found young, innocent Hans, who had pretty blond locks under his helmet and who had never even shot a man, hiding in a hole in the forest, covered with branches and mud, and they didn’t bother to drag him somewhere else before they tore down his pants, sending the buttons of his suspenders flying and in that moment – strange thoughts that you sometimes have in these horrible moments – he thought he’d never find them again, the buttons being as brown as that barren ground and how would he march then and hold a gun while holding up his pants?

The silly distraction was instantly wiped from his mind when the first man broke him in, the pain of it so sharp he could not have imagined a bullet to the guts to feel worse, but his imagination was limited and his knowledge of pain small and he learned that when they rode him, one after the other, and he smelled them then, unbearably intense, like sick horses left to themselves for many weeks, wet fur and rancid blood and mixed into it all the smell of their filthy dicks, sickeningly sexual, on him and in him, the sticky clumps of their semen and the smell of his own piss and his shit, which he couldn’t escape no matter how hard they pushed his face into the mud.

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Red Army officer and his secret harem of young German men

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aus-der-traum:

They called him Ivan, not because that was his name but because it amused him, the irony of it, to hear his Germans stutter the name they had chosen as surrogate for all of their hated enemies from the east, those Mongolian hordes, and to hear them say it with desperate affection, begging Ivan not to be terrible, begging him to please be good and please be kind and please don’t send them to Russia, anything but that.

He kept them in the basement of the little villa he had seized for the duration of his stay in Berlin, two or three of them in each room, they needed some company after all when he was gone for the day, he was was no monster, he took good care of his boys, especially the young ones in their little shorts, they were the first to get some blankets and he brought them big cups of warm milk every time he came to play with them – he really did feed them well, better than any of their comrades outside, who were fighting over scraps of food like wild dogs, by comparison it was a comfortable life, he thought, they lived more like their wives and sisters who made pretty eyes at their liberators and that was a luxury for men who should rightfully be in Siberia providing food for mother Russia.

He had quite a zoo assembled in those cold cells, besides the Berlin boys there were two East Prussian SS men, brothers that looked like twins (he could make them do all sorts of fun things to each other), with them he kept a scrawny young officer of the same company, then he also had three jolly Bavarians, Gebirgsjäger who were brown like Italians, a group of drab looking and very damaged nobodies he rarely visited, a tall Swede with hair almost as white as his skin and deep-set blue eyes (no doubt an eager volunteer with those splendid racial assets), also a man from Alsace with long brown eyelashes who was good with his tongue but wept at an annoying frequency and his personal favourite: a stern and bitter old officer with a crooked nose who had once – before Ivan took them – worn nearly as many medals on his tunic as he had fencing scars on his cheeks; but all good things must come to an end and eventually the harem had to be disbanded, the young ones he let go first and they ran away into the ruins of their city like little mice, most of the other Germans he sent to the Siberian camps, a blinded one from Hamburg he brought to the train station so he would find his way back home, the Alsatian he gifted to a friend in the French occupation zone,

before he had decided what to do with the Swede that one had managed to slit his wrists and bled out down the drainage, and the arrogant old man he took along to Moscow where they hanged him for war crimes.

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prideful POWs (brought low)

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aus-der-traum:

Hans was a handsome, manly kind of guy, a bit of a Siegfried maybe, tall and strong with pink scars on his chest, speckles like paint drops, and a nose like an eagle’s beak, always held high, glaring down at me with steely eyes when I made him mop piss off the floor or clean out the shit house and it was that haughty look that made me want to fuck him. 

I knew if I got him alone he’d be fighting me off and he hadn’t had a proper meal in weeks but he’d still win and then he’d be punished, send to the dark cell or the hot cell or the gallows, but I wouldn’t get to fuck him, so I got myself another friend – a yappy, strong fellow by the name of John – and each of us got a knife and we cornered Hans in his cell and I was straight with him, telling him I wanted to fuck him and such, and that came as quite a shock to him, he stammered that wasn’t what he was and then that it wasn’t what he wanted to be, which sounded like quite a different story to me, but we weren’t patient with him, weren’t waiting for him to come to terms with it, I just told him we’d rape him if he didn’t comply, then I beat him and John beat him too and I put the knife to his throat and to his eyes, and that did the trick, when I ordered him to strip, to turn around, to spread his legs and put his hands on the wall he actually did it. 

I greased myself up and told him to grease his own hole, fuck himself a bit since he’d never been penetrated and he did that too, and then I went in very gently and very slowly stretched his tight asshole open, he was a virgin no doubt, he groaned and moaned and wouldn’t stop saying that it hurt, sometimes in one language and then the other, and I had no doubt that it did, the way he was clenching around my dick and I even pulled out a bit, fucked him only with shallow thrusts, I wanted this to be our thing, something I could do to him again, maybe eventually he’d like it too – but this was a joint venture, John wanted his turn and he got it before I finished myself (it’s hard to get off when you’re getting your dick squeezed off), I had to let him have his go and he didn’t hold back, he fucked Hans like some loose hand-me-down and Hans didn’t moan no more, my dear friend got so carried away, I had to tell him to slow down, I didn’t want him to break poor Hans – well, he didn’t break him, just broke him in a bit and made him wet for me; we took turns fucking him to the end of our shift and he was rather tame to me afterwards, once you’ve allowed someone to fuck your ass that’s just kind of what you do, you don’t get to change your mind.

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