the wound is the place where the light enters you
A flash of light, the snap of a gun. Scalding heat like blades of the sun rips through cloth and punctures your skin. It settles, a ball of pain in your guts, and through the gaps you run out red-hot. Much too bright, the boreal whites, blinding your sight, and your ears drowning with the chiming of bells, their distant little whispers. Your last breath is stuck somewhere between larynx and tongue. And quietly you dissipate into soil.
He shouldn’t enjoy it so much…
shame
To make someone wait: the constant prerogative of all power.
Every man dies alone
Gender bent Peiper/Wünsche
It was half past three in the morning when Peiper found Wünsche lying on the bathroom floor, sprawled out and nearly bursting out of her tight little dress. Of course Wünsche had been out again, drinking with the boys. The length of her skirt (or lack thereof) attested to it. It must have barely come down to her knees when she was standing at the bar to order her third drink on some fool’s bill, flashing her thighs while she was dancing with a pretty boy (or two or three), and riding up into her lap when she sat down between them, legs crossed and her head thrown back, drawing every eye with loud laughter and the promise of her flesh. Now she was paying for her lack of discipline, helpless as she was in her pathetic state, half passed out and barely able to open her eyes, but still moaning all the louder when Peiper straddled her and stroked her firm breasts through the velvety fabric of her dress and when Peiper caressed the soft inside of her thighs and pushed her soiled panties aside and slid a finger into her wet cunt. She was loose and sore and reeked of cock. She took four fingers to the knuckles and Peiper fucked her with them until she whimpered like a dog and her legs trembled and she pissed herself. Once more affirmed in her disgust for that woman Peiper left her lying in the puddle of her own urine for someone else to take care of in the morning.
Punishment administered by Kurt Meyer
The first blow comes as a surprise, it wipes the smile off Max’s face leaving only a comical disbelief, childlike, a boy who had his sweets nabbed from sticky fingers. Before Max can beg to know why he deserves to be beaten (he surely must deserve it) Kurt hits him again and again, heavy handed slaps to the face, cold precision that makes his cheeks burn and his ego sting. All too quickly he finds himself crouching at Kurt’s feet, staring up at him with tears in his eyes and snot dripping from his nose, waiting for Kurt to smile again, to laugh and pat him on the head and to tell him that all is forgiven, but no, not yet, he will have to endure a little longer.
Reichblr Ficathon 