Lured into the dilapidated shack with the promise of a proper bath and a bed with perhaps a few less lice than previous accommodations had offered, Peiper stepped over the bodies of the original inhabitants, civilians or soldiers, he didn’t bother to look, and followed the echo of boots on moving across the gritty wood floorboards through the dark, the occasional burst of machine gun fire sending fragments of light between the cracks of the walls as he stepped over debris and unidentifiable masses; in a shadowy nook fashioned into a bedroom Wünsche’s toothily sardonic grin shone like an eerie specter, bizarrely disembodied as he gazed up from the spot he had claimed on the bed, limbs splayed out like a well pampered house cat, his lips then closing around the teeth into a smirk as Meyer gripped Peiper by the scruff of the neck, sweat still beaded in the space between his hairline and collar, pushing him down to the sunken mattress.
Hands like snakes slid across his body, tugging at his uniform until it dissolved away from his boyish form, talon like nails raking his embarrassingly delicate skin until blood bubbled to the surface, the sudden movements in the darkness leaving him disoriented and with the vague sensation of panic, until the hands and teeth and nails retreated and the bedsprings under him groaned with the shift of weight and suddenly, stillness, the sound of sweat slicked skin against skin, sharp breaths, and death rattle moans from the shadowed figures beside him and throbbing in his cock the only proof that he wasn’t lost in an episode of exhaustion induced delirium; taking his cock in his hand, he rolled to the side, turning his back to the glowing grin that had resurfaced to haunt him.
joseph goebbels/leni riefenstahl – hate sex or noncon or a guilty pleasure moment or goebbels being shot down or femdom or just wherever your heart takes you basically
It was a clever tactical decision, he
thought at first. To take this seat, to rest his hands at the ends of
its arms, magisterial. That nagging knowledge that she would be
taller than him if they both stood on their own feet couldn’t be
ignored, so why not make her stand on ceremony like a supplicant
while he reclined?Now that he’s staring up at her he
doesn’t feel so sure. And the uncertainty is burrowing into his
chest, making his toes squirm in his shoes, while Riefenstahl
seems completely unaffected.And
now she’s talking to him, lecturing
him, explaining
why she made the decisions she had about certain cameras, certain
anglesIt’s
what makes him curl his lip and insinuate that perhaps she is she’s
spending more time fascinated with the male form than is really
necessary.And
she slaps him.Hard,
across the face.And
he can’t speak.Something
rises up in him, pushes the hairs on his body to stand on edge, makes
him shudder, it’s a numbing, intoxication, he can’t speak, he can
only stare at her and her hand and shudder in a handful of breaths.And
while he’s half suffocating, staring, Leni looks down at him,
completely unsurprised and says, “you’ve been in this chair before
haven’t you?”And
somehow he understands what she means, that even though this had
never happened before, that this fantasy had already played out time
and time again in his mind, just waiting for the woman who would put
him in his place and it leaves his speechless and boneless and
yet….….while
he’s staring up at her with his hair all on edge, mouth half open and
panting, desperate to feel her hand on his cheek again, she shakes
her head and walks away.
I’m an invalid rn and something about a *very* attentive nurse and a convalescing officer sounds lovely
The morphine had kicked in, and the officer’s grimace of pain had melted into a blissfully vacant expression. His eyelids drooped like lead weights, and in the brief moments when he opened them fully there was a film over his beautiful brown eyes.
The officer didn’t notice Ilse’s footsteps towards him, or her hands gently unbuttoning his shirt. His face was turned away from her, and his gaze was focused on nothing in particular. She smiled as she revealed the powerful muscles of his chest and arms, which now lay as limp and useless as a huge, heavy ragdoll’s, helpless to defend the officer against Ilse’s attentions. The sedative and his injury had rendered the strong, powerful officer as weak as a kitten and utterly dependent on his kindly nurse.
This realisation of his helplessness made Ilse feel a surge of protectiveness towards her patient, and she winced as she saw the bullet wound just above his hip, still red and angry despite the medical treatment he had received. In moving his shirt, Ilse had irritated the still-tender wound, and the officer let out a quiet moan of discomfort and turned his gaze towards the nurse. But in his sedated state he was not capable of any genuine anger or self-defence, the pain had probably felt like nothing more than a gentle prodding to him, and the look that he gave Ilse showed no emotion other than complete and utter trust in the benevolence of the one who had been entrusted with his care.
“Don’t worry, my sweet, I’m going to take good care of you.” She said as she brushed a hand through his thick, dishevelled brown hair and slid it down his finely-carved cheek and jaw bones. The limp doll lying on the hospital bed could only submit to her caresses. His pretty mouth was slightly ajar, and when she brushed a finger over his lips he opened them further and stretched out a pretty pink tongue to meet it. She smiled again; behind the fog of indifference he truly was eager for her attentions. And was it not for his own benefit, what she was about to do? Her job was to cater to all of his needs, to provide the best possible environment so that he could recover. This was simply another one of his needs that would have to be attended to so that he could recover.
She unbuttoned his trousers and pulled them down along with his underwear, exposing his limp cock. Although his cock was flaccid, completely indifferent to her attentions, the large, heavy balls beneath it told a story of many frustrating weeks away at war, far away from any women who would be able to ease his tension. She cupped them in her hand, imagining them full to the brim with his seed. He was just about ready to burst. This problem would have to be dealt with.
At first, he did not seem to notice her hand sliding his foreskin over the head of his cock and back again. The thick haze of the morphine made it hard to be aware of any sensations, good or bad. It was a long time before she was able to bring his prick to attention, but she did eventually see his gaze start to fixate upon her, his glassy eyes attempting to meet her own. His pretty lips opened and closed, as if he were trying to say something to her, but the words were lost behind the golden fog of the sedative, and all that came out was a soft moan. It took even longer for all of his pent-up seed to finally be released from his prick, with the officer unable to muster more than another quiet moan as it spurted onto his exposed torso. His strong, powerful arms lay limply at his sides, and he was completely indifferent to the fact that his broad chest was now decorated with his cum. Ilse would now have to clean it up for him.
The officer was unable to speak, but Ilse imagined that he would be thanking her after that.
Mutually agreed upon threesome but one person ends up getting pushed to the sideline since the other two are so focused on each other (any combo of gender)
Women were always at his feet – zu seinen Füßen gelegen – as they said, attracted no doubt to his great personal power but also his imposing build, Austrian manners, and the fierce Schmiß that slashed across his face, a physical badge of honor and courage.
Initially, an evening with Gisela and him had sounded appealing; she was certain that she could entice him away from the Berlin blonde just as soon as they were between the sheets in the swank hotel room, leaving the young aristocrat streaking her mascara with tears and slinking away in disappointment and disgrace.
But no, the discarded woman was her, glaring at Gisela as the girl moaned under the Gruppenführer’s body, her lipstick smeared on his scars, while she herself had barely even had a chance to get close to the man before it had become clear to her that she was as important and desirable to him as the lamp or the desk or the chair. A few minutes of the ladies fondling each other and kissing to titillate him, and he had pounced on the countess, shoving her – the “other woman” – aside completely.
Asshole, she fumed as she slammed the door behind her, knowing that the pair wouldn’t even notice she had gone.
SS occultism meets an unsuspecting young woman
He loved the braids in her hair almost as much as he loved to see her cry.
He loved the braids in her hair, always shiny and tightly plaited, like the paintings of the beautifully ascetic peasant women sketched by Wolfgang Willrich, images that evoked the austere elegance and steely grace of the Nordic spirit.
He loved equally to see the tears rolling down the pale contours of her delicate face, tears of fear as he explained to her what awaited her in the coming months if she refused to believe fervently in the final victory, telling her of her brutal and inevitable rape, of the hunger and suffering of their three young children, of his summary execution by Bolshevik partisans. He would explain this all calmy, voice low and smooth and rational, her fear palpable as her gentle body shook with terror.
You don’t want that now, do you, sweetheart?
Laying a hand softly on her shoulder, he would provide a thin veneer of comfort to the panicked figure sitting beside him.
Do you?
Peiper and a bottle of Hennessy
:: visions of Peiper laid out with uniform undone under a tree in the
dappled shade on a rare day of rest from battle ::Visions of Jochen laid out with his uniform undone under a tree in the dappled shade on a rare day of rest from battle. Distant memories, the smell of dry wood and rotten fruit and the taste of his hot mouth meeting mine as we roll in the grass like children both eager and anxious to get each other out of our uniforms. When I hand him the bottle of Hennessy he smiles at me like he knows what I’m thinking about, his sweet boyish smile, but that day couldn’t be more distant now; there are dark circles under his eyes, his lips are chapped, his skin sore from the wind and the cold and when he drinks from the bottle, untypical greedy desperate gulps, I think maybe he’s drinking to forget.
Reichblr Ficathon 