She remembers them, when they were small, soft little bodies and soft little minds. They, their families, should have known better than to deliver them to the wolf, and not even reluctantly but with cheers and zealousness; all too eagerly, they offered them up to be to be groomed for the slaughter.
He had the most beautiful thighs. They were a lovely shade of white, as pale and deep as a blank canvas. For we were in the middle of the winter, they weren’t defiled by the vulgar tints of the sun, those dirty, muddy, rotten colours: sienna, yellow ochre. No, under the pale light of the dying day, those thighs glimmered softly, as sweet and dreamy as snow.
Such a pleasant contrast it made with the black uniform. Not the one you’d think however. The hand runs from the rough wool to the silky thighs and stays there, nested on the thin blond hair, almost invisible, only adding the most adorable golden gleam to this lovely sight. Does it tickle when I do this?
I think about his youth. He surely hiked, or rode horses. Perhaps he was a talented swimmer. His thighs are well-defined, yet just fat enough to carry the charm of youthfulness. Of course this all shows in his whole body, yet his smooth face merely reveals small hints of the spectacular man he was to become.
It’s not too hard to picture those thighs wrapped around the broad flanks of a stocky horse. On a summer day, with your friends, you rode bareback along the forest paths to that place where the mountains split into a little stream. Sweat made the horse hair cling to you, and you would nonchalantly wipe it away with the back of your hand, laughing.
You probably tried to wipe the ashes and the dirt away from you when this all started to get awry. You are clad in the uniform, some would say imprisoned, and you thought yourself a warrior for as long as war told you its charming lies. No more horses but great beasts of metal, no more streams but gushes of blood, no more forest paths but barbed wires and your strong body you were so proud of no longer got you praise, only side glances and cold caresses you could not refuse. Hoarse breath on the back of your neck, disgustingly damp, and the hand that goes from the rough wool to the silky thighs again. Up and down, up and down, the little pet names and the revolting travesty of intimacy, and soon the rustling of fabric, the beastly grunts. And when they were feeling civilized, they’d only fuck those thighs of yours. War did not manage to steal their fat.
He had the most beautiful thighs. They were a lovely shade of white, as pale and deep as a blank canvas. But they were stained with brown and black now, and spread apart like whore’s. Under the tunic, a small patch of light hair could barely hide the noisy swarming. The bugs had attacked your mouth, your ears, your nose. And the large foaming hole between your legs, where the organs were torn out. The black pants lowered at the knees, your tied hands over your head, you only show the silky thighs, the golden hair, the wasted youth.
A stab of jealousy, a flash of realization runs through him. They’ve done this before. All along, behind his back. He should be furious, at her, at him, but all he feels is numb. A lump forms in his throat. His whole body is like lead as he watches them.
How silly to believe anything would ever be his, and his alone.
They both knew it would be the last time they slept together, watching the world burn as they marched endlessly through the cold and damp, herding the hordes of ash-colored bodies along the empty roads. The Reich was shrinking by the day, the dream was over, and it was only a matter of time before it all came crashing down.
It was in an abandoned house, the guards taking refuge overnight from the sleet and the rain, taking shifts watching over the throngs of prisoners huddled outside in the elements. His shift was up, and his uniform was soaked with freezing rain, his skin clammy and his mind in a fog. Nothing mattered anymore. It would all end soon, and with it, so would his life.
Her lithe form was warm and soft, her breasts pressed enticingly against his chest as she snuggled against him, seeking protection amidst the uncertainty and fear. He had never spoken of love, never told her how much he adored her, how he wished that there could be a future. He’d loved her from the very beginning, as soon as he had noticed the young woman on her first day on duty. She had since become his comfort and his refuge, everything that he needed to remind him that he was human after all.
She cried and moaned beneath him, from pleasure or sadness he couldn’t tell, focusing on memorising the feeling of her hands on his back, her legs around him, the feeling of her body, every inch of it. With each day that passed was another day they came closer to never seeing each other again, to never being free again, to being condemned for eternity for the crimes their world had them commit.
This would be what he would remember when they took him at gunpoint. This was what he would remember when he stood on trial. This was what he would remember to give him strength, even as he mounted the steps to the gallows.
Reichblr Ficathon 