Learning to be a perfect SS wife at the Reichsbräuteschule.
First they learned how to cook a meal to win his heart; they stirred and baked and fried all sorts of delicious things under the watchful eyes of their teacher and the dame tried them all, just a bit on the tip of her finger held to her pale thin lips and Gretchen watched nervously how the little crumb of chocolate cake disappeared into her mouth and she smiled brightly when it was to the teacher’s satisfaction.
Then they learned how to dress for the evening, feminine and elegant, strict yet inviting, and what music to pick for the occasion and what drink went with the food and the teacher poured Gretchen a glass of red wine, filled to the top, and to demonstrate the effect of such excess on a frail woman’s body she made Gretchen drink it so quickly that Gretchen spilled wine all over her stark white blouse.
Gretchen felt the heat of the wine in her cheeks, the weight of her eyelids and the teacher’s hand on her knee, her long fingers on her thigh, pulling up her skirt and tearing at her tights and just as the teacher had warned them she was helpless, even worse she did not object, she willingly opened her legs like the perfect wife should and her teacher made her squirm and moan better than any husband ever would.
Sigurd and Hedwig keeping each other company
Opposites attract, they say, but where it mattered Hedwig found Sigurd and Jochen were very much alike – they both had that emotional distance, a sternness easily misunderstood as coldheartedness if one didn’t know any better, all the more fun to melt it with an honest word at the right time, the right smile, the right brushing of fingers or kiss on the neck. And how much they yearned for it, soon Sigurd lay curled up on the couch, her head resting on Hedwig’s legs and she cried and she talked about how far away her husband was now in body and in spirit and how the words in his letters were hollow and how she only remembered his eyes empty and his hands withdrawn. While listening silently Hedwig stroked Sigurd’s hair and she traced the line of her neck with her fingertips, a hint of manicured nails running down her spine and sliding under the collar of her dress; and very peculiarly Sigurd shuddered just like her husband and just like her husband she drew closer and pressed her face between Hedwig’s thighs begging with opened lips and hot breath for her to lift up her skirt.
she sometimes asked herself why she still loves him
“How can you still love him?”
The question was on the tip of her tongue constantly now, and yet the answer eluded her. The emotional distance, his hair-trigger temper, the sleepless nights and days of walking on eggshells, trying to be as unobtrusive and invisible as possible. All took their toll.
This was not the Volker she had married. In their wedding portraits, he was grinning and she was radiant, flushed with joy. She was laughing at a joke he had told, witty and perfectly timed. They were just youths then, with unworried countenances and belief in the good times that surely lay ahead.
How was that just two years ago? Two long years of separation and anxiety, of warfare and loneliness. He had killed dozens of men and stared death in the face countless times; she had lost two babies and struggled to remain optimistic as she rattled about the old house he had rented for them.
The bouts of rage, the unpredictable moods, the nighttime convulsions and even the acid remarks that cut her to the core – somehow, she still saw that beaming young man she had married, imprisoned inside the stranger who had come back to her from the war.
With every action, every word, and every touch, she prayed that the old Volker would return, as if the perfect spätzle or the freshly ironed sheets on the bed would be enough to wake him from this awful dream.
Learning to be a perfect SS wife at the Reichsbräuteschule.
Drunk Kaltenbrunner finally makes his intentions for Gisela (who was a secretary, btw) clear at an office gala.
He loved large parties, for they afforded a sense of privacy that smaller gatherings prohibited. Here, in the hall full of elegantly dressed women and crisply uniformed officers, he could slip away unnoticed when the desire took him.
A drink, a flirtatious grin, a hand on the small of her back. All of these were practiced gestures that always worked without fail. This was how he’d won his Lisl, and this was how he would win his gorgeous secretary.
The sounds of the music and revelry faded into a hushed echo as he led her into the innermost sanctum of his office, making no secret of locking the door behind them, pressing her against the wall with the full force of his intimidating size. She smelled so good, like perfume and fear, and he relished the shaking of her delicate hands as she placed them on his shoulders, tentatively at first, uncertain as his nicotine-stained fingers slyly played with the straps of her gown, sliding them from her shoulders. She was eager but afraid, like putty in his hands – just the way he wanted her.
“Keine Sorge, Liebchen. Ich gebe dir alles, die dein Paul nicht anbieten konnte.”
He beamed as she pressed her lips to his, tentatively at first, but then eagerly meeting his ashen-tasting mouth. Her nails raked lightly over the deep Schmisse from his student days, and he pressed himself against her, groping her perfect breasts, sized as if made to fit his broad palms. He savoured her scent, and he shoved her long skirt up to provide access to her silky thighs, and the moist, warm place between her legs. She was soaking already, her aristocratic restraint fading fast. She moved her hips against him, eager for his touch, and her breath hitched as he unbuckled his belt with a practiced motion.
_______________________________________________________________________He left her there, a limp, pathetic pile on the floor of his office, sticking a cigarette in his mouth and smoothing his uniform tunic as he bid her farewell. This, he made it clear, was just the first time of many. If all went to plan, in a few weeks this would be how he spent his lunch hour, and in a few months, he would make a mother of her.
Yes, that would be the perfect way to make her his, to have her prove her loyalty to her man and to her nation.
Do you write/answer the proms chronologically or as the whim takes you?
The concept of a ficathon is that anyone can leave a prompt and
anyone
can write a fic for whatever prompt inspires them. You can read the instructions here.
Because it takes so little time to leave a prompt and so much more to write a prompt fill (not to mention that what you find exciting might not excite the people who do write) you will find that lots of prompts go unanswered.
We are not the fic office where you put in a prompt, draw a number and wait in line for your fic to be delivered. If that was the case we’d charge money for it.
To answer your question: prompts are not filled chronologically and due to the nature of the tumblr feed the more recent prompts have a bigger chance at being seen and inspiring someone. Yes, whim is the driving force.
Reichblr Ficathon 