We will spare your village from destruction…… if you give me your daughter.
The tiny town had no name. Surely the locals called it something, but on the map, it was only another tiny shaded area which had traded hands between the Germans and the Soviets over eight times in four years.
The farmer who sat on his front step smoked his pipe and watched the tanks come rolling down the muddy lane and towards his house. In the kitchen, his lovely daughter Sophia leaned against the window above the sink and her face knitted with concern. She threw down the dough she was kneading and left it to rise as she dusted her hands off and stepped out the back door. She was concerned because the tanks were Soviet tanks, and her boyfriend was a right-leaning partisan. He was sitting in the barn, cleaning his boots.
“Do you see the tanks? They’re here right now!”
“Who, the Russians? That’s why I’m leaving without delay.” He rose and kissed her. “And you’re coming with me.”
“I couldn’t. Father’s too old to be alone. Since mother’s died, he has no one in this world but me. I couldn’t leave him!”
“Sophie, are you going to shut yourself away your whole life? He couldn’t protect you in such hard times. Come away with me, west, to the mountains.”
She brushed him off.
“I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.”
Outside, the rumble of treads and roar of engines cut her off. He leaned over, kissed her again, then ran out of the back of the barn and down the meadow in the opposite direction. Sophia watched him go.
The commander of the tanks was a very skinny and very badly scarred Georgian who popped out of the top of his tank like a hare popping out of its burrow. The villagers were gathered outside the church in the center of town as he pulled from his breast pocket a folded scrap of paper. He looked at it, smiled, then looked up.
“You are now citizens of the occupation zone of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.” He said, reading from his script.
“It is your duty, now, to provide your countrymen and comrades with the best accommodations possible for the duration of the conflict; to aid us in any way possible, and conduct guerrilla warfare against the enemy to the death, if need be.
“So you want us to feed you?” Sophia’s father shouted.
“No, we want you to obey the rules, and act to our greatest advantage.” The tank commander said. He scanned across the surrounding countryside. “It seems as though your harvest isn’t yet in; and considering the time of year, it won’t be for a while.” He nodded. “To be frank, we don’t want to risk such a rich supply of food reaching the fascists, were they to retake the area. Rather, we’ll scorch it now.”
The villagers stirred and shouted.
“Quiet, quiet!” A soldier blew his whistle. “You agreed to serve your country. This is how you can serve.”
“By having our fields salted and our stores destroyed?” Sophia’s father said. She grabbed his arm.
“Quiet, Papa.”
“You!” The commander pointed. “You’re mouthy, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Are you a businessman?” The commander asked, leaning on the rim of the turret.
“A farmer, but I’ve managed a sawmill part of my life.”
“Then let me make you an offer you couldn’t refuse.”
“What?”
The commander pointed again.
“You give me your daughter, and I will spare this village from destruction.”
“She’s engaged already.”
“Oh, no. Not for marriage.” He smirked. “For fifteen minutes.”
Her father began to shake in his shoes.
“I won’t do it.”
“Alright then.” The soldiers looked at each other. “Load the flamethrowers.”
The crowd began to beg and plead.
“Please, have mercy on us!” An old woman cried. Children milled about, uncertain.
“Don’t kill us! We’re good people!”
“What about our babies?”
Someone shoved Sophia.
“You selfish, miserable fool!” They spat at her. “If you had any real courage, you’d take one for all of us!”
She turned from her father’s arm, and met the gaze of the village priest.
“Father …” She said. “I know you always said that fornication was a sin …”
“My child, my sweet child.” He clasped her face. “If you were to go forth now, you would be a martyr.“
She turned to the skinny Colonel.
“I accept your proposal!” She cried, her voice ringing out over the thrall. She broke from her father’s grasp, and walked up to the front of the tank. Armed soldiers closed in the crowd behind her.
He hopped down from the turret and grinned.
“Come on, back here. To the truck.”
He led her by the hand to an idling transport truck. He worked with nimble fingers, slipping handcuffs on her dainty wrists and pushing her up onto the covered back of the vehicle. It was musty, sweaty, and cool.
“Only fifteen minutes, you hear?” Sophia said, a quiver in her voice.
“That’s all the time I require.”
He tied a rope in her mouth, just tight enough she couldn’t make a sound. The flap of the truck quivered, then was brushed aside. The first officer poked his head inside.
“The villagers are getting skittish. What do you want me to do?” He asked.
“Burn them.” The commander said, then he undid his belt buckle …
Not reich per-see but something with young Rommel? Maybe during ww1?
The trees formed a vaulting canopy over Erwin’s head as he marched with his small detachment through the shadowy Transylvanian woodland. The winds blew chilly around them as they marched up steep hills and down jagged valleys, until evening fell and they drew close to make a camp. Erwin took out a wool cloak from his pack and wrapped it around himself as they sat around the fire and talked about everything they’d seen and heard, picked over news of home, and boasted of the family and friends they longed to return to. He didn’t say anything. He ate very little, either. They hadn’t come across any large animals for several days, and their rations were beginning to wear thin. He curled up and drifted off into a shallow sleep to the flickering warmth of the fire and the voices of his comrades.
Smoke blew into his face, and woke him up. The moon was blue and full and shone a pale light down from the sky. The fire had gone out, with only dying embers glittering in the soft gray ash. His eyes took a second to focus, but when he did, he could see a beautiful white deer standing at the edge of the woods, watching the men. Suddenly, hunger stirred in his heart. Erwin reached for his pistol on his belt and the doe darted for the line of the trees. He shot once, and the deer stumbled. None of his fellow soldiers stirred, so deep and peaceful was their sleep.
He got up and followed after it. He could see by the cool light the dark blood-spots, and tracked the deer further and further into the thick, mountainous forest. The pine trees rustled and snapped in the wind as he climbed up a hill after the dying deer. He was close, so close now. He could smell the meat cooking, and see the white fur lining his gloves. He pushed through a thicket of brambles and drew his knife.
There, under the sky’s silver cast, he saw a lovely young woman with skin the color of milk, and hair the color of cornsilk. She lay naked on the mossy ground, eyes closed and flanks still. From her throat, a ribbon of dark and sticky blood trickled over her shoulder and pooled on the ground near Erwin’s boots. Only a moment ago the wound had bubbled; but no longer.
Kurt Meyer is captured by members of the resistance and before they get him a doctor they have some fun with him
Three Belgian partisans in shorts and stolen tunics who look more like schoolboys than soldiers drag their latest catch, SS-Brigadeführer Kurt Meyer, into a dusty kitchen. They had treated him a little roughly, shot him when he didn’t surrender – or so they would say once they hand him over to the Americans – for now the wound in his shoulder needs to be treated.
The room is lit only by a bright lamp hanging over the kitchen table. The table has been swept clean and standing next to it is an old man with round glasses in a blood-spattered white coat who watches with a nervous expression as they boys throw Kurt at his feet and then push and kick him to make him crawl onto the table. Once Kurt is on it, lying on his back and breathing heavily, they decide they won’t let the doctor do his work just yet. They tell him to leave and he does so looking very relieved.
When they are alone with Kurt the boys cut open his uniform to have a good look at his wound: a small bullet hole oozing blood. They touch it and laugh at the way it makes Kurt twitch and they try to outdo each other, putting their dirty fingers on it and in it, giggling as they move them in and out and they say “excuse-moi” as if their fingers simply slipped. Kurt has something to remark about their filthy minds, but the pain takes his breath and he holds on to the table and grits his teeth grinning at them instead.
That puts them in the mood. They pull off his boots and trousers and put Kurt on his stomach. One crawls onto the table and one stretches Kurt’s arms out holding him still with his bloody hands around his wrists. Suddenly remembering that their prisoner is not their toy but a dangerous Nazi soldier the third one holds a pistol to his back. The one on the table lifts Kurt up by the hips. He tries he to get his excited little penis into Kurt’s arse, a task that he has evidently no experience in as he struggles with the weight of Kurt’s body and a lack of compliance. With an amused look over his shoulder Kurt sniggers at the boy’s attempts, which he shouldn’t have done, it rather upsets the young man who gets his revenge when (after begrudgingly lubing himself up with some spit) he screws Kurt as if he hoped he could kill him that way. He succeeds in shutting Kurt up first and then in coaxing tired groans out of him, mostly though only due to the way the boy’s enthusiastic thrusting makes Kurt’s upper body and that bleeding shoulder rub over the table. Only the third one with his admirable stamina and some natural talent manages to make Kurt spill more than his blood. It’s a painful orgasm that comes so slowly, his tired body barely able to muster the strength for it, and it lasts so long that by the end of it he’s coming dry and his captors get confused and worried thinking they might be witnessing the man’s death throes.
When they realize what they’ve done to Kurt they naturally see his enjoyment of the situation not as opportunism but some deep rooted defect and they mock him and they call him a Nazi whore and other more creative insults that Kurt has never heard before but he barely takes note of it. Feeling tired and utterly content now, the buzzing pain of his shoulder snuffed out by a numbness of his whole body, he just sighs and arches his back a little more, waiting for the proceedings to come to an end.
It is however rather humiliating when the doctor returns to patch him up and he has to lie in his own ejaculate and suffer the old man’s raised eyebrows.
Reichblr Ficathon 