aus-der-traum:

Wünsche
had no shame about declaring the terms of the interview and perhaps
Peiper should not have been surprised by this (not by the lack of
shame, at the least, in that vacant, carnivorous smile) but no matter
how little he had thought of Wünsche before or how jaded time and
circumstance had left him grimacing about the notion of brotherhood
as it manifested in men rather than in the ideal, it still left him
numb and silently reeling when Wünsche
had explained it to him.

The smug satisfaction on
Wünsche’s face as he
balanced a pen on two fingers, raised an eyebrow at Peiper from
behind his desk and asked, are you really going to let your family
go hungry over a matter of pride? I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.

Wünsche
said it as though it was only further justification for this whole
exercise. If he expected Peiper to do him the great service of
allowing a war criminal to be his assistant (at the possible
great cost to his own sterling reputation of course) he needed assurance that Peiper realised his place, that he understood he should be
grateful. How can he trust Peiper’s usual arrogance not to rear it’s
ugly head? This is an object lesson. 

Put on the skirt.

The
skirt that Wünsche had given him. Just a little demonstration,
Wünsche had told him, to show sincerity. Just the once. There are
plenty of other girls who are eager for this job after all.

Peiper
changes in the executive bathroom and walks back into Wünsche’s
office with his head held resolutely high. It seems infantile
to dwell on the feeling of exposure, that’s the whole point isn’t it?
And he tries to clench his jaw against an onslaught of blushes,
against a pin point focus on how the hem of the skirt wraps around
his thighs, the places it leaves bare, what it fails to protect,
where the dull grey cotton hugs and emphasises parts of his body he’d
rather not think about here.

“I might have a place
for you yet,” Wünsche says.

He
touches Peiper’s arm, lightly, a finger running up from elbow to
wrist, circling around him in his smart suit and his nicely combed
hair and the bestial huffing of his breath. There’s silence apart
from that, amazing, Peiper thinks, how it makes him yearn for the
usual asinine small talk Wünsche would try to make  back when they
ran into each other on the Eastern front.  

Casually, deliberately,
Wünsche pushes an empty coffee mug
off the desk where it lands with a dull thud on the carpet.

“Pick
that up,” he says.

Peiper can hear the smile
in his voice as he bends at the knees to fetch it, can feel Wünsche’s
amusement at the distress he is trying to hide and it hurts like a
limb that is dying but still attached to his body. Wünsche’s
hand cups his ass as his fingers close around the mug and stays there
as he stands up and places it back upon the desk.

“You
know what really industrious girls do to get their jobs, don’t you
Jochen?” Wünsche huffs moist, stale air against the back of his
neck, squeezing with his hand before slipping it up the bare,
unprotected inside of his thigh, pushing him bodily against the desk.
“You don’t think you’re above that do you? What good German women
do?”

“This doesn’t-”

He begins to say but
Wünsche slams his head down onto
the desk so hard he sees stars and coughs and retches at the blood
that slides down his throat at the same time it starts pouring out
his nose, that dizzy sensation of drowning all bound up with the
thick, coppery taste of his own blood. He’s snorting in frothy red
trying to get air as  Wünsche grinds an obvious erection against
him.

“En français,
Jochen, I always thought it would be nice to have a French bitch do
my filing. You speak it don’t you?”

And in the end Wünsche does get very many pretty French phrases out of him before it’s apparent the only French conversation he’s really interested in is between Jochen’s tongue and his cock.