I, myself telling the famous Max Wünsche “No” and him not taking it well.
I wore my favourite dress to the party, the white one with the long sleeves, which from a distance gave the impression of a very modest young girl, but in the back bits of the the shoulders were cut out and it drove him crazy when I turned to call the waiter over for another drink and showed only him, the most deserving of it, a flash of delicate skin. It was amusing to see this man who could have everything foaming at the mouth at the thought of having me, the good soldier turned into a stupid monkey constrained only by his stiff uniform and all the more vile for the contrast. When we were alone and greedy as he was he slipped his hand under my dress I told him off quite firmly and already smiled to myself at the thought of hearing him beg to touch me, but I had miscalculated, I had overestimate the power of that uniform and underestimated his own vanity, which would only be satisfied if he could have and own and use and he wouldn’t be stopped by words or my weak attempts to fight him off; he ripped my panties – very expensive underwear, hard to get these days – and with one hand covered my face so he wouldn’t have to look at it while he raped me for what must have been barely minutes (the pain made it feel like a much longer time) until suddenly he stopped and just got up and stumbled away looking as if he was close to tears himself, which was only a small satisfaction compared to the damage he had already done to me.
Peiper in love
Kurt Meyer is captured by members of the resistance and before they get him a doctor they have some fun with him
Accidentally calling the Führer by his first name.
Speer kept moaning
Speer is such a twink, even when he tries to be sexy
Calling the famous Max Wünsche Daddy
(HEWWO IVE RETURNED)
Joachim’s knees buckled as he swallowed, blood rushing to his cheeks as Max’s hot breath beat against his neck, his sharp teeth grazing against the skin of the nervous man, teasing him that he would draw blood, but he wasn’t the type of man to puncture skin; but rather hurt him in other ways that would still assert he was the dominant one of the two.
“Jochen, look at me,” he growled, standing straight and down at the man, seeing his blue eyes shine with fear and confusion as he looked up, his pale hands trembling, “who’s your daddy?”
He placed his hand over Joachim’s crotch, tightly grabbing it, forcing an answer out of the man, having him helplessly yelp, “Y-You! You’re my daddy!”, and he grinned at the response, saying, “Yes, that’s correct, Jochen.”
Trying to seduce his straight comrade, failing with a bad outcome
Erich seduced his dear comrade as if he was taming a wild beast, carefully encroaching into Friedrich’s private space one step at a time, with chaste touches first, holding his strong arm, fingernails digging just a bit into the thin wool of his uniform, and then caressing his fingers from his palm to the dirty
tips, and he had his ears perked up to hear if there was a change in the tone of
Friedrich’s
voice when Erich stroked his neck (there was) or if he held his breath when Erich embraced him as comrades do (he did) and put his head on his shoulder so close the hot breath on Friedrich’s pale throat was almost a kiss.
When Erich stroked the front of Friedrich’s trousers leaving no doubt about his intent Friedrich suddenly grabbed Erich’s wrist so hard that he yelped.
Friedrich’s voice cracked on the insults he spat at Erich as he pushed him away and with a punch to the face sent him flying to the ground and when he saw Erich lying there in the mud like a mortally wounded man, defenceless and staring up at him with big wet eyes, utterly disgusting and pitiful, he reached for his pistol and with shaking hands pointed it at Erich’s head and he was clenching his teeth so hard it hurt as he waited desperately to be stopped, but Erich didn’t plead and didn’t say that he was sorry or made excuses, he just stared at the end of the barrel, frozen in terror and slowly a trickle of blood from his nose ran down his face and dripped from his lips.
Could I have another pilot fanfic? Maybe about boot licking? (I’m such a slut for pilots)
Two boots are resting on your shoulder, crossed at the ankle, long and sleek, the black leather polished to a shine, perfectly shaped and fitted they end just under the knee, an unnatural straight line up to the arch of the breeches that you dare not look up to lest your eyes give away too much.
Mölders smirks when he notices how you look at his boots – just a quick, needy glance – and he does you a favour, presses one sole to your cheek, tilting your head backwards (now you do look up at him wide-eyed), and with a smile but not an inch of leeway to refuse he says:
“Go on then, lick them.”
You hardly dare to touch him but you have to, the way he’s using you as a footrest, you carefully hold one boot up in your sweating fingers while you run your tongue along the heel and the shaft leaving the bitter taste of shoe polish in your mouth, and you hope Mölders could notice too how you also want to be stepped on and kicked but he is just flipping through a magazine with pictures of pretty ladies and pretty pilots and he is laughing now and then at a funny propaganda piece.
Reichblr Ficathon 