Max is sitting on the floor between Kurt’s spread legs, his knees dusty with dirt, leaning on Kurt’s thigh, sleepy, content, waiting patiently for a pat on the head, a heavy hand in his hair, any treat, but not today, today Kurt is angry with him, because some barriers may not be crossed and Max did cross them with Jochen, tore them down and pushed Jochen’s face in what remained of them and that can not be tolerated, justice must be served. Light steps, Max doesn’t hear Jochen coming, but when he feels cold fingers on the back of his neck he recognises them instantly from the way they held onto him before, small and weak and desperate – now they grab him hard like something they own and then Jochen pulls Max head back by the hair so he can spit in his face and calls him disgusting and degenerate and when Max tries to laugh it off, teeth bared like a sword, his body tensing, ready to strike, Kurt punches him in the stomach so hard that he throws up. He’s still spitting, coughing, barely able to breathe when Kurt presses him flat on his stomach, his face pushed into the puddle of his own rancid puke, twists his arms back and kneels on him, a knee in his spine, like he’s livestock to be shorn or branded, holds him like that for Jochen to do as he pleases.
When Max’s pants are pulled down he’s almost relieved (an eye for an eye), but it’s not quite what he expected, something cold and metal is slid between his buttocks and he can’t see but he knows it can only be a dagger or a bayonet and he becomes very still when it tickles him, the tip of it pressing into his ass – no, it’s not sharp, it’s in its scabbard, it won’t kill him but it is unrelentingly hard and stiff and long. He is granted as little mercy as he has shown himself, no spit, not a word of encouragement from Kurt when Jochen pushes the scabbard into him so deep he can feel it pull on his guts and then he thinks maybe it will kill him after all and he screams, muffled and still gurgling on his own puke. Kurt laughs, the sound reverberating through his body, a jolly laugh that returns again and again, as Jochen fucks Max with the sheathed blade, thrusting with precise brutality, jabbing into his insides, the dull edge cutting into his skin until he’s so numb the pain is nothing but a distant burn but it still hurts when Kurt calls him an faggot and a cocksucker and shoves a fingers into him alongside the blade and then another one to spread his gaping hole open and when Kurt giggles and says “Jochen, dear Jochen, my Mäxchen wants you so bad, look how bad the bitch wants your dick.”
It does not hurt, when finally – it comes as a relief – Jochen pulls out the dagger and instead slides his own hard cock into him (it gives Max some twisted satisfaction, just how hard Jochen is) and it shouldn’t be that easy but he’s loose and he’s bleeding and he wants Jochen’s cock more than even just one more second of that dagger. Kurt sighs at that as if it was the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, Jochen up to the hilt
in Max’s ass and his own fingers too, spreading and stuffing him together, and then Jochen fucks him, thrusting more brutally now than with the dagger, fine fingernails digging into his hips, but it’s not the horrible mechanical penetration, not the narrow blade, it’s a thick cock that fits just right and rolling hips and it does hit him where it feels good, just a little, just an inch of pleasure on top of it all but that is enough to make him clench and twitch around Jochen’s cock. “Do you like that, Max?” Jochen asks and it’s the first thing he has said ever since he started fucking him with that blade, and Max hates it, that his throat is still burning from the puke, the way he stinks, how ugly he must look and the utter loss of control of being used like that, a dirty hole, presented and fucked, and then the absolute contempt in Jochen’s voice, which needs no insults, reminding him again why he’s got that cock up his ass and why he likes it too, because he can’t control himself, because he’s not a man, just an animal and it’s not even punishment, he has simply been put in his place and he can’t hide his nature, can’t hide the way his muscles tense and his body trembles and his low moans as the orgasm rolls over him.
Begging a pilot to roughly give it to you.
Ernstel had peeled himself out of his oil stained overall and straddled Galland, two strong hands on the pilot’s wide chest, digging into the blue fabric of his uniform as he rubbed his sweaty body on him, needy and undignified like a beast in heat. The pretty mechanic had lips like a young girl, plump and pink with a lovely arch to them and he licked them wet when he breathlessly begged Galland to fuck him hard, already panting from only the feeling of sitting on the fat bulge in Galland’s pants and imagining the dull pleasure and the pain of riding his cock or better still to be flipped on his stomach, held down with a hand on his neck and fucked like daddy’s little boy. Something came over Ernstel then that made him say that too, he called him daddy and he whimpered with tears in his eyes that he’d be a good boy and tell no one, and Galland raised his eyebrows at him and slowly, determined but careful not to hurt him, he pushed Ernstel off and when he pulled the young man up to his feet and dressed him again he was visibly disgusted but whether with Ernstel or with himself he couldn’t say.
Reichblr Ficathon 