who were you before they broke your heart?
“General Rommel, who were you before they broke your heart?” The young pilot asked, staring into the older man’s solemn eyes; the eyes spoke a thousand words, of his past, of his present, and of his future, but those thousand words only spoke sadness; they showed how much pain the man had gone through.
Rommel looked into Marseille’s curious eyes, remembering every detail of who he was before loveless relationships, abuse, and his own broken heart beat him to the floor, leaving him there- trembling and crying- before finally standing up, dusting himself off, and marching into his new self: Vicious and thirsty for blood and victory, but back then, he was a quiet, docile, outgoing and fun loving man; spending his days reading book after book, he followed every order from his parents, siblings, friends, and even strangers for the sake of being kind and not being a pain, he was a loud talker when the situation called for it; only wanting to make people laugh as he socialized a lot more than he did now, and he was an extremely playful man; his nieces, nephews, and schoolchildren who lived near him adoring him, as he enjoyed playing their games with them and making them feel safe and happy.
But when he entered his first relationship, it was all taken away: his true self was bound and gagged as the first hit was made, its condition taking its last breath as the last person he was in a relationship with strangled him with his own belt, and after that day, he was a whole new man, but his true self still sat inside him, rotting and deteriorating as Rommel finally spoke, saying, “I was a good man, but fraudulent love tore me down, but everyday I wish I could be myself again- a man who wants to make people laugh- but I’ve played this part for too long, I don’t think I can go back, I’ll be stuck as a vicious man; the good me is way too far behind, and it was all from love… so take it from me Marseille, never fall in love, it will only hurt you.”
Rommel abuse, he’s so precious.
Out in the public, they seemed like such amazing friends; their smiles seemed so genuine, their laughter was played off as fact, and everyone thought their play fights were authentic and only deemed them as friends goofing around, but all of that was just a show; an amazing theatre performance.
When doors were closed, blinds were shut, and possible witnesses were gone, Erich stamped bruises down Erwin’s arms and legs, his back torn and scarred from pocket knives, shards of glass, and finger nails, the General’s uniform covering the marks, the collar barely even concealing the strangulation marks that painted a red-purple ring across his throat.
He would also jab his elbow into Erwin’s ribs whenever eyes were averted, he’d shout insults so loud they’d burst the man’s ears daily, Erich would blame his mistakes on the docile man, and even sodimize him with his baton time and time again, but Erwin couldn’t speak, he was only a beaten puppy: Unable to speak, unable to defend himself, and unable to cry out for help.
B E A S T I A L I T Y
The hotel lived up
to its name; a terminus marks a boundary, and this Terminus marked
the very boundaries of hell, a place where cruelty reigned with
blowtorches and glowing irons, boiling water and electroshocks, where
bones were broken and men skinned alive – but torture comes in may
forms, you can break a human with less than brute strength; you can
for example teach your dogs some neat tricks, and it turns out, they
might repeat it on other terms too, not quite like you expected, but
that’s how it goes sometimes.See, Kläuschen,
his captor says when they let the huge German shepherd off his leash,
your dog knows what to do when you get on your hands
and knees, naked as the day you were born, you trained him
well, look at how eagerly he sniffs your balls and licks your
twitching little hole, he needs no more
incentive than that for his plump red cock to
come out of his sheath, look how impatient
he is to fuck your virgin ass, such a good
boy, he really loves his
master – he must have waited so long for the
day when he’d be allowed to mount you.And
mount him he does, this hellhound with a taste for rape (it’s not his
fault, he just does what he’s been trained for) and he isn’t gentle
as he shoves his large wet red dog-dick into Kläuschen’s tight ass
and Kläuschen would scream if they hadn’t gagged him, he would
scream like all the men and women and children he tortured, but alas,
his captor can’t allow him this relief, it would upset the poor dog
and we wouldn’t want him to be unable to perform, would we?After that first time he thought the worst thing he could feel was the dog’s spunk leaking out of his ass, not even the ruined ache of his asshole itself or how they held a mirror up there and fisted his hair to the roots and made him look at what a disgusting canine cunt had been made of it, but the shame of feeling it slowly drip out of him and the urge to actually dig his fingers in there and spread himself wide to just get rid of it all in one go, so he wouldn’t have to feel it anymore – they don’t let him bathe, when he’s lucky he’ll get a quick hose down with cold water but nothing that could wash the filthy, primal shame of this off of him.
It’s awfully naive though – this was merely a subtle prologue to all kinds of tortures; a drill set against the exposed nerves of a plucked out tooth, industrial irritants pumped into his bladder and plugged up there, splinters of wood pushed deep into his nail beds and tapped on like piano keys, metal brands heated until the air around them grows hazy and pressed into his flesh where they sizzle and spit and he thinks he can see his fat bubbling, not possible no, but the clear weeping fluid and yellow mess of the wounds left behind terrify him.
So in time he comes to plead for the dogs instead and when they smile and tell him, well then, he better be an enthusiastic bitch and show his studs how much he appreciates them, give them a kiss, he almost doesn’t hesitate to open his mouth and let the hound lick inside, trying not to gag as he laps his own tongue over the yellow, frothy fangs and making the most appreciative noises he can manage, strained, unconvincing whimpers as he swallows down dog slobber and listens to the laughter of his captors.
When they let his dog in (out of kindness or malice he could not tell) Klaus sat in the darkest corner of his cell curled up, covered in his filth and his blood, weeping without tears, his small body shaken by sobs, but the dog still recognized the sorry creature and came trotting to his master, slowly wagging his tail, unsure if he was allowed to be happy. He sniffed Klaus’s face, nudging it with his big wet nose, and that was the first time in days that someone had gotten so close to Klaus without wanting to hurt him, it made him smile and when he showed his dog the gums where his teeth used to be the dog licked his face with his long tongue, licked off the blood and the tears and the puke and he licked his body too, making him clean, so soothingly soft on his wounds, and he didn’t spare a spot, when Klaus opened his legs for him like he’d been taught the good dog licked the piss off Klaus’s shrivelled up little cock and his swollen balls and he got very excited, tail wagging, lapping more eagerly and prodding with his nose when he tasted warm semen oozing from his master’s torn up asshole. The dog’s cock was already out of its sheath, Klaus could smell it, but he did not mind, he patted the dog on the head and called him a good boy – the poor dog, he had never meant to harm his master, would have been gentler when he mounted him had he known how he tore him up, and how good he was to Klaus now, his only friend, Klaus wanted to be good to him too and he got on his knees and he would have presented his fuck hole, his canine cunt, had it not been so brutally used just now, so he crawled under the beast’s belly and found the big red cock already hanging heavy and wet, dripping clear liquid like water from the blade of the tip that he gently put in his mouth and although he had never taught him that trick the dog knew what to do and pushed his entire long cock inside Klaus’s mouth and down his throat and he put his paws on Klaus’s back, nails scratching the purple flesh as he mounted Klaus’s face and humped his mouth rubbing the huge knot on his gums until it was swollen to full size, wedging his mouth wide open, then the dog stood still spilling endless amounts of liquid down his throat for many, many minutes and Klaus swallowed it all or he would have drowned on it; when he heard the door to his cell open again, followed by the uncontrolled laughter of his captors, he ignored it, instead stroking the dog’s flanks and smelling his lovely soft fur.
In which Peiper teaches Werner Wolff a thing or two
Werner was a bit like a school boy who threw little paper balls at girls he liked, on one of them he’d write ‘I love you’, you simply had to pick up the right one, it was just boyish incompetence in expressing his feelings, he was essentially good at heart, obedient and kind and he had to be, as Peiper’s adjutant he was his shadow by day and his bedmate by night and he was a sweet, innocent bedmate, once given permission he drew his superior’s smaller body to his chest and held him tight and he never did follow up on his arousal in those moments, fearing if he tried to touch him indecently Peiper would swat his hand away and he wouldn’t get to hold him again, so it came as bit of surprise when one of these nights Peiper grabbed his hand, put it down the front of his trousers, and pressed his palm on the hard bulge of his cock telling him – in a tone not unlike a command but Peiper’s command weren’t usually sharply spoken unless they needed to be – to take care of that, now, and he did, gladly, sucking up every quiet moan and stilted breath he was given in return.
Unspeakable things were better conveyed by acts than words, one of the following nights Peiper grabbed Werner by the scruff of the neck and he pulled him down on his crotch rubbing his adjutant’s face over the front of his trousers, until he was hard and Werner could feel it, feel Peiper’s cock pulsing through the fabric and he made sounds like a young dog, begging with scratching fingernails to get him out of his trousers; he had evidently not fully understood, when he was finally given permission (he pulled down Peiper’s trousers and the erection sprung up, the pink head wet on his lips), he suddenly was no longer quite so bold, he placed kisses up and down the length of his cock and on Peiper’s belly and his thighs and when he let his tongue dart out it was only a grazing touch.
Do it right, Peiper told him with a slap on his cheek and it was only a gentle slap but there was something about the way Werner apologetically smiled up at him (the expression certainly benefiting from the cock across his face), that made him hit him again and harder and like a good servant Werner only smiled wider as Peiper hit him again and again until his cheeks were swollen red and tears welled up in his eyes and the tears ran down his abused cheeks when Peiper pushed his fingers in Werner’s mouth, shoved his slender hand in as far as it would go and two fingers – one of it with the ring Himmler had given him on it – down the lion’s throat (he did not dare bite), fucking the wet, retching gullet with murmurs of approval when Werner managed to calm the twitching of his throat and with disappointed sighs and brutal jabs when he did not, until his adjutant had learned to hold still and not to gag and he was only choking on his own thick drool, so much of it, spilling over his lips and running down his face;
Peiper
pulled him on his cock and made use of his sore throat and he used him many more nights and taught him many other tricks until one day the bright young man was taken away from him.
skull fucking
Death Cult
In the solemn midnight hour you swore an oath, standing swollen with enraptured pride, shoulder to shoulder with your black uniformed brothers, rows of steel and wool in the shadows of the arches and turrets that swallow the torchlit square alive; a resounding echo of voices in perfect unison, microphone static drowned out by repeated words that are pronounced sharper than any knife, reverberating through the firey haze, and with the promise of death rolling off tongues, the new elite is born.
The oath resonates in you like a personal ritual that you strive with body and substance to uphold each day, a religion marked by the signs of the skull on your cap and runes on your collar; the blood of your comrades that seeps into the ground under your worn boots a sacrifice on the altar of Europa, and when you slick your hair back and tuck a cigarette between cracked lips while the aroma of death, hot metal, and bodies gone sour embrace you, you envy the dead and their hero’s welcome in Valhalla, and for a brief moment as your hands shake and the tightness wraps around your chest like razor wire, you wonder if you’re already dead.
On death row you ponder your oath as through the grim halls you hear echoes of voices in accents that grate you to the core labeling you a fanatical of the worst sort, arrogant and zealously dedicated to your lost cause, a cult leader dripping in blood and fuel; in the solitary existence that settles into your bones like decay, your oath stays fresh under your skin like the shards of shrapnel that keep you shifting on the hard bed under floodlights and curious eyes, and you wait for death with the festering patience of the martyrs of old, the promise of death lingering like a shadow in the form of a gallows.
Reichblr Ficathon 