aus-der-traum:

Göring

has a preference for swiftly turning matters from the theoretical to
the practical and from the imagined to the physical and if Goebbels
desperately attempts to preoccupy himself with thinking of it in such
bloodless terms (it would be 

Göring’s hand beneath the conference
table, slipping from Goebbels’ knee, up the in-seam of his trousers
and cupping him firmly between the legs as he leans toward him as
though in deep and pensive conversation) he can almost keep his
expression blank; while his hand makes a stiff, damp fist around his
pen and the heat in his lap swells with instant, throbbing urgency
and the quiet voices of the other men in the room seem to recede even
further behind the roar of his own heartbeat.

“Naturally
that’s all it takes, even here,”

Göring

murmurs and clucks
his tongue softly as he gives one final squeeze and Goebbels feels
lobotomised, unable to focus on the papers before him, on anything
besides his own erection, paying no heed to what

Göring

is scrawling
down until the note is slid in front of him and Hermann raps upon it
with his knuckle; Goebbels feels the fat beads of wetness welling at
the tip of his cock, threatening to spill past his foreskin as he
sits, jaw clamped, letting the instructions printed there sink in –
excuse yourself to the bathroom and take care of that, you filthy
little beast, quickly – and don’t think of
neglecting to lick it all up once you’re done.

Five
minutes later he has his wrist in his mouth and his sweat-slick hand
moving in a blur up and down his jutting red cock as he sits on the
latrine, eyes screwed shut as if he could hide from the utter
indignity of his frantic tugging, a flush prickling his skin from head
to foot, his toes making the cotton of his socks squeak as they curl
in his shoes, knowing what it makes him that he did not refuse this
and worse, how that knowledge pulls the shuddering knot of arousal
so deep and ferocious in his belly it hardly takes a minute for him
to spill in violent spurts over his shaking, salted palm, helpless against the need to wallow in his own shame and imagining all eyes on
him as he returns, somehow knowing – though hardly a head is
raised when he enters, only

Göring

smirks and moves the water
bottle aside when he reaches for it, sniffing the air a little before
telling him, well done, so that Goebbels spends the rest of
the meeting with his hand pressed ‘thoughtfully’ over his mouth.

@reichblr-ficathon