It all seemed normal at first when Wilhelm stood in front of her door again as if he had never left, only he was a lot skinnier and dark around the eyes and the grey uniform he had left in two summers ago was much brighter now, the wool worn down paper thin and there were small holes in the fabric where the insignia used to be, but something was off about his wide smile, something his wife could not quite grasp until one day it occurred to her that his smile crept up only to his cheeks and while the lower half of his face was amused by every little anecdote his eyes were mucky green pebbles with no joy in them, not even sadness, they were simply dead like the eyes of a fish on the butcher’s table.
They did not talk about the war, only occasionally the topic was grazed like when she asked if he knew what had happened to the neighbour’s son – “no” – and if he ever got that Christmas letter – “no” – and if the Russians had been good to him – “no”.
Sometimes he woke her up at night, because in his sleep he cried like she had never heard him cry, a high-pitched wailing like a wounded animal, but if she reached out to touch and calm him he flinched and when she woke him up asking if he had had a bad dream he only shrugged and said he could not remember.
Goebbels is a vampire
Dirty and reeking of horse
They called themselves kazaki, cossacks, proud and swift horseback riders, some fought for mother Russia, some for Germany, but all of them always fought for themselves, a brutal bunch, knights of the steppe, Mongol hordes who knew no chivalry as the steppe knew none, they couldn’t afford to foster ill-placed ideas like dignity or mercy (they learned that quickly, the Germans and the Russians alike) and they always smelled like horse, whether they still rode them or not, that smell wouldn’t wash off them, but that was the more pleasant aspect, worse was the stink of their clothing, beautiful, fancy clothing, with many buttons on them and fur hats, drenched in sweat and blood and sweat again.
They found young, innocent Hans, who had pretty blond locks under his helmet and who had never even shot a man, hiding in a hole in the forest, covered with branches and mud, and they didn’t bother to drag him somewhere else before they tore down his pants, sending the buttons of his suspenders flying and in that moment – strange thoughts that you sometimes have in these horrible moments – he thought he’d never find them again, the buttons being as brown as that barren ground and how would he march then and hold a gun while holding up his pants?
The silly distraction was instantly wiped from his mind when the first man broke him in, the pain of it so sharp he could not have imagined a bullet to the guts to feel worse, but his imagination was limited and his knowledge of pain small and he learned that when they rode him, one after the other, and he smelled them then, unbearably intense, like sick horses left to themselves for many weeks, wet fur and rancid blood and mixed into it all the smell of their filthy dicks, sickeningly sexual, on him and in him, the sticky clumps of their semen and the smell of his own piss and his shit, which he couldn’t escape no matter how hard they pushed his face into the mud.
frogtied on the eastern front
skinny dipping
Goebbels wonders at first, as he lights his cigarette and thinks of wildfires
(the warm paper settling in the warmer V of two fingers, skin bone
dry and the brief flare of the matchstick almost unbearable in the
sticky heat) if Göring is going to press the
issue and bully him out of his buttoned up shirt, insist upon his invitation to disrobe and slip into the cool, deep waters of the lake alongside him with the brute force Goebbels knows he is both capable and willing to use.Instead
Göring shrugs and rises from his deckchair, undresses without
apparent care and stands there with his hands resting on the shelf of his
round hips, unabashed, surveying his domain while a bead of sweat
rolls down Goebbels’ temple and he fidgets in his seat – even in
Summer he’s usually so cold, but perhaps all of Göring’s attentive
persistence that he stays
well fed this weekend (his, finish
your plate, Joseph, ah now don’t fuss, his,
come
here you need to try this, his,
of
course you have room for something more and these came all the way from
Paris) has
stoked his little furnace more than usual.Tentatively
Goebbels stands and after a breath begins to methodically work his
tie loose, staring at the rough planks before his feet as he removes and folds each
item; acutely aware of the breeze as it caresses his bare skin and
the feel of Göring’s eyes there too, quite sure it isn’t sunstroke
making his cheeks burn before, finally, naked as the day he was born, he turns a nervous, toothy smile
toward Göring who touches him briefly, gently on the hip and helps him wade unsteadily into the lake, laughing fondly at his sigh of pleasure as the water laps up his body and oh
it really does feel like bliss.
Getting discovered in a trashcan
Hitler have to look after Goebbels’ children.
discovering a sweet spot
More of Mpreg
domestic violence
He yelled at her relentlessly, all for doubting this notion of final victory, which she knew, even as a hausfrau, was not going to happen, yet her husband wouldn’t have it; he had fought too long on the front to come home to his so-called loyal wife speaking ill of the Führer and his plans for the German people- it was unacceptable….even though he knew himself that victory was highly unlikely.
In his rage he punched her, grabbed her by the hair and slammed her against the wall, all the while their four blue-eyed children watched from the top of the stairs as their father brutalized their sweet, soft mother who now had blood dripping from her nose, her eyes blackened; her husband then shook her, screaming more in her face about how his comrades didn’t get filled with bullets so that they’d lose the war.
Then there was silence, in which the man immediately began to feel something like remorse deep down inside, a feeling that always followed these violent outbursts, and so he laid a gentle hand on the small, sobbing creature he still loved nonetheless and she laid her bloody face on his broad chest, too afraid to do anything different, as this had happened many times before; he whispered quietly to her: “It’s never going to end, it never will”.
Reichblr Ficathon 