Goebbels’
self-conscious, skittish displays of reluctance beg for new, rough
seductions each time; to have his jaw pried open for Göring’s tongue, to be
forcefully wrenched down onto the bed and restrained where his restless, solipsistic
neediness can finally find a match in the equally unquenchable force
ofGöring’s own selfish demands – laid bare
as a pretty thing to be fondled, an aid for Hermann’s relaxation, just like the pills he swallows once he’s tied the last knot and settles down amidst the silk and overstuffed pillows to find his serenity once more.It may be hours
and hours until that event and by that time Goebbels’ stiff bobbing
cock will be burnished deep-red as a ruby, drooling precome in thick
silver strings and his body all aglow with sweat (his lips chapped
from licking them over and over once he’s given up begging, given up
gasping even, since Hermann doesn’t like to use a gag, prefers to
feed him the salty mess that’s pouring from his prick or listen to how his
arguments for release break down – Goebbels has a lovely timbre to
his oration even when he’s pleading and besides, Hermann can see how
it only torments the little doctor further with arousal to hear himself beg
and be ignored) all hope of mercy lost and his whole world
concentrated in the agonising pulse of his untouched shaft, hard for so long and denied even one firm full stroke that would give an ounce of relief from the deep, bruised feeling radiating from it with every breath.Göring
likes to
trace a very slick, feathering touch (just the pad of one grazing
finger, the barest hint of friction) around the corona of Goebbels’ desperately throbbing cock head
and exhale slowly, peacefully, waiting until the frustrated member has stopped
twitching toward his hand (mere millimetres away) then tap
the sweet spot right underneath until there are tears streaming down
Goebbels’ cheeks and he can recline and watch the light dazzle in
them as they fall, rolling Goebbels’ heavy, tight balls in his palm with a
contented sigh, his scent, what a rich, animal
smell, mixing sweetly with the perfume of the linens.
“who would you like to play you in the film they’re going to make of all this one day?”
Bent over a desk
Wünsche drags Peiper by the hair like slain prey and there is nothing Peiper can do about it, not when Wünsche sweeps the desk clean with one motion of his arm, sending papers and pens flying, not when he throws his plunder on the table (it tries to flee, crawling away from him and searching with its hands for something to fight him with, a letter opener maybe, but he gets it by the ankles and drags it back) and not when Wünsche flips him on his stomach and bends him over the desk and holds him down hard with one hand on the neck and with the other rips down his pants. Peiper’s legs are kicked apart, he struggles again, but swiftly Wünsche is on him, bigger and heavier than he is, the adjutant’s little body entirely covered by the grinning beast, one hand on Peiper’s mouth (in its mouth, fucking its mouth), the other in Peiper’s hair pulling back his head, forcing his body to arch (don’t snap its neck just yet), and his cock on Peiper’s arse, thick and heavy and terrifying. With one brutal stroke Wünsche thrusts into him (it yelps and shudders and shudders more when he pushes deeper, squeezing another inch into its tight hole) and fucks Peiper like he owns him (it’s impaled on his cock, rammed against the edge of the table, it’s bruised, bleeding, dripping come, it’s his).
domestic violence
cum dumpster
The Americans would have been a kinder surprise, Hermann
thinks to himself, perhaps not by much, the rowdy bunch that they were, but
they wouldn’t be as completely cruel as the Soviets (the snow and clumps of dirt
that come with it burn the chubby palms red, he tries to scramble, they tug him
back) and their laughter, it curdles his stomach: he would have vomited had it
not been for the pair of calloused and oil smeared fingers prodding the inside
of his cheeks, which perhaps the taste and smell of it didn’t particularly help
his predicament either and it surely didn’t make it any less bearable.They have their way with him, and naturally he has no choice;
oh, what would people think, their glorious Reichsmarschall, (oh god, what would Emmy think), always
dressed to the nines in tailored uniforms with shiny little prizes adorning his
breast, always so imposing and powerful and grand, was now reduced to nothing but
a toy for a pack of filthy Reds, frozen in what could only be resistance (fear),
no not there, (he cannot even manage
to cry out between the chattering of his teeth; Hermann tenses as the fingers that
once occupied his mouth penetrate him without sympathy and he scrabbles at the terrain
beneath him).By the time they are finished with him, he’s dizzy, and the scorching
cold has caused his body to go numb; he looks up through hot tears (only one of
the Soviet’s had finished inside Hermann, and as the comrade’s conversed jovially
in their native tongue, standing around the defeated power, their hands moved
in jerky rhythm), he’s not sure how long they had been going at this and he
thinks he hears one of them tell him to ‘open up’ in broken German, as if he
could even fight past his exhaustion, before he was generously granted his only
scrap of warmth that night; it drips off of his lips and cheeks and eyelashes in
thick strands, the seed of nearly 6, maybe 7 men serving
as his medal for the night (the Russian’s had had their fill and they must head
back, surely he wouldn’t last the night, a fact which they muse on as casually
as the weather as their grating laughter fades past the tree-line), and HermannGöring,
finally spent, collapses into the snow as consciousness mercifully overtakes
him.
costume party
a quick death or a painful surrender
MPreg, why? Because I always fall for insane fics
Adolf’s face froze as Fegelein rose the pregnancy test – “Adi, I’m pregnant.” he announced with a coy, warm smile with a tinge of nervousness; as much he loved his man, he knew that Adolf had a history of being a huge thot and could leave one for another at any given time… and with serious matters like this, Fegelein thought he was definitely going to be dumped, left alone with a child.
The atmosphere was getting more and more tense as seconds passed, this silence was absolutely unbearable, Fegelein wanted to break it but fear crippled him; he wished that this would have never happened.
Little did he know, Adolf realized he had found the right one, for him, he’d be ready to settle down somewhere in the mountain, raising children and tending to his wheat field hvsbando each night – “Hermann…” Adolf spoke, “I’m… I’m so happy.” – all of the sudden, Fegelein’s worries were blown into shreds, he was bewildered but it was indeed real.
An offer you can’t refuse
There
are so many kindnesses he has to endure; Himmler’s considerate,
enduring smile, the hand resting at the small of his back, the
fatherly advice that echoes off the stone as they climb the spiral
steps together and remains unwinding from Himmler’s mouth as they reach Peiper’s room – so there is no hope of disentangling himself, so he can only lead the
way inside as always and nod numbly at the offer of help with his uniform.Peiper’s
father had not had the same slithering ingratiation in his fingertips
as the Reichsführer does when he would undress him as a boy (those
touches had an immediate confidence of ownership that Himmler has to
build to every night, one accidental slip after another) but the
way he looks at him is just the same, so much love, oh they do love
their Jochen very dearly don’t they?Himmler
breathes soft, encouraging noises against his ear as cups his hand
between Peiper’s legs and squeezes the limp little package of his
genitals; cooing his pleasure over what a marvellous, vital lad
Jochen is while worming fingers between cotton and skin to stroke him
until he’s had his fill – leaving Peiper with a damp kiss on the
forehead and the tears he refuses to let spill over, staring
unblinking and unmoving at the back of his bedroom door, until he’s
sure it’s safe.
Reichblr Ficathon 