aus-der-traum:

You came through the corridors of
Carinhall as the moonlight struck silver on a cluttered succession of
gilt frames, the last a painting of Andromeda chained to her rock on
the coast (oils describing the thick, twisting body of a sea serpent
rising out of the foam, it’s neck corded, glistening, bent toward
her) and you think this bed may as well be a shoreline; you cannot
move from beneath Göring’s piercing regard, the bulk of him casting
a vast shadow over your naked body

stronger than any sort of chain, the rumours echoing in your mind and leading your breathless, apprehensive gaze to fix on the knot
holding his robe together

He unveils himself and apprehension
shifts to panic, awe, a tremble zippering down your spine to the
insides of your thighs as he shifts them apart with ease and rears up
between them – his cock jutting up utterly, unnaturally massive;
that broad, broad head peeking from pink folds of foreskin and
gleaming wetly for you, the shaft bulging even wider below it, so
thick you hear yourself whimper at the thought of what it could do to
you…what it will do to you
as you lie crushed helplessly under his heavy flesh.  

You
want to be the willing sacrifice and worship him, follow the slide of
his fist up his erection  (even his own fingers unable to meet all
the way to the tip), the hot throbbing ridge of the vein along the
underside, your lips parting without thought at the sight of clear
fluid glassing his head – but he would prefer a slow, implacable
impalement of your quivering body, pushing inside you inch after inch
as your thighs grow clammy with a sweat and shake from bearing such
appalling pressure, until you’re at full stretch and the pain is
devouring your from within, eating up until it clamps down on your
throat and you can only silently mouth please over
and over.