It wasn’t hard for him to press her against the conference table, her petite form overpowered by his hulking stature. He could feel her turn to putty under his nicotine-stained hands, and he could smell her already, her body betraying her horror but also her arousal.
It reminded him of his student days, when the greatest prize was to fuck a girl on the head table in the Kneipe, the one covered with the fraternity’s flag. He had done it many a time, not caring whether the other Burschen walked in on them or not. The floor would be sticky with spilled beer, the taxidermied fox would act as a voyeur from the top of the upright piano, and the sounds of the party would fade into the background as he took his pleasure from yet another pretty but nameless young woman.
His mind returned to the present then as the girl moaned against the mahogany tabletop – from delight or embarrassment he wasn’t sure. The others would be back at any moment, that they both knew, and it only served to make him fuck her harder, wishing he could tear the svelte Helferin’s uniform from her body and eat her bare flesh alive with his eyes.
Her perfect dark jacket was soiled as he came, not wishing to have another child on the way (not when he was already awaiting the arrival of extramarital twins), and she was a pathetic sight to behold as he did up his breeches. Slumped there, her legs shaking, used and sweating and gasping like some sort of animal.
He lit a Chesterfield, turning to enjoy a smoke break in the hall. Let the others come and find such an innocent little stenographer in such a state. “Heaven forbid they come back and see you like this.” he sneered, shutting the door behind him, knowing full well that she would still be there, still clear in her shame, when he and his colleagues returned.
Tag: -ish
He loved the braids in her hair almost as much as he loved to see her cry.
He loved the braids in her hair, always shiny and tightly plaited, like the paintings of the beautifully ascetic peasant women sketched by Wolfgang Willrich, images that evoked the austere elegance and steely grace of the Nordic spirit.
He loved equally to see the tears rolling down the pale contours of her delicate face, tears of fear as he explained to her what awaited her in the coming months if she refused to believe fervently in the final victory, telling her of her brutal and inevitable rape, of the hunger and suffering of their three young children, of his summary execution by Bolshevik partisans. He would explain this all calmy, voice low and smooth and rational, her fear palpable as her gentle body shook with terror.
You don’t want that now, do you, sweetheart?
Laying a hand softly on her shoulder, he would provide a thin veneer of comfort to the panicked figure sitting beside him.
Do you?
sensory deprivation
When the shrapnel split the bone and tissue apart like a knife through warm butter all the microscopic strands of synapses became collateral damage of a brutally personal war, severing Heinz from the senses that had seemed so perpetually connate, thoughtless even, until they were ripped away; sense of time and memory, sense of hunger, sense of arousal, sensations once sharp replaced with dullness, a sort of deprivation that left him sleepless and gaunt as the days blurred together and he ached to feel something once again, something besides the bite of ice against his chafed skin and the constant migraine that felt like the shrapnel was once again embedded into the grit of his skull, awaiting a final and fatal shove to severe all senses at last.
He doesn’t moan when Jochen grasps his cock in his ever so barely calloused hands, or twitch when he feels his quick breaths against him before being enveloped in the wet warmth of his always eager mouth, only the grazing of teeth and sting of neatly manicured nails in his thighs when the younger man becomes sulky and frustrated with the lack of response awakens the dulled nerve cells, if only for a fleeting moment, sending a dizzying flood of pleasure and rush of blood, bringing him to the catastrophic realization that only pain can conquer the void; he’s raw and bloody when Jochen peels away from him, sticky with sweat and cum and a faint look of meek terror in his gaze that Heinz can’t bring himself to meet, his listless eyes instead watching with vague satisfaction as the ashes from his cigarette land on his finger raked chest, flecks of burnt red mingling with throbbing abrasions that he will be certain to feel with every move under the tailored uniform.
The cotton and wool abrades his chest throughout the endless frigid days in the Belgian woods, sending the lightest sensation of teasing irritation through the channels of his brain in the moments where decisions and frustrations are lost in the fog of exhaustion and need, and desperate to feel something more again, he seeks out Jochen in his command post, a glorified shack that barely keeps out the cold wind as it slices through dark night; fervent with a fresh taste Pervitin coursing through his system, Jochen was more than keen to soothe Heinz’s deprivation, hands and teeth cruelly traversing the pale skin that was already blossoming in mottled shades of purple as he shoved roughly into him, spit followed by blood doing precious little to ease his way, and spurred onward by the moans and tremors of the man under him, Jochen found his meekness conquered by the hurricane of his innate desire to please and artificial stimulants brewing inside him, until finally, drained of forced energy and cum, he collapsed to Heinz’s side, who breathless and blood smirched curled into his side with a whispered word of gratitude and eyes still wild with the smarting ecstasy of agony.
coercion
Wünsche
had no shame about declaring the terms of the interview and perhaps
Peiper should not have been surprised by this (not by the lack of
shame, at the least, in that vacant, carnivorous smile) but no matter
how little he had thought of Wünsche before or how jaded time and
circumstance had left him grimacing about the notion of brotherhood
as it manifested in men rather than in the ideal, it still left him
numb and silently reeling when Wünsche
had explained it to him.The smug satisfaction on
Wünsche’s face as he
balanced a pen on two fingers, raised an eyebrow at Peiper from
behind his desk and asked, are you really going to let your family
go hungry over a matter of pride? I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.Wünsche
said it as though it was only further justification for this whole
exercise. If he expected Peiper to do him the great service of
allowing a war criminal to be his assistant (at the possible
great cost to his own sterling reputation of course) he needed assurance that Peiper realised his place, that he understood he should be
grateful. How can he trust Peiper’s usual arrogance not to rear it’s
ugly head? This is an object lesson.Put on the skirt.
The
skirt that Wünsche had given him. Just a little demonstration,
Wünsche had told him, to show sincerity. Just the once. There are
plenty of other girls who are eager for this job after all.Peiper
changes in the executive bathroom and walks back into Wünsche’s
office with his head held resolutely high. It seems infantile
to dwell on the feeling of exposure, that’s the whole point isn’t it?
And he tries to clench his jaw against an onslaught of blushes,
against a pin point focus on how the hem of the skirt wraps around
his thighs, the places it leaves bare, what it fails to protect,
where the dull grey cotton hugs and emphasises parts of his body he’d
rather not think about here.“I might have a place
for you yet,” Wünsche says.He
touches Peiper’s arm, lightly, a finger running up from elbow to
wrist, circling around him in his smart suit and his nicely combed
hair and the bestial huffing of his breath. There’s silence apart
from that, amazing, Peiper thinks, how it makes him yearn for the
usual asinine small talk Wünsche would try to make back when they
ran into each other on the Eastern front.Casually, deliberately,
Wünsche pushes an empty coffee mug
off the desk where it lands with a dull thud on the carpet.“Pick
that up,” he says.Peiper can hear the smile
in his voice as he bends at the knees to fetch it, can feel Wünsche’s
amusement at the distress he is trying to hide and it hurts like a
limb that is dying but still attached to his body. Wünsche’s
hand cups his ass as his fingers close around the mug and stays there
as he stands up and places it back upon the desk.“You
know what really industrious girls do to get their jobs, don’t you
Jochen?” Wünsche huffs moist, stale air against the back of his
neck, squeezing with his hand before slipping it up the bare,
unprotected inside of his thigh, pushing him bodily against the desk.
“You don’t think you’re above that do you? What good German women
do?”“This doesn’t-”
He begins to say but
Wünsche slams his head down onto
the desk so hard he sees stars and coughs and retches at the blood
that slides down his throat at the same time it starts pouring out
his nose, that dizzy sensation of drowning all bound up with the
thick, coppery taste of his own blood. He’s snorting in frothy red
trying to get air as Wünsche grinds an obvious erection against
him.“En français,
Jochen, I always thought it would be nice to have a French bitch do
my filing. You speak it don’t you?”And in the end Wünsche does get very many pretty French phrases out of him before it’s apparent the only French conversation he’s really interested in is between Jochen’s tongue and his cock.
“I won’t ask anything of men that I wouldn’t do myself”
If asked if there was one certain thing Kurt Meyer prided himself on, he would answer, his voice thick with fatherly bravado, that he would never ask anything of his men that he wouldn’t ask of himself, lead from the front was his creed and his young soldiers found reassurance and respect in this vow as they race over the dusty Ukrainian hills to their doom, their beloved Panzermeyer spearheading their attack; with firm claps on the back and a stern but affable smile, Kurt keeps morale up among his boys, knowing without a doubt they would follow him anywhere, as long as he kept leading the charge.
Dirt stained and sun bleached, Max recalls the sentiment as his calloused fingertips grasp at the makeshift desk constructed of ammunition crates and wooden boards that was precariously supporting his weight, the whole structure rocking with every rhythmic intrusion into his body, splinters digging into the pale skin of his thighs, already streaked an angry chafed scarlet from hours on a motorcycle; he almost laughs as the thought crosses his mind that this was where Kurt’s pledge ended, that as routine had proven, only one of them would be bent over and left raw, but the unrelenting hand around his throat stifles the raspy sound turning it into a death rattle as Kurt squeezes tighter with his own release.
With all the tenderness of a harried school nurse, Kurt bends Max’s hand back and digs a splinter free from the taut palm with the jagged edge of his nail, all the while chiding him to be more mindful, after all it would be careless to pick up a nasty infection in such competent hands, his words trail to a halt when he registers the taller man’s thoughtful stare, icy blue eyes narrowed curiously; the crates creaked as Max, slowly, mindfully, bent Kurt over the boards, his stigmata hand leaving a bloody imprint on the man’s wool clad shoulder, and as buttons come unfastened once again he can almost feel Kurt’s smirk growing as he leans down close to his ear, “You’d never ask something of your men that you wouldn’t be willing to do yourself.”
sadistic medic
Isn’t it peculiar in which circumstances deranged obsessions long incubated come to light and although dormant for many years they suddenly take hold of you with overpowering force? A small body lies in my arms, a good soldier, and I cradle the man who would be considered a boy in any other time and he too is holding on to his broken form as blood and life run out of him, unstoppable, and what good would it do to stop it – he has no eyes to see, no legs to walk, his hands are twisted claws but he still has a tongue and he can whimper and cry for his mother like a little boy. I stroke his hair and kiss his cheeks and overcome by an inexplicable urge I drop my spit on his open lips and he licks it and swallows it like wine or maybe mother’s milk.
Otto Skorzeny is the tol bean in this fandom! Prove it!
He’s a clever one, he knows his life is on the line; like treading between sleeping snakes his words and movements are slow, only his eyes dart left and right, batting eyelashes at every interrogator, guard or nurse – strange to see such a huge man act like just a little boy.
When you first put the collar on him he smiled shyly, his lips brushed gently against your hand, planting docile little kisses on the back of it.
Today he’s been a very good boy and he deserves his treat, you call him over with a pat on your leg and he comes crawling to your feet, a beautiful fighting dog, thick with muscles, but so very nervous and there is no reason to be nervous, you have always been kind to him, you pet and stroke him and run your fingernails along his scalp and again you grab him by the hair and pull his face between your thighs and make him taste you.
“You disgust me”
(These aren’t famous Nazis, just some random Nazis who I thought were fitting.)
Klaudia sneered as she stared holes into Franz- who could only gasp in horror- as blood dripped steadily from her gloved finger tips, the thick liquid landing on her shining jackboots and the now bloodied floor; as the corpse of the poor Jewish child had been dragged about the wooden floor, blood also on furniture as she spun his bleeding corpse around, then striking the wall with him, explaining the blood splattered carelessly on the wall.
The boy’s corpse laid still in an awkward position only a foot away; his hair ripped from his scalp, his teeth pulled from the gums, bruises being plastered all over his body- as with bleeding gashes- and his clothes had been ripped apart too, revealing his battered state.
“You disgust me.” Was all the man could muster, staring into Klaudia’s piercing blue eyes- which glinted like shards of broken glass on the counter of a bar- behind her damaged glasses (the frame had been dented from the boy throwing them off, desperate to get away from her monsterous grip, the left lens had popped out when they had been thrown, and the right lens had been cracked), yet she still grinned apathetically, saying, “I was only doing my job, I was being loyal to our Führer, you always said to be loyal to our Führer, father, are you growing sympathetic for those creatures, those filthy rats tainting Deutschland, are you, mein vater?”
abuse, abuse, more abuse ~
He was seized by the hair and slammed into the mirror; having it shatter to dozens upon dozens of pieces, falling to the floor around their shining boots and the smooth floor with blood droplets laying upon them; smearing due to their scuffling footwear.
Fritz was pushed to his knees- blood dripping from his forehead, cheeks, nose, mouth, arms, and hands, then his knees as they came into contact with the shards of broken glass- as Wilhelm brought the bottle to his head, shouting, “FUCKING HALFWIT RETARD! YOU CAN’T DO ANYTHING RIGHT YOU DOG FUCKER!”
The smaller blonde sobbed as the drunk man’s hand forced his head down, his tears dripping from his eyes as he whimpered, not knowing what Wilhelm was going to do to him- for all he knew, this was his end, he would lose his life in a bathroom from his drunken friend- but he knew he could do a lot, especially with his muscles and broken alcohol bottle.
Goebbels is humiliated for his physical deformities.
They all look at him, so many rough faces, square, dirty, not pretty, no, but strong, healthy and so very cruel – how did these people do it, did the mothers smother their young when they came out deformed, were the weak allowed to live only so long until eventually they were thrown down a well by their fitter brothers or chased away into the forest to be mauled by bears?
One of them steps forward, wide face, wide frame and many teeth, he must carry some noteworthy rank that Goebbels can’t recognise (but he does recognise that his wristwatch is of German make), and he kicks the little doctor in the ribs, tells him to get up, first
in Russian for his audience and then – oh, he is a man of intellect – also in impeccable German repeats the lines to the naked bundle cowering at his feet, curled up like a fussy little woman hiding her shame, but it’s not his swollen, black and blue genitals Goebbels is hiding, it’s the foot.
Get up, good doctor, get up, the man says, we want to hear your lovely voice, tell us one of your German fairy tales please, be so kind, we’ve come such a long way for you, tell us about the thousand year Reich and the superior man – and Goebbels must be hospitable, he tries his best to deliver his last speech with blood dripping from his toothless jaws.
Reichblr Ficathon 