aus-der-traum:

Goebbels
is rubbing the back of his hand against his mouth, pensive, over
and over; behind his knuckles there’s a long, down-turned scowl and in
fact his entire face aches with the intensity with which he’s glaring
at the small (oh but it’s not so small really, is it, how could it
be?) wooden box on the table and eventually he slaps his hands down
on either side and pushes himself up from his seat and makes a
limping circuit of the room, checks the door is locked for the third
time that hour and returns back to his desk and touches the brass clasp
on the box, then the brass face of the rotary phone besides it, the
first number to get through to

Göring,  already half composing the
stunning invective he could unleash upon him, each perfectly pointed
barb and the sharp satisfaction that would shatter in an instant as
soon as the static silence was broken again by Göring’s indulgent
chuckle and what would come after, such a temper, little sparrow,
they’ve had enough ‘interesting conversations’ over the months
for him to know how he’d be left debrided of all his indignation, his
tongue disarmed, red faced and aching.

He
unlatches the box for the third time (boxes, locks, cigarettes chain smoked, all done in sets of threes), flips open the top and touches the…object inside:
how, he wonders, as if

Göring

doesn’t have an unnatural knack
for getting his hands on anything he desires (a slight shiver at
that, phantom pains, the recollection of finger-points of pressure on
his skin) and now this bespoke…marital aid (he shouldn’t have shied
away from a more vulgar term, the euphemism makes him blush harder) a
beautifully carved, deeply burnished wooden replica of Göring’s
erect cock, nestled in a bed of green velvet – he picks it up,
hefts the weight of it in his hand, smooth, heavy as a bludgeon,
closes his fingers around it in a fist and strokes from the base to
the tip and then glances up guiltily, eyes darting around the room as
though he’s afraid that someone might be watching.  

On
the floor and stripped from the waist down (another rattle of the
door handle just in case) he’s got two oiled fingers slowly working
inside of himself, eyes closed and the thought of

Göring’s
conversational tone when he had asked him earlier that week how often
in the day does he think about being put on his belly, spreading his
legs for him, and he’s on his stomach now, cheek rubbing against the
carpet as he tries to find the right angle to push this wooden cock
inside him, panting, frustrated, crawling up onto his hands and
knees, so much pressure, the oil makes his hands slip on the wood and it
won’t fit in and he gives a little sob because he needs it, wants it,
must have it filling him all the way up inside but all there is, is
this bruising pain as he pushes and pushes and nothing gives way and
his fingers slip again and he stops, sweating, cursing, tugs sharply at his
own hair and then grabs the things and sits down on it with all his
weight where with a blinding pulse of pain that completely takes his
breath away, he’s left wide eyed and slack mouthed and and clenching
around the unforgiving, thick shaft of wood stretching him open.

@reichblr-ficathon