He had the most beautiful thighs. They were a lovely shade of white, as pale and deep as a blank canvas. For we were in the middle of the winter, they weren’t defiled by the vulgar tints of the sun, those dirty, muddy, rotten colours: sienna, yellow ochre. No, under the pale light of the dying day, those thighs glimmered softly, as sweet and dreamy as snow.
Such a pleasant contrast it made with the black uniform. Not the one you’d think however. The hand runs from the rough wool to the silky thighs and stays there, nested on the thin blond hair, almost invisible, only adding the most adorable golden gleam to this lovely sight. Does it tickle when I do this?
I think about his youth. He surely hiked, or rode horses. Perhaps he was a talented swimmer. His thighs are well-defined, yet just fat enough to carry the charm of youthfulness. Of course this all shows in his whole body, yet his smooth face merely reveals small hints of the spectacular man he was to become.
It’s not too hard to picture those thighs wrapped around the broad flanks of a stocky horse. On a summer day, with your friends, you rode bareback along the forest paths to that place where the mountains split into a little stream. Sweat made the horse hair cling to you, and you would nonchalantly wipe it away with the back of your hand, laughing.
You probably tried to wipe the ashes and the dirt away from you when this all started to get awry. You are clad in the uniform, some would say imprisoned, and you thought yourself a warrior for as long as war told you its charming lies. No more horses but great beasts of metal, no more streams but gushes of blood, no more forest paths but barbed wires and your strong body you were so proud of no longer got you praise, only side glances and cold caresses you could not refuse. Hoarse breath on the back of your neck, disgustingly damp, and the hand that goes from the rough wool to the silky thighs again. Up and down, up and down, the little pet names and the revolting travesty of intimacy, and soon the rustling of fabric, the beastly grunts. And when they were feeling civilized, they’d only fuck those thighs of yours. War did not manage to steal their fat.
He had the most beautiful thighs. They were a lovely shade of white, as pale and deep as a blank canvas. But they were stained with brown and black now, and spread apart like whore’s. Under the tunic, a small patch of light hair could barely hide the noisy swarming. The bugs had attacked your mouth, your ears, your nose. And the large foaming hole between your legs, where the organs were torn out. The black pants lowered at the knees, your tied hands over your head, you only show the silky thighs, the golden hair, the wasted youth.
Tag: nsfw
cuckoldry
A stab of jealousy, a flash of realization runs through him. They’ve done this before. All along, behind his back. He should be furious, at her, at him, but all he feels is numb. A lump forms in his throat. His whole body is like lead as he watches them.
How silly to believe anything would ever be his, and his alone.
Damn it, Hermann!
“Damn
it, Hermann!” Bruno groans, struggling for control.He’s
not even sure himself what he means to say.Perhaps:
Damn it, Hermann, why did you make me do this?
sudden insatiable lust in the face of impending death
There’s only one house still standing on the village when we arrive, painfully navigating through holes and mounds of cold mud bearing the recent traces of tank treads. The white wall is stained brown with dirt. Many vertical trails of blood have drawn gruesome arrows pointing to a pile of naked corpses. The gleaming ashes surround us, the crackling noise of charred wood and the cortege of odours, from the nauseating smell of flesh to the smoke that weaves itself in our clothes and follows us from village to village. On the wall, in black paint, I see german words that I don’t understand.
We stop there, as night is not so far away. As I smoke with my comrades I hear my officer swearing, and he storms out of the house dragging behind him the tiny frame of a childish soldier.
Dirty blond hair and greyish blue eyes, he stands silent with a vacant look on his face. He looks right and left, slowly, register who he’s surrounded with and starts breathing heavily. I’ve seen shell shocked youth before. He’s a striking picture of it. Was he abandoned by his men?
At some point, a semblance of realization must had dawned upon him as he was hiding in that house, knowing what was to come. He pathetically tried to rip off the insignias from his uniform. The eagle hangs on his chest, the swastika still holding it to the rough fabric. The eagle flaps around as the kid’s breath comes out erratically.
Get rid of him, my officer says. I take the kid by the arm and I walk away.
–
The very image of passivity laid bare under my glare. The little soldier of saintly appearance looks at me through eyes of frosted glass. Sometimes he loses his focus, shakes himself back into consciousness then drifts away again. I lightly slap his cheek until his look locks into mine. There’s no defiance, no honour, no anger in it. Is there still someone behind those tired eyelids?
My knee between his legs and my hands around his neck have him pinned against a tree. I could tie him there, bind his eyes and have our own little duet of improvised execution. I’d say a few platitudes solemnly, take a few steps back, and fire. Perhaps he’d beg a bit, and I would not understand him, nor would I care.
There’s no point on putting any strength or resolve on my hands. I’m not strangling a man fighting for his life, kicking and biting, rolling on the floor with spite. I’m merely putting a kitten to sleep. My gloved fingers interlocked around the thin neck, an embroidering of leather over the perfect peachy white. I take my right glove off and shove it on my pocket, wanting a more personal knackery for this german cattle. I feel his pulse with my thumb, dig my fingers under the jaw on that sweet spot of velvety skin.
I take my time to squeeze, ever so slowly. His breathing becomes painful, I look down on his chest where the eagle still hangs miserably, to his shaking legs and muddy leather boots. My knee rubs between his legs and I hear him whimpering. I look at his face. On the blackened orbits, sunken eyes starting to rekindle, as if by choking him I was breathing back life into his brain. The little drowned soldier rises to the surface as I tighten my grasp, he starts to wriggle around but my grip is too strong for him. He’s red all over his pathetic face, a lovely contrast with his white hands holding my wrists as he weakly fights back. His reddened eyes look for mine as little choked noises come out of his mouth, opening and closing slowly like some pathetic fish out of its pond.
Fillets of drool stretch between his lips and give a morbid gleam to his perfect white teeth, the teeth of a well fed kid, and I’m overcome by a sudden rush of hate. I squeeze harder until I can feel the cartilage rings of his windpipe rolling under the pad of my thumb. I spit on his cheek and it rolls down, joining the stream of snot coming out of his nose as he sobs like a little lamb astray. My hands are covered with the viscous mixture, turning pink where my nails have raked his skin, drawing blood.
His grip on my wrists becomes stiff, and he stares at me, a long and troubling gaze. His eyelashes are dewy with tears, crumbling under their weight, a grotesque infant with sticky eyes.
Under his half closed eyelids I notice a change of expression. Fear has left, and he looks at me as if I was as tall as the sun, as if I towered him immensely. Animal need disguised as ecstasy, he reminds me of those church icons where saints look upward, look towards something I never saw with my own eyes, but that’s what I’ve become for the little soldier.
I let go of his ruined neck and he drops on his knees instantly with a disheartening noise. Slowly, he wipes his face, soiling his entire right sleeve, then the left one to finish the job, focusing on cleaning his eyes. I look at the black uniform covered in white trails, like snail slime, like sperm. It’s disgusting in a way that fills me with a roaring thunder of pride, a cruelty fit to the divine. I crouch down a bit, face to face.
His torn up hat falls off when I nudge his sweaty temple with the frozen maw of my handgun. Rub the weapon, twist the thin hair growing there. I cup his chin with my other hand, a gloved finger resting under his cracked lower lip and I tilt his head up. It gives him an almost comical look, somewhere between pensive and doubtful, when I look at his mouth. He moans, wordlessly begging me. He’s still catching his breath but he does it in a disciplined way, slowly, seductively. His tongue, a red omen of what’s to come, rests on the floor of his mouth as he pants, lust overcoming him on an intense and vulgar way. A few words come out, in a disorganized flurry, and I don’t have to understand them to know what they mean. Kill me, break me, they say.
I let his head go and he slowly tilts it upward as I get up, careful not to break his gaze. My gun is still resting at his temple. I put my hand on the back of his neck, pet him a bit until his eyes lower submissively and he presses against my crotch.
I feel honoured in a way. Never thought I’d get to embody both death and love in a single day.
He shouldn’t enjoy it so much…
He knew it was unbecoming of him to enjoy it so much, that flustered red hot shame that crossed the haughty face of Himmler’s golden boy at the slightest insinuation that perhaps he was the one enjoying their little game too much. Just a prodding comment breathed into his ear as they boarded the train behind their masters. And it was only that, just a game. Like a cat with a cornered mouse, Wünsche relished the moment when the upper hand was seized and his prey was powerless and quivering with nervous energy at his feet. With Peiper looking up at him through his thick eyelashes, knees to the floor of a train compartment cramped with discarded overcoats and briefcases, Wünsche knew that he himself was enjoying that submissively anticipatory stare far too much, the tightness of his trousers was proof enough of that. The heat of the other man’s mouth against his cock and the flurry of desperate fingers at the closures brought a smirk to his lips that bared his teeth like a predator; his little mouse was enjoying their game and wanted more. In a sudden jerking movement, he yanked Peiper’s head back by a fist full of perfectly parted hair, the slighter man flushing at the sound of protest that rolled off his tongue that only made the blond’s smirk grow more feral. Just as suddenly, Wünsche released his hair, smoothing it down gently like one would a child, the smirk ever present as he surveyed the sight before him. “Oh, you are enjoying this aren’t you? Far too much, perhaps…” his voice trailed off as he shoved Peiper away, stepping around him coyly, buttoning and smoothing his uniform back to standard. It’s all a game. And as much as he enjoyed cornering the mouse, he enjoyed the power of leaving him in a heap, and so desperate to please, just that much more.
Bent over a desk
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.
Gender bent Peiper/Wünsche
It was half past three in the morning when Peiper found Wünsche lying on the bathroom floor, sprawled out and nearly bursting out of her tight little dress. Of course Wünsche had been out again, drinking with the boys. The length of her skirt (or lack thereof) attested to it. It must have barely come down to her knees when she was standing at the bar to order her third drink on some fool’s bill, flashing her thighs while she was dancing with a pretty boy (or two or three), and riding up into her lap when she sat down between them, legs crossed and her head thrown back, drawing every eye with loud laughter and the promise of her flesh. Now she was paying for her lack of discipline, helpless as she was in her pathetic state, half passed out and barely able to open her eyes, but still moaning all the louder when Peiper straddled her and stroked her firm breasts through the velvety fabric of her dress and when Peiper caressed the soft inside of her thighs and pushed her soiled panties aside and slid a finger into her wet cunt. She was loose and sore and reeked of cock. She took four fingers to the knuckles and Peiper fucked her with them until she whimpered like a dog and her legs trembled and she pissed herself. Once more affirmed in her disgust for that woman Peiper left her lying in the puddle of her own urine for someone else to take care of in the morning.
Goebbels getting gang-raped
Mutually agreed upon threesome but one person ends up getting pushed to the sideline since the other two are so focused on each other (any combo of gender)
Lured into the dilapidated shack with the promise of a proper bath and a bed with perhaps a few less lice than previous accommodations had offered, Peiper stepped over the bodies of the original inhabitants, civilians or soldiers, he didn’t bother to look, and followed the echo of boots on moving across the gritty wood floorboards through the dark, the occasional burst of machine gun fire sending fragments of light between the cracks of the walls as he stepped over debris and unidentifiable masses; in a shadowy nook fashioned into a bedroom Wünsche’s toothily sardonic grin shone like an eerie specter, bizarrely disembodied as he gazed up from the spot he had claimed on the bed, limbs splayed out like a well pampered house cat, his lips then closing around the teeth into a smirk as Meyer gripped Peiper by the scruff of the neck, sweat still beaded in the space between his hairline and collar, pushing him down to the sunken mattress.
Hands like snakes slid across his body, tugging at his uniform until it dissolved away from his boyish form, talon like nails raking his embarrassingly delicate skin until blood bubbled to the surface, the sudden movements in the darkness leaving him disoriented and with the vague sensation of panic, until the hands and teeth and nails retreated and the bedsprings under him groaned with the shift of weight and suddenly, stillness, the sound of sweat slicked skin against skin, sharp breaths, and death rattle moans from the shadowed figures beside him and throbbing in his cock the only proof that he wasn’t lost in an episode of exhaustion induced delirium; taking his cock in his hand, he rolled to the side, turning his back to the glowing grin that had resurfaced to haunt him.
I’m an invalid rn and something about a *very* attentive nurse and a convalescing officer sounds lovely
The morphine had kicked in, and the officer’s grimace of pain had melted into a blissfully vacant expression. His eyelids drooped like lead weights, and in the brief moments when he opened them fully there was a film over his beautiful brown eyes.
The officer didn’t notice Ilse’s footsteps towards him, or her hands gently unbuttoning his shirt. His face was turned away from her, and his gaze was focused on nothing in particular. She smiled as she revealed the powerful muscles of his chest and arms, which now lay as limp and useless as a huge, heavy ragdoll’s, helpless to defend the officer against Ilse’s attentions. The sedative and his injury had rendered the strong, powerful officer as weak as a kitten and utterly dependent on his kindly nurse.
This realisation of his helplessness made Ilse feel a surge of protectiveness towards her patient, and she winced as she saw the bullet wound just above his hip, still red and angry despite the medical treatment he had received. In moving his shirt, Ilse had irritated the still-tender wound, and the officer let out a quiet moan of discomfort and turned his gaze towards the nurse. But in his sedated state he was not capable of any genuine anger or self-defence, the pain had probably felt like nothing more than a gentle prodding to him, and the look that he gave Ilse showed no emotion other than complete and utter trust in the benevolence of the one who had been entrusted with his care.
“Don’t worry, my sweet, I’m going to take good care of you.” She said as she brushed a hand through his thick, dishevelled brown hair and slid it down his finely-carved cheek and jaw bones. The limp doll lying on the hospital bed could only submit to her caresses. His pretty mouth was slightly ajar, and when she brushed a finger over his lips he opened them further and stretched out a pretty pink tongue to meet it. She smiled again; behind the fog of indifference he truly was eager for her attentions. And was it not for his own benefit, what she was about to do? Her job was to cater to all of his needs, to provide the best possible environment so that he could recover. This was simply another one of his needs that would have to be attended to so that he could recover.
She unbuttoned his trousers and pulled them down along with his underwear, exposing his limp cock. Although his cock was flaccid, completely indifferent to her attentions, the large, heavy balls beneath it told a story of many frustrating weeks away at war, far away from any women who would be able to ease his tension. She cupped them in her hand, imagining them full to the brim with his seed. He was just about ready to burst. This problem would have to be dealt with.
At first, he did not seem to notice her hand sliding his foreskin over the head of his cock and back again. The thick haze of the morphine made it hard to be aware of any sensations, good or bad. It was a long time before she was able to bring his prick to attention, but she did eventually see his gaze start to fixate upon her, his glassy eyes attempting to meet her own. His pretty lips opened and closed, as if he were trying to say something to her, but the words were lost behind the golden fog of the sedative, and all that came out was a soft moan. It took even longer for all of his pent-up seed to finally be released from his prick, with the officer unable to muster more than another quiet moan as it spurted onto his exposed torso. His strong, powerful arms lay limply at his sides, and he was completely indifferent to the fact that his broad chest was now decorated with his cum. Ilse would now have to clean it up for him.
The officer was unable to speak, but Ilse imagined that he would be thanking her after that.
Reichblr Ficathon 