2. edition
here we have sophisticated discussions in English about all things interesting.
рты подпиндосские завалили
uppet yp
Do you want to talk about Heiny's milk?
Did you know that Chlenin was raping Sralen in the ass?
I wouldn't mind drinking Heiny's
>cum
Yes. Did you know both Heydrich and Röhm indulged in drinking Heiny's milk?
based and redpilled
♂YES♂
Not only are they all over the Internet, including dvachi, fucked up with their leftist propaganda and leftist "values", but these rainbow-colored kinky girls are also aggressively forcing the bastard views that they drag from the leftist garbage dump of the United States.
The same USA, which in its leftist insanity has already fucked up so much that the level of freedom will soon "catch up" with the totalitarian Scoop, where it was forbidden to think wrong, have wrong views, watch wrong pictures on TV, and listen to wrong information.
And what should I do if I am a white cisgender man who grew up in Russia, I was raised in an Orthodox family, and I thrust my penis only into the female genitals? Run to dress in a rainbow flag T-shirt and stick a rainbow flag in your ass, kneeling apologizing to blacks, helicopters, women identifying themselves as a refrigerator, for being white and having a normal sexual orientation?
And all this brainless teenage trash with underdogs, who drags everything from the United States, will still tell me to think like this, think like this, and vote for those who support gays, refrigerator boys, helicopters, huelets? Fuck you. I live in Russia. Fuck in your USA, and live there as you like. Walk the streets with a rainbow flag in your ass. And here I, like millions of people with traditional views, will live as I want, call gays fagots, call gangplanks. And the boys who identify themselves as the kitchen refrigerator will be called dumbass, and will call the dork to take this fucking patient.
cringe and self-hate-pilled.
you're late for the party, the thread is long since dead now
Sometimes the trainings were conducted by this pretentious person. I must say that in the spring and summer, training took place in a local country park, because there were treadmills and horizontal bars. They mainly trained endurance there. And somehow I and a couple of my friends decided to go to the park to watch the training of these Thai boxers. We come, and there that young man leads the training. He smashed the students into ranks and shows them a bunch of different blows. We stood nearby, but the back rows could hear us.
Well, in short, this sensei, showing another bunch of punches for practicing, gives out something like: "Csss, jay, csss!" And what the fuck made me want to say, "Kiss my nipple," I x. h. The back rows heard it and whinnied, they naturally didn’t get the bunch. This coach got nervous and says that he repeats for the back rows. And again he gives out his own: "Sssok, jay, sssok!" Naturally, I repeat again: "Kiss my nipple." The dick is clear again rzhach. There, the middle rows were already bustling, like snorting at the back. What the fuck are you laughing at? The coach again says that he repeats for everyone. And the bitch again gives out her own: "Sssok, jay, sssok!" Here I did not say anything, those students from the back rows say: "Kiss me on the nipple" to the middle ones, and those in the chain are in the front rows. A general rzhach begins. And this bitch, who is the coach, apparently figured out that it was us. How it breaks, how it runs at us. We get away from him. They barely ran away.
By the way, then this brow was given a nipple. He was very sorry about this, because they stopped taking him seriously. They say that he was looking for us, wanted to fuck off. H. h. why didn't I find it. The city is small, it was not difficult to do. Then after half a year he left our muhosransk with ends.
Anyone willing to start a sophisticated discussion about this?
we're having sophisticated discussions about glorious Himmler's sweet aryan milk, so could you please kindly fuck off?
Ebalo off,mne absolutely nasrano o chem you tyt pizdite,ya skazal yebuvaite s dvochei
Later he said that he did not see the end at the hole, he found only some rags, began to rummage in them, examine them, and then he heard a cry, and then he quickly climbed back as soon as he could.
Would you like to suck Himmler's cock, my irritable friend?
Ich will nur Heiny's Glied zu saugen.
Rugnyl tebe v evasos
So, I grew up as a gopnik quite clear to myself, I didn't squeeze out, I had enough of my own, but they rolled all kinds of patches from time to time, although they themselves were blown away with a broom and sepultura lol.
So one chan said that satanyugs constantly gather in the basement of her entrance and naturally they call the prince of darkness and do other atrocities, they say fagots are fucking sick, help the boys.
Well, we are happy to scratch our fists. They began to undercut where and when the satanyugs climb into the basement and that means take them warm and get rid of them in the same place for the glory of Beelzebub.
It was a warm evening in May, 4 of us were digging, we were sitting on the platform, waiting. Here we see how 3 roosters sneak over the house, and there are such ventilation windows in the basement. They remove the grate and dive into the basement. So you darlings sailed to the pussies.
We leave one eagle near the grate outside, which means if the jackals climb into the hole, he will be forged by Nazi boots to shit into Satan's snouts and they will get back to us. And we went through the main entrance.
We entered the basement quietly, gloomily, musty, in short, a normal basement. We listen. From the outer room, indistinct murmurs are heard and the light from the fire is visible.
Quiet as mice go to the light, I am in front, behind my DRG are 2e faithful homies.
The painting is directly in oil, candles are burning in a circle, pentukha, three basmachi of these patlatovas clumsily trying to croak in Latin and calling on everyone they knew, there are Baal and Astarot and it seems even Allah was. We did not listen to this game for long, although to be honest, I was surprised by such an extensive list of those called. And then their chief Satanist screams some kind of obrakadabra and something like ave Satan. And then it’s my turn to blow up.
All the announcers know what candles are, a little flame and shit. So, at that moment, the tongues of flame rose by 10 cm. minimum. Here's a fucking thing.
Seeing such game and black magic, the first thing that came to mind was to attack the warlocks and try to expel demonic forces.
In short, we broke their pussies from the basement, drove them with pissing rags, explained that they should develop their cult away from our area, here Shufik is a cult. But fucking candles and flames on candles at once I still remember.
Here is such a rub story.
Would you like to get down upon your knees, open your little feisty mouth and start tracing the outlines of Heiny's cockhead, breathing shallowly, enjoying the weight bearing down upon your tongue?
So once we sat in the dryer at a kent, for those who do not know, this is a common room in the stairwell. There, from all the apartments, they store all the trash, well, or some twists. So my kent had such a dryer, with a sofa, music and lamp gatherings. We were sitting there one evening, it's cold outside, there is nowhere to go, there weren't any computers or cell phones yet.
And then the light goes out in the whole house, even if the eye is dark. After briefly consulting with our comrades, we decided to go outside, although it is colder there, it is lighter and there are more chances to find adventure than in a room without light.
It was necessary to piss from the eighth floor. We go, we go, with matches, lighters we highlight the stairs, on the right are dark openings of the floors.
Suddenly, on the fourth floor, a hand grabs my sidekick, and in a wheezing, whistling voice begins to push the crazy game, just a set of words and phrases without meaning. Such schizophasia is IRL.
I started up the gravy out of fear, stood rooted to the spot, really from horror I could not even move my hands. Darkness, a fucking limb snatched a comrade and mutters from the darkness. And then a scream.
Kent runs out and we just go downstairs in the first space. As far as we ran out of this HEX from the entrance, only Allah knows.
But as it turned out, it was not at all neh. On this floor lived a grandmother with a daughter, an old grandmother, and a daughter then 30+ years old fucked up the entire diameter. The patient is shorter. She walked around and hissed what kind of garbage forever, the children were afraid of her, and we avoided it, you never know it will be chased.
Well, when the light in the house went out, this priyeba decided to go out into the entrance and, out of fear or for some other reason, decided to grab my precious sidekick. But this is not the end of the story. Of course, my Kent drista ran into his panties when this fucking grabbed him from the darkness, but he was like me, a fucking gopnik and without thinking, he fucked straight to the area where the voice came from. Well, he injured this fucking girl.
When we had already caught our breath on the street, smoked, we compared the floor, the tenants and realized that that evening we were crap out of fear, the sick fool crap from being fed into a vile snout. In short, the evening turned out to be so-so for everyone.
He chose the path of perpetual torment.
In his ravenous hatred he found no peace.
Источник teksty-pesenok.ru
And with boiling blood he scoured the Umbral Plains seeking vengeance against the dark lords who had wronged him.
And those that tasted the bite of his sword named him...
The Doom Slayer.
Late evening, we are home alone. I sit and play Sonya, my brother is staring at it. He gets up and goes down the hall to the toilet without turning on the light. Two seconds later, wild, no shit, WILD !!! screaming and he jumps into the room with a twisted fuck. It just jumps: flies out of the doorway, flies across the room and lands on the sofa with his knees. He crawls into the far corner, looks at me, then into the corridor and yells all the time!
Fuck, gentlemen, this is really scary. When you see this, in this somment you don't even think about the reason, you just understand that you are fucked up. Panic, painful instinct, fuck you know.
I jump up, start shaking my hands in front of me, my heart pounds. Shout out to him: "What ?! What ?!" And he told me: "Someone is looking out the window!"
Without hesitation, I fucking do it, on the bent ones I go into the corridor. Speech (or rather squeals) could only go about the window in the kitchen. I think either someone climbed onto the balcony (3rd floor), or some shit that I really don't want to see. It all happened very quickly, the state was some kind of fainting. Fucking scary.
In general, I go to the kitchen and look out the window. Nothing. And then, damn it, I really see two glowing eyes appear in him. Hair stand on end. Everywhere.
I stand and stick to the way two eyes are looking at me from the window, fucking shit. Then they disappear and I, apparently having a little sleep or getting used to the darkness, see a cat turning away from me on the windowsill in front of the window. Your fucking cat. Her fucking eyes reflected light from the other end of the hallway, and she was a bitch twirling her head. Then I just slid down the wall to the floor and sat for a couple of minutes.
In short, I took out the following for myself:
1) An eight-year-old boy can jump four meters in length.
2) I learned what panic is.
3) I realized that I was a dumbass, because in that state a normal person would have dicked out of the room.
BLYAAAAT TEKSTY PESENOK SUKAAA :DDDDDD
I suggest we turn to writing fanfiction itt
I'm gonna do a sneaky thing...
And throw a new contender in the ring!
Well, I flooded to hand over this case. Immediately I say - I am not inclined to fantasize, with the psyche everything is almost okay, such a garbage in life seems to have not happened.
Well, it got dark, flooded into the forest. I, the instructor, everything is as it should, everything is according to the rules, according to safety regulations. She took foam, awning and knife with her.
She made a fire, set apart, muddied the fire pit, firewood, pulled up an awning - it got dark just like that. I forgot to say that it is strictly forbidden to have a watch and equipment with you there - therefore I was guided by dawn. He came there at three o'clock, or something.
In short, with grief I held out in half until the darkest time of the day, sat down to rest - and then he knocks me out. I don’t know how long it has passed, but when I open my eyes, there’s a fire around the smoke, and behind the smoke I see such a clear silhouette. And someone's whisper. Dick knows that it (he, she?) There tried to convey to me, but I did not get too well. I thought that, you never know, the instructor is roflite, but no - then he drove back to the camp, I found out.
Well, she calmed down, threw everything off on lack of sleep, nerves, maybe she swallowed smoke, to hell with him. But by the end of the overnight stay, this particular fucking thing began to happen.
By that time, my fire was already normal, so I just sat and stuck it into space.
And what did not happen in this space.
A couple of times I caught a glitch in the form of a black cat that comes up to the fire and meows, a couple of times I saw people walking there, I felt their touch, I heard someone's words. Fuck knows, seriously. MB really fatigue has such an effect, because the people and not such stories about their sleepovers hounded (Especially winter ones, lol)
Or maybe just hanging out in the woods one night is a crappy idea.
I don’t know, anon, I don’t know
QUADS
quads don't lie. Whom are we writing about?
Hi, Sosacher, let's talk about Navalny.
quads wasted
Бля, есть эта паста на русском? Ох уж этот машинный перевод.
Кароче, это не первое воспоминание, но все же. Сколько мне было лет - хуй знает, 4 или 5. Я жил в самом хуевлм быдло районе в городе, в котором жили всякие цыгане, сектанты, алкашня, бичи, нищеброды, гопники и тд. Короче типа где жил кенни в саут парке)) решили меня отправить в садик, была зима. Я вообще не любил эту хуйню и идти туда не хотел, дома было лучше, можно было весь день играть в игрушки или смотреть мультики. Но бабка решила меня отправить, потому что ишь чего блять придумал, все дети как дети, а этот сидит один дома. Надо его в садик отдать, все ходят, пускай и он ходит. ну и короче в один день меня рано разбудили, было пмздец как темно и мне сказали собирайся, в садик поедешь. а я решил спрятаться и никдуа не ехать. Побежал в зал и спрятался под диваном, но меня сразу почти нашли. Повезли в эту ебучую хуйню. Помню что там были одни отсталые орки, которые даже говорить толком не умели. Я просто ходил там и ахуевал с происходящего. Потом нас повели на кормежку и там была просто худшая дрисня которую я когда либо видел в своей жизни блять, даже в школьной столовке лучше кормили. Просто блять накидали рыбных консерв в кипящую воду и сказали что это уха, ахуеть блять. Потом мы с парой пацанчиков сьебались в эту хуйню,хуй знает как она называется, короче где все играют,и начали собирать там огромный гранатомет из кубиков цветных. Потом прибежал какойто очкастый додик и начал стучать по стене, а она была их такого пластика который на подоконниках используется. И короче мы все пошли пиздить эту стену и кидать в нее стульями, в итоге проломили ее и там была дыра на всю стену. Прибежала воспительница которая была хуй знает где и начала орать на нас кто это сделал блять хуеглоты малолетние!? . И вроде как сперли все на того очкарика, мол это он начал. И эта воспетка, жирная злая старуха, отпиздила его и закрыла в подсобке на ключ, в которой игрушки хранят. Вот такой пиздец был в первый день у меня. Еще помню там был пацан, который был жирный и выше всех но он был дикий чмошник и его все пиздили. Еще был ахуенный пацанчик которого уважали все, по крайней мере я точно. У него единственного был мобильный телефон, а это был 2003 год, тогда они были не у всех взрослых и тогда пиздюки только мечтать могли об телефоне. И я помню что он просто играл в какую-то посредственную хуйню типа змейки, но вокруг него собирались почти все и смотрели. Просто это нереальное удовольствие было тогда смотреть на телефон, на игры, а поиграть было уже просто заоблачной мечтой... Проходил я в садик неделю, но в один день во время прогулки я тупо сьебался домой... Больше я туда не ходил, в пизду
От души, анон. Спасибо. Сейчас почитаю.
Абу благословил этот пост.
To his adjutant it was reassuring at first, how mundane he was, even his ugliness and unimpressive stature adding to the impression of the man as office and duty rather than an autonomous agent. It became worrying later, with schedules and appointments out of the picture, in the private moments, in quiet offices that smelled of disinfectant, on the long rides to strange places, in the back seats of cars loud enough for all the privacy if one just whispered quietly enough, and in grey hotel rooms and in the infinite span between dusk and dawn.
At night his captor came quietly as if invited into his bed. He spoke to him with familiar voice and touched him with familiar hands and touched him also with unfamiliar parts like he’d seen only in books and museums on creatures of the sea, long tentacles, not wet but smooth like snake skin except for the suckers on them with their many teeth, cephalopod arms that slid over his body and under his nightshirt as he lay there frozen and mortified, mortified not by the terrible organs but the man they belonged to, that very plain man at the centre of all these horrors.
They weren’t content with just touching him from the outside and sought entry in his body, sliding between his legs, thick as ship ropes. First the thin ends prodded at his anus, two or three or four, like the small fingers of curious children. They weren’t wet like one would imagine them to be and it wouldn’t have made any difference. When they first broke into him they stretched him so wide it tore his sphincter and it ripped the skin of his perineum to his balls, clean and quickly, as if it was snipped with scissors. One or two or three, he couldn’t tell, pushed deep into his guts, penetrated far too deep and deeper still, not inches deep but feet, so deep he’d would have thought they might come out of the other end soon, had he had the mind to think and do anything but feel the mind numbing pain and the heavy weight inside him, moving like many creatures, wiggling, and the pressure of it, like being slowly lowered onto a stake.
He thought he would die then, suffocate on the limb, and it was a relief to know the torment would end. In that moment the tentacles pumped their seed inside of him, twitching for many long seconds. They ejaculated into his guts and into his stomach and it was too much for his body to keep, gallons of sticky, bitter, thick ejaculate. It was so much it filled his stomach to the top. He didn’t even throw up, it just spilled over and it came running out of his mouth, and his nose and his ass and he was covered in it inside and outside.
Worse than the pain and the filth was the way Himmler whispered to him all throughout it, about new Germany and new soldiers, new men and how he would breed him each night until they would make that new man together, his good soldier, his favourite womb.
>>238010801
>>238010866
>>238010985
SAGE SAGE SAGE
Have you read it all? It's so interesting and educating
Just a few parameters make the difference between clinical and humiliating, none of which were for Jochen Peiper to set.
Firstly there is the motivation. In any regular clinical setting it’s the patient that seeks the treatment. It’s not the doctor who demands that the patient makes an appointment and punishes him if he objects, but the patient who employs the doctor to relieve him of pain and illness. In Jochen’s case Heinrich Himmler had demanded his examination following the death of his brother. Horst Peiper, who had also been a member of the Schutzstaffel, had died under suspicious circumstances – labelled an accident – and rumours concerning his sexuality had reached Himmler’s ears. Himmler was always very alert when it came to the cleanliness of his subordinates. It reflected badly on Jochen, who now seemed in a different light to Himmler. His beloved boyish looks and will to please suddenly appeared like the telltale signs of a 175er. Overcome with paranoia Himmler devised a test that – although impractical to apply to greater populations such as the prisoners of the Gestapo or the concentration camps – should clear this nasty matter up definitely and hopefully reestablish the trust he had in his young protégé. Himmler left Jochen very little time to mourn the loss of his brother as the man was likely not worth mourning over at all. He promptly put his patient down for an appointment to see whether he had fallen ill with the particular sickness Himmler detested so much.
Secondly there is the setting. White tiles, bright light and educational posters on the walls transform any room into a doctor’s office and different rules apply in those places. Just like a beach is the perfect place for sunbathing and the church is not, it’s the setting that makes it acceptable to strip naked down to the bone and unravel your insides for the doctor to see. A room that is clean in form and color enforces the purely rational nature of any interaction in it. The setting Himmler had chosen in a spontaneous hurry was a hotel room. It was not white and clean, square and practical, but a dark and decadent room. Paintings on every wall, colourful carpets on the floor, wooden furniture and warm electrical light invited for a friendly conversation with a glass of wine and when Jochen entered that evening – despite knowing better – he dearly wished he had simply misunderstood the invitation. And how he hated that table. It was placed in the centre of the room, almost like in an operating theatre, but it was made of dark marbled wood and richly adorned with carvings, so to kneel on it made him feel not like a patient but a meal prepared for dinner.
Lastly and most importantly there is secrecy. Even those who have never heard of Hippocrates and his oath, instinctively know that a doctor must not divulge whatever he sees or hears in the course of profession. Brandt did not have to break the oath he had sworn to, Himmler simply demanded to be present during his experiment. Since it was his invention, he had to be the judge of its outcome. Jochen complied quietly, careful not to bite off his tongue. Himmler took a seat in the front row, a garish, red armchair, from which he watched Jochen intently through his round spectacles, eventually leaning forward, resting his chin on his hands to outright stare at the patient.
Jochen undressed in the awfully luxurious bathroom and was grateful for the last bit of privacy. He took off his uniform and underwear, and placed each item hastily folded under the sink next to his boots. It took longer than usual, he struggled with the buttons, his fingers were weak, he felt numb. He didn’t recognize the feeling, but he thought it was anxiety, he just couldn’t remember ever having been so dully anxious, not in school, not while climbing trees or mountains, not with a grenade in his hand or in anyone’s hand.
Don't you like the part about Himmler's tentacles?
Jochen told himself it wouldn’t be any different than the examination he had gone through when he joined the Schutzstaffel. He hadn’t felt even a tenth of this anxiety then and his entire career had depended on that moment. He imaged it, like eight years ago, when it was all white and distant and that image calmed some of that awful feeling in his stomach but as he opened the door and was back in that dark room, now naked and feeling as thoroughly naked as you can only feel next to men in uniform, the anxiety returned and would not subside again.
Jochen had wondered if Brandt would act differently as a doctor than as a person. If maybe he was one of those men who slipped into a character, all smiles and kind nods. He was definitely not that kind of doctor. He was even less humane now in his persona. All pretence of nicety that socializing demanded from him was gone. He treated his patient like cattle. No word was spoken, no order given if Brandt couldn’t just move the patient’s body like one of the puppets they used to train medical students. A firm grip on Jochen’s chin, head up, head down. Brandt’s eyes crawled over Jochen’s features, scanning. They were dark, dull, impossible to read anything in them but a distant hint of disgust, not personal, but all-encompassing.
Цыпалюб, тебя в последнее время очень дохуя в /б/. Обострение или твой фан-клуб разрастается?
This is what will happen with your mother if you won't stop right fucking now
Here goes the next one
Head up again, two fingers prying his mouth open. Brandt ran the flat of his thumb over Jochen’s teeth. Left, right and over his tongue, pressing down on it too and leaving the taste of humiliation and also of something chemical, disinfectant or maybe just the base note of the doctor’s skin.
One unexplained silent procedure was followed by the next. Arms up. Spread your fingers. Stand straight. Stretch. Taller. Brandt dragged his palm over Jochen’s sides, up from his hips and under his arms and there again his thumbs, pressed into his armpits with a circling motion. Himmler moving in his armchair, fingernails in his hair and his racing heart; only sounds like these were amplified in the muffling silence of the room.
Brandt pointed to the dinner table. Get on there. On your knees. Jochen baulked at the thought of it, of him on there, exposed, ridiculous, but he did of course do it, crawled on the table, eyes averted from the spot that he knew held Himmler.
The surface was cold under his knees, because Brandt’s hands had been so warm. The doctor grabbed him by the neck and pushed him down on his hands, impatient but without anger, purely practical. Jochen naturally resisted, his mind was willing to follow any order but his body tensed and pushed against the pressure, instinctively fighting the force that wanted to push him down on all fours until they overcame it together, the hand on his neck and his own will subduing that primal feeling in his stomach that told him to run, run, run and bite.
Any last words, you untermensch?
It's just me having more free time now. As soon as my exams are over, /b will have the pleasure to enjoy my pieces of fanfiction daily.
here goes, but not last one at all
His resistance was entirely irrational, he could not find words to describe it, but he clearly saw it, a visceral image of a shorn dog shuddering and digging its claws into the smooth surface under its paws. There were no claws of course and he did not shudder outwardly, but he was a pet, one that could be put down any moment its master didn’t like it any longer.
He could see the master from the corner of his eyes now, a black and white spot encased in red leather, staring at him, his glasses reflecting the ceiling light just right to create the illusion two huge, perfectly round white eyes, a insect with magnifying glasses for eyes.
On the other side of him Brandt was leaning over his doctor’s bag and rummaging around in it. The noise was metallic, followed by the sound of rubber gloves pulled over his fingers. The kind of sound that once you have heard it you could never forget.
Brandt returned and there they were again, his now rubberised hands on Jochen’s back, counting each disk of his spine, tap, tap, regular like a clockwork. Jochen understood why Brandt had made him get up on the table, why kneel like that and why he had put on the gloves. Certainly not to count his bones. He would touch him in other places, touch him inside and he would make sure Himmler could see and judge and punish or reward accordingly. The knowledge was cold water in the back of his mind and it ran down his spine with each of Brandt’s touches, lower down into his core and quickly his entire body knew, goosebumps forming and a numbness in all limbs as they were drained of blood.
> the pleasure to enjoy
the pleasure of enjoying
Suddenly Brandt withdrew and went back to his bag. Clear metallic sounds. Himmler adjusted himself in his seat. Brandt returned and placed a heavy item on the table in front of Jochen. It was made of shiny polished metal, like a pair of scissors except it did not have blades for closing and cutting but round spoons to be inserted and opened. It looked like a modern make of a medieval torture devices, entirely awful, because he couldn’t help but stare and image what it would feel like to be spread open by it.
DIE YOU FILTHY MAGGOT! ROT IN HELL YOU BASTARD! ALL OF YOU WILL BE HUNTED DOWN AND ERADICATED!
SIEG HEIL! SIEG HEIL! SIEG HEIL!
A wet sound, lubricant spread over Brandt’s hand, a pleasantly clinical smell followed by a finger, cold and wet, finding his opening and then pressing into him, slow and steady. His body complied all too easily, welcoming the intrusion to a point, then resistance and with steady pressure Brandt pushed past that and into him to the knuckles. It didn’t feel like he thought it would from the tingling outer sensation, it was erotically neutral and mildly uncomfortable. It felt foreign and that was good, because it didn’t feel good and there was nothing to hide.
Brandt curled his finger downwards, scraping his insides. Searching and finding his prostate and then it felt good in the way that Jochen didn’t want it to feel good, deep in his body, a warm pressure and buzz that he could feel in his cock too. A second finger probed him, pressed alongside the first and slid in just as easily and as hard as the first and then hastily a third one and this one hurt like something was tearing and he felt stretched and full, but looking at the speculum, measuring with his eyes just how wide it could be opened, he knew it was nothing and the shame he felt was nothing compared to what it would be like to be opened by that for them to see.
Three fingers, stretching and wiggling and then curling again to stroke the spot inside of him and it was worse, one kind of pressure mixing with another pressure, heightening both sensations. And of course Brandt knew and he would not stop teasing that spot with cruel precision. First with taps, just like on his back and slow circling motions and then subtly, gradually he started moving his fingers in and out, twisting them and jabbing them into him so abruptly Jochen thought it would rip him. And that sound, wet and sexual. It was just his fingers, and Brandt did smell like hospital, but he was fucking him, fucking him like any other man would with his dick, greedily pushing deeper. Another finger, four now, and that really hurt, but Brandt wouldn’t cease, like he found some perverse pleasure in seeing just how much Jochen cold take and Jochen pressed his eyes shut and swallowed his moans, but it was pointless. His cock was hard on his stomach, pink and leaking. Impossible to hide, impossible to hold his voice back any longer. So he was sick after all. He had always known there was something wrong with him, him or his entire kin, but not this.
The first moan was a croak and embarrassingly loud. They didn’t laugh or punish him. Himmler was still silent, motionless except for that slight change in the angle of his head, reflected on his glasses. And Brandt jabbed harder at his insides, one hand on his hip to steady him, again and again, building up some boundless pressure with each trust and the pressure wasn’t wrapped around Brand’s fingers any more or in his cock but spreading down his spine and down his trembling legs, not in waves but gradual, permanent, almost unbearable that it wouldn’t end, that it would just keep going like that. He heard himself sobbing, taste of salt on his lips. And then he stopped caring, stopped eyeing the looming black figure and stopped building the damning image of himself in his head and just pushed back against Brandt’s hand to feel him just a little deeper. The pain of that pushed him over the edge but there was no fall, no waves or twitch, just a violent feeling like being rent apart very, very slowly, but there was no pain, but a deeply satisfying, finally releasing pleasure.
Jochen was lying flat on the table, sticky spunk under his belly and salt burning his cheeks when he felt a hand on the back of his head, stroking him there. “You did very well, Jochen,” Himmler said.
I wish I could tell the same to u, but with all due respect I refuse to continue this conversation in such horrible manner
So, are you ready to read about our favorite minister of propaganda right now?
He is talking about Magda. Of course he is. That's how this goes, every time: Goebbels comes over under the pretext of matters of state or urgent party business and then, instead of talking about important issues, he sits at his table complaining about his marriage. And Hermann lets him. It might be useful to be deemed a friend by the dear doctor. He also can't help but find his problems amusing. Quite quaint really, the petty jealousy, the scarcely concealed lewdness, the boundless self-pity. Hermann is sure Magda would allow him to fuck her more often, if he treated her a little better than a breeding mare. Usually women don't appreciate that kind of disrespect, at least in his experience.
He leans forward to refill Goebbels' glass, then his own, while the minister of propaganda goes on with his rant about how his wife lets him starve with her coldness.
It's not just about sex. She doesn't feed him properly either, Hermann thinks as he watches Goebbels waving his dessert fork like a weapon instead of eating the strudel Hermann has had brought up from the kitchen. The man eats like a bird and he looks like one too. There is this saying (to rail like a sparrow) that immediately comes to mind when Goebbels is behaving like this. It's not very attractive.
At least he's drinking the cognac Hermann has poured him, drinks it like water in fact, and that's ultimately what gives Göring the idea.
Goebbels is pausing for a moment, collecting his thoughts, the prongs of the fork resting against his mouth, and Hermann pulls his chair closer, leans in and takes the fork from Goebbels' hand. The doctor is just staring at him absent-mindedly, his eyes glazed over, and offers no resistance.
Hermann cuts off a piece of strudel, gathers it up and brings the fork back up to Goebbels' mouth.
“Open up,” he demands and Goebbels want to say something in protest, opens his mouth, but Hermann is faster and before he can utter a word, he uses the opportunity to push the fork with the strudel into his mouth. This shuts Goebbels up for a moment. He tries to complain but his mouth is too crammed with food, he has to chew first, then swallow, before he can form coherent sounds again. Göring uses the time to prepare another forkful.
“Hermann, what--” Goebbels begins, trying to pull away, but Hermann's free hand shoots out, grasping his arm to hold him in place.
Goebbels is just a wisp of a man, his wrist is fragile, the bones delicate under Hermann's fingers. There is little he can do about this – apart from calling for help, and how embarrassing would that be? So he only looks at him – eyes wide – while Hermann raises the fork with the next bite.
“Be a good boy, Joseph,” he says, good-naturedly as always. “You need all the energy you can get, especially when you're getting worked up like this.”
And this time, almost unexpectedly compliant, Goebbels opens his mouth again for Hermann to feed him the prepared bite.
Perhaps he is even more drunk than Göring assumed? He studies him, searching for signs of intoxication. There are the slightly glassy eyes and there's the feverish blush on his cheeks, both could be ascribed to his agitation, but then there's the hungry constriction of his throat as he swallows, the quick flick of this tongue over his lips, and the pulse is racing beneath his skin, Hermann can feel it under the tips of his fingers. This is not simply drunkenness, this is also – and that was what he hoped for – arousal.
The next fork comes with an even larger piece of strudel, generously covered in whipped cream and vanilla ice which both have become runny over the course of the evening and Hermann is less careful to get all of it into Goebbels' mouth. Part of it never makes it into his mouth, but ends up on his lower lip and chin, and Hermann puts the fork down for a moment to wipe his thumb over Goebbels' bottom lip, then, as if not giving it any thought, he lifts the finger to his own mouth to lick the cream off it and Goebbels gasps, barely audible.
_
There’s a sharp, wicked gleam in Hermann’s eyes, perceptive and rapacious. Careless observers may forget, distracted by Hermann’s ostentatious garb, the bulk that speaks to banquets rather than to battlefields, what sort of animal he truly is. Goebbels does not think he’s ever underestimated Göring but this is…
There are creases at the corners of Göring’s eyes as they narrow in on him, his smile is wide, smug, utterly indecent in what it seems to suggest and Goebbels has a hazy sense he’s been pinned under a gunsight.
He draws his arm in toward him and accidentally sends the fork clattering onto the floor. They both look down at it. The noise momentarily clears the fog coiling through his head and Goebbels rises, teetering a little, to his feet.
“That was very-”
“You’re not done with your dessert, Joseph,” he says.
He uses his hand this time to pick up a piece of strudel, a sticky mess of dough and apple and cream. When Goebbels isn’t quick enough to open his mouth he presses it against his lips, smearing the syrupy concoction about, sending flakes of pastry crumbling down onto his shirt. He can feel the heat in Göring’s fingers as they rub against him, he opens his mouth with a defeated little groan and Göring stuffs what’s left of the strudel inside and leaves them there, stroking his tongue as he swallows.
Göring swipes his fingers through the pool of melted ice cream and brings them again, dripping, to Goebbels’ mouth and though he has to close his eyes to do it, Goebbels’ finds himself leaning forward to suck them clean.
“What a clever mouth,” Hermann says. It sounds almost like a purr. “You’ve been wasting your talents.”
Another piece of strudel is pushed inside his mouth. The sugar is cloying, sickly and he makes a soft noise of protest even as he struggles to swallow quickly enough for the next mouthful. Göring chuckles and wraps his sticky hand around Goebbels’ neck, the heel of his palm pressing just lightly against his Adam’s apple so he can feel it’s weight against him with every bob of his throat. He looks, with some distress, of what is left on the plate.
“Hermann,” he says, when he has a chance to choke out the word. What he really means is, please.
_
“I'm sorry, how inattentive of me,” he says, “surely all this sugar must have made you thirsty.”
He doesn't bother with a glass this time but reaches directly for the bottle. The liquor glows like amber in the heavy crystal. Goebbels looks at it, then back at him, his mouth half-open, as if still considering trying to run away or calling for help. He doesn't though, he sits still, apart from the small nervous tremors running through his body like chills from a fever.
He must be already drunk enough by now, why else would he be so pliant? But you never know for sure and Hermann has to make certain his scruples are safely laid to rest. He puts the bottle to Goebbels' lips, tips it, and Goebbels tries to swallow like a good boy, but it's too much all at once and a good amount of the cognac spills out of his mouth over his chin, running down his neck.
“Now look at the mess you made of yourself,” Hermann says with a slight, almost disappointed shake of his head as if somehow all of this was Goebbels fault, the stains of cream on his shirt, the strudel crumbs on his waist coat, the cognac-soaked tie. He does look like a toddler left to play with his food, so the logical consequence is that he has to change out of his clothes.
Hermann sets down the bottle to loosen Goebbels' tie, then undo the top buttons of his shirt.
Goebbels makes a motion with his arm as if to stop him but then his hands only find the lapels of Hermann's robe and he just clutches at them, helplessly.
“Don't you worry, little sparrow,” he says, “I'm not going to hurt you. I'm just getting you out of your ruined clothes.”
It should be obvious at this point but somehow Goebbels seems to finally realise what is going on, that this won't merely end with the rest of the strudel stuffed into his mouth. He tries to move, struggle even, but Hermann holds him without any effort, and he quickly comes to realise that it's no use to resist, so he tries arguing instead.
“Hermann, you're mistaken,” he says, “I'm not--”
But Göring knows perfectly well what he is. One look at him would be enough for anyone to understand how accurate the rumours about the minister of propaganda really are, how all of his declarations of disgust about homosexuality are little else than proclamations of self-hatred.
“There's no need to pretend, little sparrow,” Hermann says, patting Goebbels' cheek affectionately. Then without warning he gets to his feet, but before Goebbels can stumble or fall Hermann has caught him by the waist and pushed him up on the table, between all the plates and glasses and cutlery, much like newly wed men might lift their wives on kitchen tables in a sudden bout of passion. It is perhaps something Goebbels has dreamt of doing himself countless times, sweep a mistress off her feet in a demonstration of virile strength and dominance but now it's him who's been handled like a dоll.
дай пять же
Это значит дай пять как обычно делается
His own desires?
“There's no need to pretend, little sparrow,” Hermann says, patting Goebbels' cheek affectionately. Then without warning he gets to his feet, but before Goebbels can stumble or fall Hermann has caught him by the waist and pushed him up on the table, between all the plates and glasses and cutlery, much like newly wed men might lift their wives on kitchen tables in a sudden bout of passion. It is perhaps something Goebbels has dreamt of doing himself countless times, sweep a mistress off her feet in a demonstration of virile strength and dominance but now it's him who's been handled like a doll.
Hermann leans over him, so large in comparison, overwhelmingly large, and whispers: “I know why you come here at this time of night, Joseph, on these inappropriately late visits, and I can hear what you're saying between the lines when you're lamenting about how unhappy your marriage is, about all your needs that are left unfulfilled. I can see what you're asking for.”
Goebbels' words of protest sounds so weak, they are easily ignored. What does it matter that he claims he doesn't want this, when only a few moments ago he greedily sucked the cream off Hermann's fingers. It takes no imagination to understand the meaning of this. Clearly Goebbels must have been aware of what he was doing.
Hermann eyes him suspiciously as he sits there on the table edge, legs spread as to accommodate Göring's body between them. It isn't the posture of someone who is forced; intimidated maybe, a little аfrаid, but аfrаid of what? His own desires?
Hermann doesn't care too much. He deserves a reward for all the hours of patient listening and sympathetic nodding and now it's time for Goebbels to pay up. He wants to see what it is that Magda deliberately abstains from, the real person under the expensive suits, beyond party functions and state dignities, that little sparrow naked and stripped bare for him.
It's easier to take care of his clothes like this when he's fully exposed to Hermann's hands, placed on his table like another course of the menu, ready to be devoured. Soon the tie has come to lie in a wet heap on the table, the waist coat has been unbuttoned, then the shirt is falling open. Goebbels is wearing a vest beneath it of course and Hermann is getting tired of layers.
The sound of the tearing fabric makes Goebbels jump but Hermann is careful not to let him escape, not now, when he's so close to what he wants. Impatiently he pushes the waistcoat, the shirt, braces, the remains of the vest over Goebbels' shoulders.
“So pretty,” he murmurs under his breath while Goebbels seems to freeze under his touch, just like the little toy he's supposed to be, a precious plaything in his collection. How small he is, how large the area that Hermann's fingers can reach. He seems so fragile, as if Hermann could just crush him with his bare hands.
He rubs a thumb over one of Goebbels' nipples, experimentally, merely to see if it has any effect and Goebbels makes this wonderful, whorish sound, completely shameless really, that he can't resist doing it again, rubbing at it, then when it grows harder, pinching it, rolling it between the pads of his fingers, and the poor man gasps and pants as if he was slowly killing him.
Hermann likes his boys responsive, he appreciates such reactions, and it makes him almost forget about other parts of Goebbels he wants to explore.
_
He imagines he can feel the desperate fluttering of Goebbels’ heart, racing to cast a flush of pink across the skin beneath his hands. His nipples too, grow rosy under Göring’s touch. Perhaps he grows a little cruel with his fingers, crushing, pinching with the flats of his fingernails until Goebbels bites his lip and whines and his good leg kicks a little against the side of Göring’s thigh.
“Now, now,” Göring says, petting Goebbels’ hair as though he were any other one of his exotic pets. “Sweet little thing.”
“So many girls, Joseph,” Göring says, his tone at once indulgent and amused. “You know it’s rather desperate of you. You play a good enough role for them I’m sure. A little devil, hmmm?”
He pinches Goebbels’ nipple again while he strokes his fine, dark hair, combed back still so slick and neat from his face. When he leans forward Goebbels has to crane his neck back to match his gaze, from this angle he seems to be almost all eyes. Goebbels’ slim fingers pluck at his wrist in some non-committal gesture of resistance.
He cradles the back of Goebbels’ head in his hands and presses their lips together and for a brief moment Goebbels thrashes under him like a rabbit caught in a snare but Göring merely holds him tight, kisses him harder, looming over the table so Goebbels has to grasp at him to keep from toppling backwards. With a little cry he gives up the struggle and yields to Göring’s assault, his lips parting so Göring can kiss the caramel sweetness of liquor and sugar from his tongue, lying now meek and still in his mouth.
“It’s natural that the weak submit to the strong,” Göring says, drawing apart to catch a breath. Goebbels is still clinging to him, one foot half hooked behind his knee, as though he’s afraid if he doesn’t Göring will simply let him fall back amidst the remains of their dinner. He’s quivering quite badly, perhaps just the strain of keeping those tight little fists buried in Göring’s lapels.
“What do you say? Man is an animal? We’re in agreement there.” He glances down at the Goebbels’ hands and notes, with obvious pleasure. “My goodness, Joseph, you’re shaking.”
Göring slowly lowers him down onto the table, pushing aside plates and silverware with no regard. Goebbels winces at something, a fork or a plate against his back maybe, or maybe just the painful prickling of this exposure, laid out before Göring, half stripped amidst a mess of other sweetmeats meant to be consumed. He takes his hands from Göring and holds them awkwardly against his chest as though he could shield himself that way and Göring huffs a slight laugh, charmed that such incongruous naivete exists here to be savoured.
He notices the tense little pulse in Goebbels’ temple once he’s rid him of his belt, his trousers and he’s lying there naked but for the stern looking steel and leather brace he wears to support his lame right leg. He’s thrown his hand across his mouth and Göring can seem him gnawing on his thumb. Between his legs Goebbels’ prick is a pretty thing, plump with arousal and when Göring slowly strokes his palm up the inside of his left thigh, brushing over that tender skin, the fine, soft dusting of hair, he can see it twitch.
“Open your mouth, sparrow.”
He barely gives him time to comply before raising the jug, fingers digging into the hollow contours of Goebbels face, feeling the faint scratch of his stubble as Goebbels opens his mouth. He pours the cream from a height and Goebbels tries frantically to swallow fast enough.
_
Göring isn’t a monster, he doesn’t want to literally drown Goebbels in cream, he doesn’t want him to be sick either. What he does want is paint Goebbels with it, spiralling out from the mouth, covering his nose, his chin, his cheeks, his whole face in obscenely slick white fluid. Goebbels, unable to let him out of his sight is blinking furiously against the flood but he doesn’t complain.
Göring widens the application area, pours the cream over Goebbels’ neck, watches it pool in the hollow of his throat, underlining the fact that he is still swallowing, then he pours out the rest over his sternum down to his navel. He can see the anticipation, the treacherous stillness, the hopeful twitch of his cock, but he runs out of cream before he reaches his genitals. He must use something else then. His gaze travels over the table until a considerate rest of ice cream catches his attention. That will do nicely, he decides.
Goebbels doesn’t move an inch when Göring lets go of him but his eyes follow his every movement, dark and huge in the cream-pale face. He can’t see what Göring is looking at, but it’s obvious he doesn’t care. His gaze is fixed on him, he still looks hungry. He is biting his lip as if to stop himself from saying something or making another undignified noise, but it won’t be much use. Göring wants to hear all the undignified noises Goebbels is capable of, and he will do anything necessary to get them out of him.
He runs his hands through the mess on Goebbels’ chest, spreading the cream like lotion on his skin, then he lets them glide upwards to the exposed column of his throat, closing playfully around it. It is unmistakable what this means though: it’s a hold of ownership and Goebbels escapes another needy whine at the touch.
relax, this thread will enrich your vocabulary drastically.
As Göring leans over him to reach for the ice cream he notices how harsh Goebbels’ breathing already is, loud, stuttering, distraught, he can almost hear his effort to remain calm but the closer he gets the more uneven it becomes. He glances at Goebbels’ lips that are half open, notices how he’s watching him from heavy lidded eyes.
He is ready to be kissed again, he realises.
And this time Goebbels returns the kiss properly, he’s not just lying there and letting it happen when Göring’s tongue slides against his, licking the cream from his mouth, but he mimics the motion, apparently unused to following another’s lead but doing his best to accommodate him.
Bless him, his hands come up to clutch at Göring’s shoulders, trying to pull him down further so he can wiggle against him, desperate for some friction against his neglected cock, he even spreads his legs wider in an attempt to wrap them around Göring to drag him closer and Göring lets him for a while, he enjoys this kind of abandon even though it’s not Goebbels’ place to make demands and he’s quite capable of withstanding his feeble attempts to be pulled on top of him.
He just keeps kissing him to establish a rhythm between them, a harmony of back and forth, and when he’s satisfied with their accomplishments, he gently takes Goebbels hands and forces them back to his sides, pinning them there with ease.
“Is this really what you’re asking for, little sparrow?” he whispers into his ear once he’s got Goebbels immobilised, and then he takes a tiny step forwards, closes that distance between them, so there’s not just the weight of his belly bearing down on Goebbels but also the full hard length of his cock.
“Oh,” Goebbels says surprised, and again “Oh!”, his mouth a perfect depiction of the sound, his eyes wide. He has even stopped his frantic squirming, his limbs have gone slack against the table top. Only his cock is still pressing stiff and excited against his captor.
Göring doesn’t see the point of easing him into this, there is no way out of this for Goebbels anyway, so he grinds himself against the doctor to give him a good idea of the size of him and of the feel of their cocks rubbing against each other between their bodies, how good, how magnificent it feels, before he returns to the original plan to get the ice cream.
He scoops it up with his hands, it’s not firm and frozen anymore but still cold enough to cause some discomfort.
“Be a good boy and lie still for me,” Göring says with a benevolent smile before he places his hands around Goebbels’ erection, engulfing it in the cold mass.
A violent shudder runs through Goebbels’ body and he makes a series of pitiful noises but apart from that he just suffers quite bravely through the sensation. The ice cream is melting quickly on his hot skin, it’s really not that much of a torment as he makes it sound. He just seems so very sensitive.
As soon as the ice is oozing through his fingers, Göring starts to move his hands – one stroking Goebbels’ balls ever so gently, the other giving his cock a couple of determined pulls that make Goebbels arch from the table into his touch.
_
He would like to show Goebbels what he looks like right now. There’s a chandelier above the table that catches flashes of their movements in little pieces of glass, shifting colours. The cream makes Goebbels skin look a little darker than it really is, his cock is flushed the prettiest rose colour as it slips through his hand. He stops moving his fist and Goebbels keeps squirming beneath him, fucking into his grip until Göring chuckles and he realizes what he’s doing and his hips twitch to a stop. He makes a breathy, high pitched whine that sounds completely mortified and Göring watches him bring one arm half way to his face, as though to cover his eyes, but then he hesitates, shivering, and drops it back to the tablecloth.
Göring has to grin at that, who knows what Goebbels is thinking but he imagines perhaps he is trying to be a good boy now. It’s a good instinct anyway, Göring doesn’t want him hiding his face, not those eyes that give everything away. Still, he gives Goebbels’ cock one tight squeeze around the root and then takes his hand away and grabs the wrist of the offending arm. This is re-enforcement, keeping that arm pinned flat on the table and letting all his hunger bubble up in the ferocity tightening his fingers around those bird-like bones. He wants to leave a bruise, he realizes, something pretty, purple and yellow and green, like an opal.
“Hermann…please…” Goebbels gasps, this keening weakness in his tone that only encourages further use. Göring wonders if he’s delicate enough to break. He kisses him again, a messy clash that knocks their teeth together and bites at Goebbels’ lip until Goebbels’ cries become so shrill and desperate the urge to try and draw blood from him becomes almost overwhelming.
He still has his other hand between Goebbels’ legs, stroking his balls, gentle enough despite everything else. He could tell at once from the crack of Goebbels’ toes as they curled so very, very tightly, how sensitive he must be there. A more deliberate touch might be torture. He runs his thumb down the seam of Goebbels’ sack and watches as his eyelids fly wide then drop to a dazed half mast and a shiver passes through the whole length of his body. He raises his head a fraction and knocks it back against the table with a despairing groan, as though this is all just too much to bear.
“What a lovely toy you are,” Göring says, musing to himself more than anything. Goebbels shakes his head but doesn’t open his mouth to argue. Of course, his lower lip is clenched so tight between his teeth that words might be difficult.
When Göring’s hand slips back behind Goebbels’ balls and pries into the shallow crevasse of his ass, Goebbels goes completely still apart from the hectic rise and fall of his breast as he pants. He stops breathing though, when Göring runs his ice cream slippery fingers over the tight little pucker of his asshole. He pushes against it, just a little. Goebbels is clenched, almost vibrating with tension and Göring just smiles sweetly at him and strokes back and forth, back and forth. There’s a bright, insensible alloy of terror and shame and desire in the ring of white around Goebbels’ shocked eyes and the shallow, panicked way he gulps in air when he can hold his breath no longer.
He passes his hand down Goebbels’ chest, marvelling again at the span of his hand against that narrow torso, his own erection pushing instantly against the inside of his robe as he thinks how tightly Goebbels will fit around his cock, how easily to move his legs, his body, however it pleases him best. He undoes the tie around his waist with one hand and the blue silk falls open and reveals the large, proud stand of his cock.
Goebbels stares at it, his mouth falling open in a way that Göring would take for invitation in any other circumstance.
“Wait…” Goebbels whispers. “I don’t..”
Göring leans down over him and presses the bare searing heat of his erection against Goebbels’ skin, sliding against the slick mess of ice cream and the sweat of Goebbels’ body.
“No, wait,” Goebbels says again and each word sounds like a battle for him to force out.
_
“Isn't this what you've come for?”
It is unmistakably a rhetorical question. At this point it doesn't matter what Goebbels' intentions were, at first, earlier in the evening, before all of this started. If he liked, he could pretend he didn't ask for it. He could pretend he didn't come to Göring's home with the need to be fucked written all over him, crystal clear in every approval-seeking laugh, every nervous fidgeting with the silverware, in every look and glance he gave him. But who would believe him? Surely it must be difficult even for himself to be convinced by so blatant a fairy tale. It's not just the fact he ended up on the table, naked, covered in the remains of dessert, his cock hard against his belly, it's also the question of how he got there. An attentive observer might ask why he didn't offer any kind of resistance, not at any point over the course of the evening, if he really believed in his own words about such degenerate acts. It does make you wonder if his declarations of disgust for homosexuals are indeed a heartfelt sentiment and not merely a lie fabricated to deceive himself as well as mislead others about his true nature.
There's no way anyone would believe him if he said he didn't offer himself up. That he didn't want this. And they both know it.
Only now Goebbels is struggling for words, his hands grappling at the table cloth, the poor helpless little sparrow, while Göring is looming above him, rubbing himself slowly against Goebbels' stomach, allowing him to get accustomed to the feel of his cock on his slippery skin, learn its weight and size. Göring's movements against him leave little doubt about what is going to happen. He is going to slick himself in the cream he poured all over Goebbels and then he's going to grasp his legs to pull him closer to the table's edge, spread them open and-
“Please, Hermann,” Goebbels pleads. “Please let me go.”
He leans over to kiss him again but now, finally, Goebbels' is beginning to fight him, flap beneath him like a bird with a broken wing.
“Let me go, let me go, let me go,” he repeats in a litany of panic and that's clearly not the best precondition for a kiss.
Göring straightens himself with an exasperated sigh, gets hold of one of Goebbels' wrists and with a quick yank pulls him from the table and to his feet. Goebbels puts his hands against Göring's chest, trying to push him away but naturally he doesn't stand a chance, Göring is so much stronger and heavier, so he resorts to pounding his fists against him, weakly, half-heartedly you could say, like a girl making a point. But Goebbels isn't an innocent maiden and Göring isn't a brash suitor, and that's why Göring forgets about his usual good-naturedness for a second, raises his hand and strikes him across the face to snap him out of this folly.
“For fuck's sake, Joseph, pull yourself together.”
For a moment it seems to work, Goebbels appears dazed, one hand pressed against his cheek where Göring hit him. The red imprint left by Göring's palm is lurid, more lurid even than his previous blush, and he looks up at him as if he couldn't believe what's happening, his eyes impossibly large and bright. The effect of the slap lasts long enough for Göring to reach over the table to take up a plate that has still some melted ice cream on it while Goebbels stays rooted to the spot and watches him nervously. His confusion makes it easy to turn him around and steer him trough the room towards the sofa, pushing him forwards when he's not fast enough. Goebbels stumbles and almost falls but Göring catches him by the upper arm, his hand like a vice, thwarting all plans of escape Goebbels might still have had.
He is meek as a lamb until Göring shoves him forwards so he comes to kneel on the sofa, his ass fully exposed, and he realises Göring's still intent on going through with his plan.
“Please,” he says, trying to twist from Göring's grasp, “I don't want this, please don't- Hermann, I'm begging you! Don't do this.”
But Göring is not in the least impressed by his pleas. If anything they make Goebbels more interesting. Such a powerful man brought so low, who couldn't see the appeal of that?
“Hush,” he tells him and “keep still” and Goebbels caves in.
Göring directs him to put his hands on the back rest, then places his own hand between Goebbels' shoulder blades to hold him down, relishing the shivers running through the body, the goose bumps that spring up under his touch, all these uncontrollable tell tales of his distress. Then he pours the last remains of the vanilla ice over Goebbels' arse which elicits a squeak of shock that's nothing less than adorable.
Carelessly he puts the plate aside, unable to take his eyes away from Goebbels trembling frame. He watches how the melted ice runs over the cheeks and down his thighs, how it trickles into his ass crack, and how lovely it makes him squirm.
And Göring, for all the connaisseur he is (Vorfreude ist die schönste Freude, as they say), is suddenly growing impatient. His cock is throbbing, and he really, really wants to do something about it. He takes a step closer so his thighs are flush against Goebbels', his erection pressing threateningly against his arse.
Goebbels gives a desperate whimper at the sensation.
“Hermann,” he says and it sounds like a sob.
Göring reaches around and wraps his fingers around Goebbels' cock. He finds it still rock hard, clear evidence how much he enjoys their little game.
“Why don't you beg me for it, little sparrow?”
“Beg you for what?” Goebbels sounds high-pitched, the panic has returned to his voice. When Göring doesn't answer, he says the first words he can think of: “Please, Hermann, I've never- and you're so huge, I can't... You cannot... please, don't!”
What a little prude the doctor is. Göring can't suppress an amused grin. He can't even bring himself to say it out loud what he dreads so much.
“Why don't you tell me what you don't want me to do? How could I know what it is without you telling me?”
Goebbels makes an incoherent sound that could also be caused by Göring's hand around his cock.
“Please-” he begins and takes a deep breath before finishing the sentence. “Please don't fuck me, Hermann,” he finally chokes out.
“But you were so obviously made for fucking, little sparrow. What else should I do with you if not fuck you?” Göring is rubbing himself against Goebbels while he speaks and Goebbels' cock in his hand gives an involuntary twitch. Now look who's getting excited, he thinks. He's always known Goebbels to be a liar but it's still nice to see the proof. “Don't you want to feel how perfectly I can fill you, how wonderful my cock will stretch your tight little hole? How thick and large, can't you imagine?”
_
Göring slips his cock between the cream slicked skin of Goebbels’ thighs. He can’t see Goebbels’ face, but he knows, from the muffled sounds of a cry struggling to be stamped out – and how poorly the sweet doctor is managing to keep himself together – exactly how hard he must be chewing on his lip.
“No?” Göring lays the heat of his body over Goebbels, laughing deeply against his ear. His cock slides against the underside of Goebbels own. His hand, flashy with rings, grips both of them.
“No…I don’t-” Goebbels pants and the sentence clatters to a stop when Göring squeezes them together, a silent hitch in his breath and then a gasp, like he’s suffocating. “-I can’t.”
“You can’t imagine?” Göring grunts, half derision half dismissal and then makes a deeper, drawn out rumble of pleasure as he pulls his cock out – through the vice of his grip, the hard, searing silk of Goebbels’ erection gliding against his shaft – then thrusts back in, fucking through Goebbels’ legs. Goebbels thrashes his head, cursing Göring brokenly under his breath, the sound soft and harsh at the same time.
“You’re imagining right now,” Göring scoffs. He snakes his hand into Goebbels’ hair, fingernails lightly scratching as they glide through the dark, sweat slick strands, slowly, up, up, up. He starts to make a nice tight fist and then stops and smiles as Goebbels’ makes an urgent, betraying whine of disappointment. He ruffles Goebbels hair instead and then pulls him close back, palm pressed against the fluted column of his windpipe and then down his chest, over ribs that would be so easy to break, constricting him in this embrace.
“You’re congenitally incapable of telling the truth,” Göring hisses, eyes narrowed with arousal, pumping his hips against Goebbels’ body, rough and careless.
Goebbels makes a hot, shattered sound. “Will it hurt?”
“Do you want me to be gentle, little sparrow?”
Goebbels is squirming against him, moving back into his thrusts as best as he can. There’s a catch in his breath every time he inhales, like any moment it might get away from him, too fast, too heavy for his wretched little lungs to keep up with. Maybe that is why he doesn’t answer, maybe he is too busy making those lovely, needy, pathetic noises, everything that Göring wants to hear. Maybe he realizes that they both already know the answer to such a question. It’s the last thought that births the smirk on Göring’s face and the stir of a righteous, primal ember of possession in his gut, something that makes him lose his rhythm and snap his hips against Goebbels in an erratic, huffing rut.
“You can go home, Joseph, and think about how desperately you want it.” Göring growls the words between thrusts. “All these filthy things that have gotten you so hard, but especially, especially how much you need to be pinned down and bred like a little maiden, made to squeal like one. You know I’m right, you won’t be able to shake it away, such a naughty boy, wishing that you really had been raped, but you don’t even deserve-”
Goebbels comes over his hand with a scraped raw cry. Göring wrenches his head to the side so he can watch, in profile, the sight of the climax laying Goebbels so bare that even as drunk on he is on his own lust, the flavour of shame and pleasure written across the doctor’s face is clear; his drowning pupils expanding, the half senseless flutter of his eyelashes as Göring keeps fucking his thighs, the weak struggle as Göring palms the slick of his semen against both their cocks. He has never seen Goebbels like this.
Göring breathes deeply, a tight feeling almost like a migraine beginning to pound at his temples as he comes in a sequence of hot jerks. He collapses forward, crushing Goebbels beneath him.
After a while he raises his hand, a mess of cream and spunk to Goebbels mouth but Goebbels groans in protest and turns away. Right now, the feeble earnestness of such token resistance merely makes him chuckle throatily. He wipes his hand blindly across Goebbels face and pats him gently on the cheek.
“The next time you pay a social visit Carinhall, I will fuck you properly, Joseph.” He yawns. “Keep that in mind and make such decisions accordingly, hmm?”
~
Have you read the piece of fanfiction above?
Why do you hate harmless fanfiction so much?
Because it is the abomination that was born in minds of mentally ill degenerates which should be wiped out of the face of the Earth for their destructive and corruptive entity
>destructive and corruptive
How can writing about Göring having sex with Goebbels be corruptive?
You're retarded then
/thread
I suppose I have to post moar. Do you like Kaltenbrunner?
Skorzeny
sees the contempt in Kaltenbrunner’s face as Schellenberg reaches
tentative fingers the trace the curve of his scar as clear and bright
as a signal flare, though Walter is either blind or dazzled by the
stories he is murmuring about the song of two blades meeting and the
hot, piercing flash of your skin splitting open, a wash of blood to
grin through and the whispered adulation of brotherly hands on
bandages.
Even
when Ernst unsheathes his dagger and turns the edge against Walter’s
cheek and offers to give him a mark to be proud of himself – and
Otto knows that what Ernst no doubt dreams of doing is pulling their
little comrade onto his tiptoes by the hair and forcing the blade past his teeth, to cut away his easy way with words and knack for
politesse – Walter simply smiles until Otto puts his hand on
Ernst’s sleeve and shakes his head: you know that
isn’t how it works.
But then there are no rules about the weapons of their teeth and Walter bears up very bravely once they have stripped him down and set about him until the taste of blood lies thick in both their mouths.
Well, it turned out to be disappointingly short
>>238016418
You're beyond any redemption. I hope that they will open the darkest pit of hell specially for you, goodbye.
Will there be Heiny's aryan milk in the pit?
> I will stay in the thread
Good for you. I suggest you start with reading The Strudel:
>238013564
Yo dude, I'm too exhausted to read this. Been reading picrelated after lunch, this is a local newspaper for the educated class.
Don't you want to read any of the short ones?
>>238016315
>>238017081
I did, but could make sense of what I read.
So, how do you like the
>sense of what
you've read?
>>238014601
Так стоп. Это же сервер для Линяги Дай Пять назывался? Или хроники. Серьёзно? Что за всратое название? Кто это вообще придумал? Может это всё таки что то иное значит?
