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nazisploitation Oct. 6th, 2019 09:38 pm)
tisiph0ne posting in nazisploitation Oct. 6th, 2019 09:38 pm)The reichblr ficathon is dead, long live the nazisploitation kink meme. ❤
The rules: Submit some fun prompts. Write three sentences or more, or draw some art. Post your fill or link to it. Be nice to each other. That's it. Have fun!
The rules: Submit some fun prompts. Write three sentences or more, or draw some art. Post your fill or link to it. Be nice to each other. That's it. Have fun!
Random formatting info:
You can insert pictures by using the HTML image tag*: <img src="image-url"> If you want to define the height and/or width you can do so like this: <img src="image-url" height="100" width="100"> (Obviously you have to have the image saved/posted somewhere online, for example on your own journal, and saved the URL.)
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*somehow doesn't seem to work on anon 🙄
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"There's always Captain Röhm."
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From: (Anonymous)
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From: (Anonymous)
Goebbels' musing about Hitler in the last bunker days
With all that has been built and broken - so my fingers can grab your palms as we watch it collapse - the cracks were always there.
How beautiful it was, this world! The mother’s lap is now a cold grave for me - yet I cannot let go. Not without making it worth - what I am, and could be, and have been - he has it all - always had it all. And now the stones shall fall upon us as it goes down - our bodies crushed and soul leeking, screeching. Will the dust of my ashes join him in a river? Now I think death. No need to count the days anymore. With what I still keep in me like a spark, I can only ask: Was it worth it? If I still had a face, I’d laugh. What else? What other fate than this? A force of nature, no other way for it to be. A fire can only grow, or die.
And I’ve always knew - it was in the poison of my words, the lace of my anger, the desire in my groin. It was the wild blood in me. You have destroyed me - bewitched. I remain at your mercy, like I’ve always been.
Finding words has never been hard for me - yet no words have ever been worthy of you. Just know that - I am you - I made you - you made me - this alone gives me the right - on you - to own you.
You are mine, in death and life.”
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St. Lamberti - Goebbels after indulging in Hitler-ridden Munich days for some time
There is one single candle in the laced darkness of St. Lamberti, pouring its shaky, tired light through the stained glass on the streets of the city - without the shame of its size.
I know I want him with the eternity of that daring, shivering flame. Der Tod ist ein Meister. Like a cheap wine circling in my veins and churning my stomach in the frosty, muddy paths of Rheydt, a craving echoes in my body wave after wave and I sway, sway, sway… I know what he wants - to hold a thousand men and their thousand sons in the palm of his hand. And I want him with the grandeur of the words he drips on the paper, slithering across his skin like the black ink, trickling down the folds of his fingers. I want all of him - zeitlos, unbegrenzt - until it goes through me like an endless spring, like a white-hot knife through the snow. Der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland.
A fire grows and rains on the ruins with ash and cinder. The scorched air rises to the sky, and the fresh wind oozes into the heart of flames, birthing them anew. How cruel! The beauty of the sight betrays the carnage - until the flames exhaust all there was to stand. One day in time shall Hamburg burn like that.
Yet my death already casts its shadow on today – like St. Lamberti on the tiles I walk upon. The whispers tell of my fate, a tale now more known to me than the word of God. Evangel! I am to share the same end, but remain thrilled, fervent, elated. I have found God!
Der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland sein Auge ist blau. Vater vergib!
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From: (Anonymous)
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White gloves won't stay white forever
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Re: White gloves won't stay white forever
And Siebold, who was immaculately dressed in his summer uniform, head to toe in white, except for the two black pieces of cloth on his collar, on one of which were embroidered two white lighting bolts, and with the exception of the black boots that were freshly shined. How very neat he always looked. To imagine him looking like that behind a barbed wire fence, stepping on a worn out prisoner’s face.
He had come carrying flowers in his slender hands, white gloves and white flowers, looking like a handsome young bride. The flowers were a gift for Grete and placed in a vase on the table that happened to be positioned such that from where I was sitting half of Siebold's face disappeared behind the bouquet of blossoms and often that afternoon I could not tell if he was smiling or not. The white of his uniform, or possibly that red wine, gave his cheeks a rosy tint, and so I thought he looked happy even when his eyes did not.
A red dusk was settling in, and we were glowing, laughing and drinking. The sun was slowly sinking, and would soon disappear behind the roof of the house, its last rays still shimmering in the treetops and throwing long shadows over the tall lawn, over the tired looking vegetable beds that had already been harvested, and into the deep thickets of blackberry and belladonna, into which Siebold led me by the hand, the gesture rekindling some idle memories from a time that seemed incredibly distant now, when we were little and innocent too. He still wore his gloves, which gave the touch of our hands a distant quality, like caressing the pages of a beloved book without even the desire to read a word. Together we passed through the spotted light and darkness of the garden’s undergrowth until he stopped by the pond, where long fern leaves bend over the dark surface, gazing at their own reflection. Letting go of my hand, he leaned on the old ivy tree by the pond’s marshy edge. I noticed that he had taken two white carnations from his gift to Grete and put them through one of the buttonholes of his tunic. I was reminded of Vienna and of Bohemia, when we had marched in wearing flowers and flowers were thrown at our feet and crushed under our heels. All of this, observations and associations are still well preserved, memory stacked upon memory, and on the very top, that image of Siebold framed in dark green, coyly holding his peaked cap in his hands, a slurred smile on his lips, looking as if he was hiding a parting gift, a little memento to slip in my pocket for me to take back to the front.
There was no alarm, no warning or signal of any kind, only the white trail left by a plane high above. How very peculiar that this single plane lost in the vast empty sky dropped a single bomb here, where there was nothing but farms and fields and forests as far as the eye could see, and how peculiar that this one stray bomb found its target in Achim's little home just as all my old friends were gathered there, and that it struck the house just as Siebold placed his hand on my shoulder, adjusting his weight, leaning closer to whisper in my ear. His words were cut off by one terrific blast and all that remains of it are some meaningless syllables and his warm breath on my cheek.
The shock wave threw us both to the ground. As I was used to being treated like this by the machinations of war, I quickly recovered and after the initial confusion it was my first instinct to jump up and run back to the house, of which I could see from here only the roof or what had once been a roof and was now only a hole, the heavy wooden beams of the old house standing out like the jagged broken bones out of a gaping wound. I had not even taken notice of Siebold, my eyes still fixed on the roof, but a sudden premonition of something even more terribly wrong struck me and I turned to him.
His face was now of the same ashen white as his uniform. He was kneeling and struggling to get up, one hand digging into the mossy grass and the mud, his knees sinking into the wet soil. The other hand was clutching his stomach. Between his twisting fingers the white fabric was torn and red, and that little round red spot grew rapidly, growing and flowing downwards onto his trousers and seeping into the white of his gloves. It all seemed to happen far too quickly, like the projection of an old silent film, in which the little figures flew by with such haste, or maybe it was just me, who was frozen in time as I stared at the surreal image of the man dissolving inside out.
Siebold's lips opened and closed without a word or a sound, his eyes professing his disbelief. He slid his hand under his tunic searching for an explanation. As soon and suddenly as he found the wound the reality of it all struck. Sweat broke out on his forehead and between his brows, tears welled in his eyes and his face twisted into a pained grimace.
"Dear God," he said to himself and to me he said, "..look, look, look!"
He opened his tunic like a heavy stage curtain, revealing a gash deep in his stomach and wide open, and by that hole his intestines were laid bare and they squirmed and trembled like fat worms, the poor creatures disturbed in their warm hiding place. Stronger than the smell of blood was the unbearable stench of faeces as his guts had been torn and were oozing their contents into the cavity of his stomach.
Siebold moaned and threw up. As he bent over blood and liquid shit spilled out of him and he caught the brown soup in his cupped hands as if he meant to pour it back in or to drink it.
We laid him on the table between the broken crockery, scattered flowers, half-eaten food and spilled wine, and we stood around him, taking turns holding his hand and the blood kept running out of him for another five hours of terrible torment. Then he was finally dead. The country doctor arrived a short while later. Except for the rats in the attic Siebold was the only victim of this air raid.
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Peiper Gagged
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There is a marriage photo on the back of the door of his bunk, a young, clean-shaven man in dress uniform vaguely resembling this husk of a man is holding a tan brunette in his strong arms. They look very much in love.
The new lad recognizes that very face from the magazines he used to read before it was his time to serve in the war, those about great soldiers, great deeds, battles won, real and imagined, facts interblending with fiction. Torment is well hidden between the lines, in often practiced, mantric phrases of speech.
Yet across his captain’s face grim death is written loud and clear. He’s been out too many times. Between the motions of the speech, with which he welcomes the replacement crew onboard, he looks like the sick do in their last hours, a transparent piece of paper with a face drawn on it flickering in the wind.
Later the captain draws the young lad into his bunk. It’s terribly tight in there, a crushing privacy that seems less privilege than burden. The smoke of his cigarette fills the small space like a chimney. He is too tired for orders and it’s not necessary, the matter is self-explanatory. “I will need you,” he says.
The lad is still in the dress uniform he wore when he waved his mama goodbye just hours ago. Two rows of buttons on the front and the hat with the cute little ribbon. He is a farmer’s son. His cheeks are red, his breath warm, his body soft and strong and full of life. The captain pushes him with the back up against the wall, softly, weakly, and the young lad follows the indication. With practised swiftness the captain unbuttons the front of lad’s trousers and feels around in the lad’s underpants, finding his limp penis. Then he masturbates him to erection. It takes a while, the lad stands frozen like a hare, the captain leaning on him, stale breath on his shoulder, that beard itching his neck. There is no admiration left in him for that husk of a man and the reaction is entirely physical.
Once his genital is hard enough to be of service, the captain reaches for a jar of grease by the bed and applies it generously, sliding a big chunk up and down the shaft until heat and friction melt it down.
“You’re big,” he says matter-of-factly. He is pleased, but can not muster excitement.
Turning his back to the lad he pulls down his own trousers. He smells like sweat and semen and many men. His ass is covered in red sores. For a lack of meat on his cheeks, his anus is visible, glaring at the lad like a swollen red puffy eye. It's afflicted by some venereal disease cooked up by the combined forces of the European armies. It looks wet and smells rotten. Open by half an inch, the small round black hollow is hungry to be filled.
The lad averts his eyes. He puts his back flat to the wall, trying to become part of the interior, a cog in the machine vessel rather than man, who can feel disgust or shame, or be violated by the use and abuse of his body.
The captain bends over, resting his forehead on the opposite wall of the tight bunk. They are scrunched up in the small space, limps and flesh pressing together. His anus gapes open. Light note of feces. He shoves his fingers into his rectum, pushing around in there to make way. With the other hand he grab’s the lad’s penis by the base, holding it right like a vice. Then he slowly slides it into his guts, swallowing it all the way to the base with a wet sound. Having his intestines adequately stuffed, he emits a satisfied groan as if he’d finally got to scratch a terrible itch on his back.
“Hold your erection, “ he says to the lad and the lad tries, wrapping his finger tight around the base of his disobedient genital.
The captain moves back and forth, penetrating himself with hard jolted movements. His penis hardens. It’s well shaped and well proportioned, aesthetic, but useless. Like a deranged ascetic, he does not touch himself, receiving pleasure merely from the stimulation of his prostate. But the size and the length of the softening penis do not suffice to make him feel like he wants to feel, terribly stretched and deeply violated.
“Put your fingers in my ass, fuck me, now,” he whispers, need and want breaking his voice
Despite his revulsion at the sight of the stinking hole swallowing his penis the lad obeys, sliding his big fingers into the captain’s red guts and penetrating him deeply.
“Yes, yes, yes..” the man mutters, drifting off, tensing and slacking and then ejaculating silently, dripping transparent thin semen on the smooth metal floor.
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chapeau
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A little boy becomes the "special favorite" of the SS officer who selects him.
A gorgeous young boy. Hair as blond and glossy as honey, skin as white and soft as whipped cream, eyes as piercingly blue as the ocean, teeth as straight and perfect as porcelain. Perfect. All of him. He had a soft personality, he never spoke up and radiated a distant feeling. When asked to do something either by an officer or by another cadet he would immediately do it; even if his no-questions-asked motto made him misunderstand things, He always had good intentions.
The SS Officer soon learned his name was Otto. What an adorable name! He was so small, 5’0” at most, and only 11 years old.
He was so young the the officer tried to slap some sense into himself. “He’s a child. you’re a man. You should go find a wife. You sick bastard!”
He was a sick bastard. He couldn’t stop himself! This petite, handsome, obedient, shy and nationalistic boy was his dream! It was a blazing hot day when it happened, when he finally approached his little stud.
He was nervous, and again tried to find his senses. “He’s just a kid! Why am I nervous talking to him? I’m his superior!” He shoved past his confused irony, and blurted out, with a bizarre confidence
“Come with me.”
Otto stood up from the log he sat on “yessir!”
The officer brought the youngster to a secluded area, with trees and bushes covering all around them.
“Otto, I have a special task for you.” The older said while sitting down on the plush grass, inside the house of coverings. Otto ducked down under a branch, following his leader into the wooded area “yessir.” He said again, even though he genuinely was curious why they found themselves here. The officer grabbed the buttoned pants of the child, unclipping them and pulling them around his ankles. Otto practically jumped out of his skin. “SIR!” he shrieked hopping onto the ground and scrambling to pull his pants back up. The officer was now quiet a bit shorter than him, having sat down as soon as they hid. So when the boy stood, pulling his pants back up, the officer could move in and kiss his chest.
The kiss also made the young squirm, but he couldn’t bumble another “sir” out of his lips this time. He just let out a low whine. He fumbled with the button on his pants for a second, while the older was now unbuttoning his shirt with his tongue. The boy stopped grabbing at this pant for a second. And he found himself getting aroused. He felt bizarre, but he sunk to his knees and let the older officer bite off his shirt. The officer finished and pulled his shirt off of his adolescent body, and he hugged him warmly. Otto melted into the embrace of the man, and the officer turned back and sucked the boys pink-rosy nipples. The boy moan slightly, and the officer sucked more. He then had the boys pants (and boxers!) back around his ankles, and was testing his fingers around his hole. Otto gladly accept the two fingers the man gave him. He had never had anything penetrate him there before, it didn’t hurt as much as he thought, maybe because the officer lubed his fingers with his own spit so they could glide in.
After he was squirming uncontrollably, The officer knew he was ready for his cock. He unbuttoned his trousers and whipped out his large, veiny member. After spitting on the youngest hole a few times, he figured that this would do. He fucked the young boy aggressively, but Otto didn’t mind. He grabbed his hair tightly and shot a big load inside the small creature. The rubbed his cheeks a bit, like a massage in a way. He stood up and buttoned up his pants letting the boy recollect himself in the grass. He stepped out of the wooded area, but before he did he made sure to remind the destroyed young that this was far from the only time he’d be sneaking away from the other boys.
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Re: A little boy becomes the "special favorite" of the SS officer who selects him.
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From: (Anonymous)
Re: A little boy becomes the "special favorite" of the SS officer who selects him.
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(in a military hospital)
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His favourite subject, which quickly made up most of his artistic output, both in the field of photography and medicine, was one dashing cavalry officer from a rich family. He had come in with the uniform still hanging in shreds off his minced body.
The handsome, yet tragically destroyed young man received flowers every Friday from a certain someone, who chose to remain anonymous. Sometimes it was a bouquet of roses, sometimes carnations, or tulips, lilies, but all of them were spotlessly white. These deliveries arrived just in time to replace last week’s wilting bouquet, yet often the patient’s room was filled with the sickening sweet smell of dying flowers, which barely concealed the sharp edge of disinfectant and urine.
The baroness, his mother, never did visit, but she had paid for a single room and the chief physician’s loving care, which helped isolate her precious boy. This circumstance allowed the doctor to develop an intense passion for the young man, one of the like that he could only foster in privacy. Soon the patient was all alone in his doctor’s hands and how busy he kept those nimble fingers. Between the shot of the camera and the cut of the scalpel, life was running out of his pretty officer all the ways.
His mouth had been torn open and shredded by a terrible explosion. What remained of teeth and tongue had to be removed. As a result he drooled uncontrollably and the moist wound attracted flies, which, when he slept, crawled over his face and squeezed through his bandages, into his mouth and down his throat. This usually caused him to wake up, coughing up the fat little insects with an expression of terror that never did lose its intensity. Yes, what intense eyes he had and how he could glare. If he had not been beautiful before, he had undoubtedly been proud.
The drooling did not cease even when Münzel decided to close the mouth hole almost completely, sewing all its shreds back together into a rosy smooth mosaic and leaving only a little opening, big enough for the patient’s feeding tube.
Then the patient oozed pus from the stumps of his four amputated limbs, in particular from the legs, which were sawed off especially close to the body. Three weeks into his care the stump of the left leg had gotten so badly infected that the doctor first scraped the soft rotten flesh off the bone and then amputated the leg entirely, down to the hip.
Unfortunately the wound rot returned, now afflicting what had remained of the young man’s genital. This worsened his incontinence from a psychological to a medical condition and eventually necessitated the insertion of catheters of increasing diameter.
Münzel took this task upon himself, as the nurses were not to be trusted with the delicate procedure. While decently capable of care and technique in other patients, in particularly when it came to dashing lads, who were not missing too many limbs and could still wear a tragic smile on their face, the girls seemed to be unconsciously repulsed by his marvellous specimen. Their haste to leave the patient’s room as soon as possible had many times resulted in a needlessly violent penetration and tearing of his urethra.
Once the doctor had taken over this task, there were no more internal tears and the blood disappeared from his patient’s urine, which was but a small success. Changing the catheter also allowed the doctor to regularly masturbate his patient. Curiosity had prompted him to do so, merely to see if the sexual organs were still functional. At first the young man had reacted terribly to the sexual stimulation. He had squirmed in his wormish fashion and emitted that guttural wailing moan, which was his only way of communication now. This dramatic behaviour seemed rather silly to Münzel, given that the patient had been subjected to much more painful procedures. He told the young man rather sternly to comply lest he want to be strapped down for it or have his morphine dosage reduced. This fixed his unbecoming behaviour. The result of his efforts was not particularly impressive, less manly projection of vitality than a slow pathetic running out, occasionally even accompanied by effeminate tears.
No matter how much he bandaged, nipped, and stitched and cut, his patient was just constantly leaking, weeping, his very essence running out of every orifice; blood, spit, urine and faeces, occasionally vomit, and semen and pus and tears.
Months passed and the flowers kept on coming, yet no visitor disturbed their idyll, the photographs of his cavalier filled the doctor’s books and his cavalier’s eyes were still glaring at him full of hatred and pain. There was only one thing Münzel still desired and that was consummation. He had already envisioned it all, framed it in little squares. First he would cut his patient up all the way bottom to top, feel around in his still warm innards and lay them all out for the camera, one by one. Then he would inspect them all to his heart's desire and document their decay and destruction in minuscule detail. Eventually he would have to put them back in and sew the body back up, before delivering the remains to the baroness. The casket would be closed of course.
But death would simply not come, as if the worm was still holding on, waiting for something.
It occurred to Münzel one day, as he found his patient staring longingly at the wilted flowers by his bedside, that the young man was holding on to some sentimental feelings, even love maybe, for the one who sent those flowers, and that it was this love and these flowers which fed his determination to live. This made him angry. He sedated the patient. Making a very small cut in his abdominal wall, he inserted two flowers from his bedside, stalks of Gypsophila, into his stomach, sliding the little flowers somewhere between his guts. Having closed the small wound, he then instructed the nurses to discard any further deliveries of gifts, in particular those terrible flowers.
Two weeks later his patient was dead, of broken heart and intra-abdominal infection.
In the mortuary Münzel cut him open and to his surprise he found the flowers perfectly preserved in a nest of festering guts that had nourished them all those days. He put them in a vase in his office, but torn from the warm comfort of their moist bed, they died within a night.
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a boy impressed by Joe's speech
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Girls-only wine night turned into a sloppy drunk lesbian orgy again
"Girls-only wine night turned into a sloppy drunk lesbian orgy again"
Magda Goebbels/Emmy Göring (or still Sonnemann, your choice)
From: (Anonymous)
Prompt: Unwashed soldiers force conquered boy to suck them off
Show me how erotic you think unwashed bodies are, dear author!
Bonus points for victim being prim, proper, upper-class-y.
From: (Anonymous)
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