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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Operation Ganymede - 22. Chapter 22 - Confrontation Under Pressure
In a tense room, Müller imposes a troubling exercise on Arnfried and Eisenmann, under the curious gaze of the Pimpfes. The lesson, cold and methodical, forces the boys to confront their physical and emotional reactions. Shame and confusion intertwine as the training reveals difficult truths to accept.
With a voice that brooked no argument, the Unteroffizier turned to Eisenmann “Eisenmann, put your hand on Klein’s thigh.”
Eisenmann, with a plain wobble, obeyed, his fingers brushing Arnfried’s thigh, which stiffened at once. It felt queer—embarrassment tangled with a fear you could read plain on his face.
“There,” Müller went on, voice cold and measured, “imagine you want to touch his privates. Tell me how you’d go about it.”
Eisenmann, red with shame, tried to muster a confidence he didn’t feel “I… I’d slide my hand… slow-like… so as not to… not to spook him, I reckon.”
Müller nodded, his tone icy and clipped “Good. Do it!"
Eisenmann, gobsmacked, didn’t know how to twig. Touch his privates?! His eyes met Arnfried’s, catching shame and horror there. Flicking quick to Müller, he saw the order wasn’t up for debate. Shaky, he started moving his hand, slow, tracing up the thigh, each inch heavy in the air.
The two Pimpfes, spellbound, swapped a fast glance, eyes widening further. How could this play out in front of everyone? Heissler felt a queer thrill spark in him, watching the chap who, just two hours back, was his team leader, now laid so bare under their gaze.
Arnfried, feeling Eisenmann’s hand near the seam then slip over his shorts, shut his eyes, cheeks blazing, shame mixing with a helpless pang. The Pimpfes, still gripped, leaned forward a touch, their faces a brew of disbelief and near-unchecked fascination. Was this really happening?
Eisenmann’s hand hit the fly at last, each bit of the trek stretching like forever. He faltered, breath loud in the room’s stifling hush, before resting his hand—not rough, but with a gentleness forced by the fix. The Pimpfes, unable to look away, let out short gasps, eyes glinting with a shamed sort of stun. A leader, humbled like this… in front of us?!
Arnfried, in this raw spot, felt the touch like a scorch, every tick a jab at his public disgrace. He kept his head low, thoughts whirling between rage, shame, and a strange thanks to Eisenmann for not pressing hard. The Pimpfes couldn’t stop sneaking peeks at Arnfried, their greedy curiosity laced with a thrill near tangible, like they were at a forbidden show they couldn’t grasp nor dodge.
Müller, watching with clinical chill, showed no flicker, just a teacher’s keenness for the lesson.
“OK. Now, Eisenmann, tell me what you feel.”
Eisenmann, flustered, took a beat before answering, voice wobbling with unease “I… I feel the shape of… of his privates.”
“Be sharper,” Müller snapped.
“It’s… it’s soft. Like a bulge. You… you can tell it’s longish. And… there’s heat.”
Müller, digging for detail, pressed on “Consistency?”
“Consistency?”
“Texture, if you like.”
“I… dunno… underneath, there’s… er, you feel flesh, and it’s a bit firmer,” Eisenmann said, cheeks flaming with shame.
“Klein, tell us what you feel.”
Arnfried, voice quaking, groped for words “I… f… feel awkward.”
Müller cut him off sharp, tone dry and unyielding “No, Klein. That’s not what I’m after. Awkward’s a feeling, not a sensation. I want what your body’s clocking, physical-like. Be exact. Try again.”
Arnfried swallowed, the weight of eyes pressing like lead. He dropped his gaze, straining to focus through the shame eating him up. His voice, shaky, quivered more “I… I feel tension all over.”
Müller gave a slight nod, but his stare stayed cold, demanding.
“Go on. And Eisenmann’s hand? What’s that like?”
Arnfried shut his eyes a tick, as if to dodge it all, but Müller’s voice yanked him back harsh. He drew a wobbly breath before replying “His hand… it’s warm. I feel his fingers… and I want ‘em off.”
Müller, stone-faced, watched him a moment before pushing “And under his fingers? Where he’s touching—how’s that reacting?”
Arnfried’s cheeks flared hotter, but he knew he had no out. Each word cost him dear “It’s… it’s queer. Feels like it wants to close up, to… shield itself. And… and there’s a heat rising, not just from the hand, but… inside, like everything’s rushing faster.”
Müller tilted his head a fraction, eyes boring into Arnfried.
“Queer?” he echoed, brow up. “Surely it’s not the first time someone’s touched you there, Klein?”
Arnfried, floored, snapped his eyes to Müller, face a mask of total bewilderment. His brows knit, a flash of pique crossing his look, like he wouldn’t stomach what Müller was hinting.
His mouth opened, but no sound came, his short breath spilling his turmoil.
Müller, unmoved, rolled on, voice cold and precise “Don’t play the innocent, Klein. Games between lads your age—in dorms, locker rooms, even camp—you know what I mean. It’s not new to you, is it? Nor to anyone here!”
Sweeping the Pimpfes with a glance, he landed on Eisenmann, hand still on Arnfried’s fly. The man’s voice, sharp as ever, rose to the room “All of you here have mucked about like that at least once. Don’t pretend. In dorms, tucked-away corners, or during drills when you think no one’s watching. It’s what lads your age do. You know it, and I know it.”
A thick hush crashed down. The Pimpfes swapped quick looks, blushing faint, caught off guard by Müller’s bluntness. Heissler, hooked till now, turned away, a glint of unease on his face.
Müller pressed on, relentless “But today’s not about whether it’s happened. This ain’t doctrine class! It’s what you make of it. On a mission, these sensations, memories, reactions—you’ve got to grasp ‘em and master ‘em. You can’t let shame or awkwardness freeze you. You’re Reich soldiers, not kids hiding behind excuses.”
Arnfried felt his heart sink. The humiliation, already unbearable, swelled like a tide drowning him. He wanted to kick back, deny it, but the words stuck in his throat. Murky but real memories crept up—furtive moments, clumsy fumbles with mates, hushed understandings. He swallowed, eyes dodging Müller’s, and mumbled near inaudible “Yes… it’s… it’s happened.”
Müller nodded, not a shred of softness.
“Good. Then you know it’s not ‘queer.’ What you’re feeling’s normal. But on a mission, you’ve got to get past it. Analyse it, understand it, use it. Your awkwardness, your huff—none of that fits here.”
Arnfried kept his head down, fists clenched on his thighs, shame gnawing him hollow. The Pimpfes’ stares, heavy on him, layered his disgrace thicker. He wanted to vanish, but he knew Müller wasn’t done, and this lesson—cruel as it was—would grind on till he’d nothing left to hide.
Müller, at last seeming satisfied, straightened and faced the group, voice cutting “There. That’s what I expect. Spot your sensations, break ‘em down, get ‘em. No ducking behind vague stuff like awkwardness or shame. In the field, these’ll be your tools. You’ll analyse ‘em, tame ‘em, wield ‘em. Klein, you’re starting to twig, but you’ve got to push further. Next time, I want you rattling it off without a stutter, no freezing up.”
Arnfried, head bowed, didn’t answer. Each of Müller’s words carved another nick, but he knew this lesson, humiliating as it was, was far from over.
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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