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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 - 23. Chapter 23 - Under the Yoke
Internal tensions and power dynamics emerge through the dialogues and reflections we witness, in a heavy atmosphere steeped in the authority and discipline imposed on the Pimpfes and Hitlerjugend. Confronted with their emotions and roles, the boys waver between obedience and personal unease.
The door slammed shut with a dull thud, sharp as a guillotine, leaving behind a stifling silence. The two Hitlerjugend lads and their Pimpfes had scarpered for a half-hour break, their hurried footsteps still echoing down the corridor. The air hung heavy, thick with the chalky scent of the classroom and the damp reek of old wood. Oberleutnant Dettmann fixed a piercing stare on Unteroffizier Müller, who lounged against a desk, arms crossed, a sly smirk twisting his thin lips. In the pale light filtering through the grimy windows, Dettmann adjusted his spectacles, the lines on his forehead tightening like taut ropes. Müller, unmoved, met his gaze with cold, mocking grey eyes.
“Perfekt,” Dettmann snapped, his voice low but cutting as a blade. “Splendid work, Müller, but you’re playing with fire. That little stunt with the boys—don’t you reckon you’ve gone a bit far?”
Müller raised an eyebrow, his smirk stretching into something insolent. “Far? Come now, Herr Oberleutnant, you know as well as I do our hands were never tied too tight for this sort of sport. That’s what they’re here for, isn’t it?”
A chill ran through Dettmann, his teeth grinding audibly. He and Müller went back a long way—a twisted pact forged in the shadows of Hitlerjugend camps near Stuttgart. Two officers with dark appetites, bound by a secret they only half-spoke. How many times, under a sweltering summer sky or in the clammy gloom of a dormitory, had they seized their chance? A lad lingering after a chore, a lone figure on a march, a silence bought with fear and rank. They knew the stakes: one slip from a broken boy, one prying glance from a comrade, and it’d all come crashing down. The SA didn’t forgive slip-ups, and the Gestapo even less. But that danger, far from curbing them, only stoked the flames.
“All the same,” Dettmann pressed, his tone sharper, almost brittle, “what you made Eisenmann and Klein do—that’s another kettle of fish. If word gets up top, we’re done for. Do you grasp what they’d do to us?”
A low, nasty chuckle rumbled from Müller, like thunder underground. “Didn’t the show tickle your fancy, Herr Oberleutnant?” he tossed back, eyes glinting with sharp malice, cornering Dettmann into an admission he wouldn’t voice. The silence that followed was thick, electric with tension. A twitch jerked at the corner of Dettmann’s mouth, betraying what he wouldn’t say. “Get up top?” Müller went on, brushing the worry aside with a flick of his voice. “Those little blighters are too well-drilled to squeal. And who’d believe ‘em, eh? No, Herr Oberleutnant, this is a golden chance, and you know it as well as I do. That SA chap and his so-called ‘mission’? We couldn’t care less. He’s just handed us the boys on a silver platter, and now I’m here, I’m not letting it slip.”
Dettmann narrowed his eyes, torn between caution and a craving he wouldn’t own up to. The SA officer’s order—pick a couple of lads for some murky task—meant little to them, true enough. What mattered was the door it cracked open: a shot at feeding their urges where camps and drills only tossed them scraps. Müller hadn’t hesitated. That business with Eisenmann and Klein? A spur-of-the-moment whim, a twisted fancy he’d forced through without a flinch, his eyes alight with perverse glee.
“A chance, perhaps,” Dettmann allowed, his voice hardening to steel, “but you’re charging in blind. I’d never have risked it in broad daylight, not with the other two watching.”
“And that’s why I’m here,” Müller shot back, his tone mocking, almost a taunt. “You, Herr Oberleutnant, stay all prim and proper in your corner, but me, I take the lead. Look at it : Eisenmann groping Klein, and Klein just taking it, red as a beet but meek as a lamb. It’s silk! The Reich’s trained ‘em so well they bend without a peep. Admit it—you liked watching that lad get pawed right under your nose. It’s exactly what we’ve always wanted, isn’t it?”
Dettmann let out a sharp breath, peering at Müller over his glasses. That boldness grated on him, but he couldn’t deny its cunning—or its pull. He preferred the shadows, letting Müller cross lines he wouldn’t touch. Straightening up, he squared his shoulders, voice firm: “Watch yourself, Müller. No slip-ups. We’ll have our fun, but if it goes sour, it’s our necks on the block.”
Müller tilted his head, a crooked grin on his lips, mock-submissive. “Jawohl, Herr Oberleutnant. No fuss—just enough to keep us entertained.”
Silence settled again, heavy as lead. The half-hour dragged on, endless. Dettmann brooded, caught between wariness and temptation, while Müller relished the thrill of his sick game, a dark spark in his eyes.
The door banged shut with a harsh echo, and Arnfried stumbled into the corridor, legs wobbly as if the stone floor might give way. The dim yellow glow of bare bulbs cast jagged shadows on the peeling walls, and the air stank of stale sweat and crumbling plaster. The thirty-minute break loomed ahead—half a reprieve, half a fresh ordeal. Each step thudded in his chest, Müller’s every word still hammering his skull like a red-hot poker. Shame gnawed at him, a double ember scorching his guts. First, that flop he’d dressed up as a triumph for Eisenmann—a mission he’d bragged about, now laid bare in all its raw, pitiful failure. Then, that humiliation, served up under the Pimpfes’ stares, those kids he was meant to impress. And among them, Heissler—those odd, gleaming eyes, almost hungry, catching him as Eisenmann, following orders, gripped him through his short trousers. A shiver hit him, icy, at the thought.
He slumped against the wall, breath ragged, cheeks still blazing with feverish red. “Blimey!” he growled, voice rough, a curse that slipped out when everything went to pot. He saw Heissler again, those shining eyes fixed on him with a warped fascination, like he was some freak show. What had that rotter seen? A laugh? Something nastier? Arnfried clenched his fists, rage and embarrassment knotting up tight.
A steady hand landed on his shoulder, pulling him from his spiral. Eisenmann, who’d trailed him quietly, met his eyes with a clear, rock-solid gaze. “Oi, Arnfried, pull yourself together,” he said, calm, almost soft. “It’s over now. No need to get in a state.”
Arnfried looked up, thrown by the lack of scorn in his mate’s face. “Over?” he spat, bitter, voice shaky. “Rot! Everyone saw I mucked it up—me, who spun you that yarn about the mission. And the Pimpfes… Heissler, with that look of his… I don’t even know what to call it! And you, you who—” He cut off, words stuck, shame surging back like acid.
Eisenmann tightened his grip, a faint smile tugging his lips. “What the Pimpfes think ain’t worth a farthing. And me? I did what I was told, nothing more. You’re not in this alone.” He paused, weighing his words, then added, “You know, I didn’t always find this sort of thing a doddle either.”
Arnfried frowned, curiosity cutting through his storm. “What, you? You act like nothing fazes you.”
Eisenmann gave a short, honest chuckle. “Not at first, believe me. Back with the Wandervögel, before the Hitlerjugend swallowed us up, there were nights… well, tricky ones. Round the fire, we’d huddle under blankets to keep warm. The older lads had a game: they’d slide their hands over the young ones’ shorts, slow and sneaky, and we had to sit tight, not a word. First time, I was frozen stiff, heart thumping like mad. It turned my stomach. All I wanted was to scarper. But you toughen up—you learn to let it roll off.”
Arnfried stared, brows knit, a bit lost. “A game?” he muttered, unsure. “Spell it out—I’m not following.”
Eisenmann shrugged, a half-smile on, like it was no big deal. “Plain as day: you’re under the blanket, stuck next to a big chap, and he’d run his hand—right there, on your
cock, see. You couldn’t twitch, couldn’t blink, just let him carry on quiet-like so the others wouldn’t twig. That’s how it was.”
Arnfried listened, jaw slack, the tightness in his shoulders easing a touch. Eisenmann kept on, steady as ever: “What we just went through’s much the same. Müller wants us to buckle, but he won’t break us if we stand firm. No need to hide from me, Arnfried. We’re in the same boat.”
A silence stretched out, broken by the distant chatter of the Pimpfes down the hall. Arnfried swallowed, throat still tight, but Eisenmann’s words were a balm on a raw wound. “You really reckon… it’s not a big deal, all this?” he whispered, half to himself.
“Jolly good stuff!” Eisenmann shot back with a wink. “We’re tougher than their rotten lessons. Let the Pimpfes stew—Heissler and his queer look’s his problem, not yours.”
Arnfried managed a weak grin, his first since they’d left the room. Eisenmann let go of his shoulder, giving him a matey slap on the back, sealing their bond. Shame still lurked, crouched in a corner, but it didn’t crush him now. With Eisenmann beside him, the gale felt a bit less fierce.
The door crashed shut with a metallic clang, and Heissler slipped out with the rest, heart pounding in his ribs, sweaty palms sliding on his rough shorts. The thirty-minute break yawned ahead like a fevered forever. What he’d just seen had shaken him to the core—but not with fright. No, he was buzzing, over the moon, near delirious. Two big lads—Hitlerjugend, not some snot-nosed brats—had done it, right there in front of everyone! Eisenmann, hand diving onto Klein’s shorts, feeling him up bold as brass, and Klein, stock-still, cheeks flaming like a bonfire. It was mad, absolutely topping.
For months, Heissler had been on the prowl, eyes greedy for any flash of skin that slipped out by chance. A shirt unbuttoned after a job, shorts hitched up showing a muscled thigh, a sweaty chest glinting in the sun—it set him alight, got his blood racing. In secret, he ached to reach out, grab a lad’s bits, not just for the kick, but to watch him squirm, go scarlet, cave under his fingers if he dared say no. And there, in that room, he’d got more than his wildest dreams.
It’d sparked during the drill, not after. Hunkered behind his desk, he’d felt a wild heat flare in his gut the second Eisenmann touched Klein. His own bits went hard as oak, and he’d clamped his thighs shut, breath short, praying Moebius, sat next to him, wouldn’t clock it. One sideways glance, and he’d be sunk—his shorts stretched tight as a drum, no hiding it. He’d slipped a hand between his legs, casual-like, to squash the bulge, heart hammering, terrified the Unteroffizier would bark, “Heissler, up!” or worse, “Front and centre!” It’d have finished him—or maybe fired him up more, who knew.
In the corridor, he leaned against the wall, off to one side, legs still shaky. His eyes slid to Klein and Eisenmann, further down. Klein looked like a whipped pup over there, but Heissler couldn’t care less. What sent him soaring was Klein—his Scharführer from that morning, no less! Seeing Eisenmann paw him through his shorts had floored him. And to see more, see him stripped, at his mercy, to bend him under his own hand, make him flush with shame—that made him drool like a beast eyeing its kill. “Crikey!” he breathed, voice hoarse, eyes shining with raw want. He didn’t know how yet, but one thing was dead certain: he wanted it again, and Klein was in his sights.
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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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