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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 - 24. Chapter 24 - The Riddle of the Mirrors
Back in the library, the boys now face an imposed exercise that will test their reactions and emotions, laying bare their inner tensions and submission to the regime. Caught between youthful camaraderie and oppressive discipline, the four adolescents navigate a moment steeped in unease and ambiguity, mirroring the psychological and physical grip exerted over them.
The library door creaked ajar with a faint, grating whisper, and the four boys—worn shadows—shuffled back to their places after a thirty-minute break, their boots dragging across the gleaming parquet. The room, once a scholar’s sanctuary in the Bavarian manor, oozed a raw, almost stifling charm: dark wooden walls, weathered by time, carved shelves bowing under rows of books with faded bindings, and tall, spotless windows letting in a golden light—almost too soft—caressing the floor like a deceitful promise. The four desks, still perfectly aligned, stood at the heart of this space, now a classroom born from the hands of Oberleutnant Dettmann. Leaning against a shelf, arms crossed, he watched, his spectacles catching a fleeting glint of sunlight, while Unteroffizier Müller stood rigid at the centre—a frost-carved figure with sharp eyes, master of a silence that hung like a threat.
Before each desk, a mirror with a tarnished wooden frame waited, impassive. Eisenmann, Klein, Moebius, and Heissler slumped into their seats, their old clothes rasping against the wood. A faint whiff of warm wax and aged leather lingered in the air, laced with the sharp tang of sweat baked into their gear from the morning’s ordeal. Müller snapped his heels together, the sound slicing through the stillness. “To your places, eyes wide open,” he ordered, his voice honed like an icy blade—cold, unyielding, cloaking a feigned indifference that crushed any hint of defiance. “This time, we’re tackling a rare art: seduction! Look into those mirrors and tell us, loud and clear, what makes you fetching, in your own reckoning. No half-measures—give us a few details. You, Moebius, start.”
The youngest of the Pimpfes stiffened, his fingers clutching the desk’s edge like a lifeline. Beneath a mop of light brown hair, trimmed to strict regulation, his blue eyes widened at his reflection, lost in a sea of doubt. “Er… I dunno, really,” he stammered, his thin voice wavering, buckling under the strain. “My eyes, maybe? They’re… light…” He faltered, his hands fumbling with his too-big shirt, then added, as if torn out: “And my height… not too tall, it don’t stand out.” Each word was a battle, an echo of his conditioning—that Nazi machine that had taught him to stifle pride, to never linger too long in the looking glass.
Müller narrowed his eyes, a biting silence stretching before he growled, low and guttural: “That’ll do. Heissler, your turn.”
Heissler straightened, his shoulders knotted under a threadbare jumper, his gaze diving into the mirror with a troubled intensity. Fetching? When I make you bend, Klein, he thought, a hot surge coursing through him before crashing against a wall of silence. “My eyes…” he rasped at last, his voice rough, hesitant, “they’re sharp, piercing. And…” His fingers scraped the wood, groping, then he muttered: “My strength, maybe. It counts.” He turned his head aside, uneasy, his buried desires—those shadows he nursed in secret—shattering against years of discipline that commanded him to hush, to deny.
“Eisenmann,” Müller snapped, his tone cracking like a whip.
Eisenmann leaned back in his chair, a fleeting smirk playing on his lips. He sized up his reflection with an ease bordering on cheek, as if the task were a trifling dare. “My confidence, for a start—it puts others at ease. My shoulders, they’ve got presence. And my voice—straight, it carries.” The words flowed smooth, almost too slick, his relaxed stance defying the others’ strain, a glint of control shining in his eyes.
Then it was Klein’s turn. He sat rooted, his hands gripping the desk till the wood creaked. His reflection stared back, a merciless judge, stoking embers still warm—those looks, that heat, the trial before. “I…” he tried, throat tight, before the words choked off. His cheeks blazed, his eyes darted to the floor, his fingers trembling under an unseen weight. “I dunno. Nothing… nothing worth a jot,” he mumbled, his hoarse voice fading, swallowed by the shame of the morning’s drill.
A heavy silence fell, the air thick with unease. Müller tilted his head, his grey eyes glinting with sharp malice. “Nothing, Klein? Truly?” He stepped forward, his voice dropping like a guillotine. “I see something, though. That flush on your cheeks—so bright, so… tender. It catches the eye, makes a chap want to squeeze you dry, eh?” A sneer twisted his lips, and he relished Klein’s flinch, his fists clenching, a stew of bottled rage and humiliation simmering under pale skin. “That suit you for seduction?”
Klein stayed mute, eyes fixed on the floor, while a stifled huff—Heissler’s barely veiled snigger—pierced the air like a needle.
Müller’s words lingered, heavy as a verdict, until their echoes faded into the soft creaks of old wood. The boys, frozen at their desks, seemed suspended in a cold limbo, their reflections wavering between defiance and blame. Then, with calculated brusqueness, Müller shattered the stillness, primed to push his cruel game further.
He straightened, his hands clapping together with a sharp crack that jolted Moebius. “Enough dawdling,” he barked, his voice carved from ice, a sly gleam dancing in his pale eyes. “On to the next. Tell me: which of you has ever kissed?”
A shiver of dread swept the room like a gust. Moebius dropped his head, his cheeks flaring, his fingers tearing at his shirt’s frayed hem. Heissler blinked, a nervous grin twitching at his lips, his mind straying to fleeting shadows before snapping back. Klein tensed, his short breaths hissing through his teeth, a dull panic knotting his gut. Eisenmann alone held his poise, arching a brow, his clear voice cutting the hush: “Kissed, Herr Unteroffizier? Kissed how?”
Müller cocked his head, a wicked smirk stretching his mouth. “Sharp lad, Eisenmann. Not a kiddie peck on the cheek, no. A proper kiss—deep, with tongue, like men.” He paused, savouring the stunned looks bouncing between desks. “Since you’re all greenhorns, it seems, we’ll get cracking. Kiss yourselves in the mirror, right there. Show me what you’ve got. Moebius, go.”
Moebius’s eyes popped wide, a silent gasp escaping him. “M-me… myself?” he stuttered, his voice pitching high, frail as a twig in a gale. He leaned toward the mirror, lips barely brushing the cold glass in a clumsy, fearful dab. His cheeks flamed, and he jerked back, stammering: “It’s… it’s daft, I can’t.” His boyish innocence shone through, reined in by a yoke that forbade letting go.
Müller let out a rough grunt, thick with scorn. “Pathetic. You think that seduces? Heissler, you.”
Heissler stood, a wild spark flashing in his eyes. He neared the mirror with a slow, almost deliberate pace, lips parting. If it weren’t me opposite… he thought, a dull heat rising in his belly, swiftly gulped down. He pressed his mouth to the glass, a firm kiss, his tongue sliding over it in a muted challenge. He pulled back, wiping his lips with a quick swipe, a crooked grin masking his unease. “That do, eh?” he tossed out, his gravelly voice faking boldness.
Müller squinted, a mocking smile curling his lips. “Too sloppy, Heissler. Like a drooling mutt. You’ll do better. Eisenmann, show ’em.”
Eisenmann shrugged, a faint smile tugging his lips. He bent to the mirror with casual assurance, lips meeting his reflection in a steady, controlled kiss, his tongue tracing a brief, precise arc. “Nothing to it,” he said, straightening, his crisp voice ringing in the close space. “Just takes know-how.”
Müller nodded, near pleased. “Not bad, Eisenmann. But too stiff—put some fire in it, not just clockwork. Klein, your go.”
Klein flinched, his shoulders hunching under his worn shirt. He stared at his reflection, lips tight, torn between disgust and duty. No way out, not under this shadow. Slowly, he edged forward, lips grazing the glass in a dry, mechanical peck. His tongue flicked the surface, quick, clinical, his dull eyes locked on an inner void. He drew back, scrubbing his mouth with a sharp jerk, and muttered: “Done.”
Müller narrowed his eyes, a cold smirk twisting his lips. “Done? A corpse has more spark, Klein. Pitiful.” He clapped his hands, his gaze sweeping the four. “Think that’s it? No. Again, all of you. Till it’s perfekt—like craftsmen honing a blade. A deep, fetching kiss, not a kid’s grimace. Practice, over and over. Go!”
The heavy silence cracked under the command, and the boys, resigned, turned back to their mirrors. Moebius, cheeks still ablaze, tried again, his lips quivering against the glass. On his third go, he slipped, nose smacking the surface with a soft “plop,” and he mumbled through gritted teeth: I kiss like a blasted calf! A nervous laugh escaped him, snuffed out fast under Müller’s icy stare, but Klein beside him flashed a fleeting grin—a rare glint on his pale face.
Heissler repeated it with bridled zeal, lips pressing harder each time, tongue venturing further. On the fourth, a dribble of spit streaked the glass, and he pulled back, wiping his mouth with a grunt: “This thing’s slippery!” Müller, unmoving, snapped a curt “Keep at it,” but a flicker of amusement crossed his eyes, as if he relished the unintended farce.
Eisenmann worked at it, refining each try—slower, firmer, a hint of feigned warmth. Once, he murmured to his reflection, too low for Müller to catch: You like that, you little rotter! His grin widened, a crack in his cool mask, before he resumed, sober, under the Unteroffizier’s keen eye.
Klein struggled past his revulsion. Each attempt stayed stiff, rote, lips taut against the glass. On the fifth, fed up, he huffed between kisses: Might as well kiss a plank!—a whisper that shook his shoulders with a choked laugh, swallowed quick under Müller’s glare. “More heart, Klein!” the man barked, relentless.
Minutes dragged on, marked by the wet smack of lips on glass, short breaths, and grunts of effort. Müller paced, a statue of ice demanding perfection, correcting every flaw—“Too soft, Moebius!” “More poise, Heissler!” “Some guts, Eisenmann!” “Wake up, Klein!”—until the motions, repeated endlessly, melded into a cold, hollow dance, a totalitarian grind where the act outstripped the soul.
Off to the side, Dettmann watched, fingers tight on the shelf, the wood groaning under his grip. What a twisted drill, he thought, a mix of irritation and intrigue twisting his gut, but useful for the Mission. His eyes slid to Moebius, so frail, so unguarded—too tender, too weak for what the Obersturmführer demands, a reed that bends in the slightest breeze. Then to Heissler, whose wild glint betrayed a raw spark. That one’s got grit, a coal to stoke—he could serve, if I rein him in. Eisenmann, with his cocksure ease, faintly irked him—too polished, too self-possessed, but steady, a sure pick for the cut. Lastly, Klein, so shut off, so bridled. Fragile on top, but pliable—a tool to shape for the officer’s taste, if he cracks under the strain. A ripple of satisfaction crossed him, laced with cold calculation, masked as he adjusted his spectacles, his stone face veiling a mind ablaze.
The mirror trial faded into a leaden hush, the boys’ reflections still trembling in the pale light, like ghosts trapped in glass. But Müller, insatiable, wasn’t done yet.
“Come on…” he snapped, his voice slashing the air, “…I need two volunteers!”
A dead silence fell, thick with fear and shame. No one stirred. Klein quivered, fists clenched under the desk, the shadow of his ordeal with Eisenmann rumbling in his memory like a bitter echo. Moebius hunched lower, fingers torturing his worn shirt, while Heissler blinked, a shudder running through him. Even Eisenmann, pillar of poise, stayed still, a dark flicker clouding his gaze.
Müller tilted his head, his smile fading into a mock grimace of dismay. “No one?” he growled, his voice low and venomous, feigning surprise. “What weakness. The Hitlerjugend forged you in sacrifice, duty—and this is your answer? Cowards?” He let his words hang, heavy as an indictment, his eyes piercing their masks of unease.
Quick glances darted between them, charged with unspoken strain. Then Eisenmann rose sharply, first to move, his face taut beneath a feigned nonchalance—a silent dare to hold his ground. Klein followed, cheeks aflame, his conditioning dragging him past his disgust. Moebius, shoulders slumped, stood too, a shaky sigh slipping out, and Heissler, jaw tight, brought up the rear, a troubled gleam in his eyes. One by one, they bent, puppets of an iron will.
Müller squinted, a cold satisfaction glinting in his stare. “Better,” he grunted, then jabbed a bony finger. “You, Heissler. And you, Eisenmann. Centre, face to face. Now!”
The two stepped forward, their wavering shadows cast by the golden window light, dancing on the waxed floor like uncertain spectres. “Stand square, yes, like that. And now, I want a real kiss, deep—an act of seduction, nothing less!”
A brutal shock froze them, their gazes clashing in a mix of disbelief and terror. Not this, not here, not under all these eyes! their eyes screamed, but Eisenmann, despite a twitch at his mouth’s corner, bore the blow with an odd resignation, like a knowledge etched in his bones. Heissler’s breath caught, his mind reeling under the horror of this unveiling.
Heissler swallowed, his clammy hands trembling as he faced Eisenmann. What now? How to stand it? A murky heat twisted his gut, drowned fast by acid shame—the Party’s sermons, those chants of purity and order, thundered in his skull: This, in front of them, is betrayal! Yet he took a step, a Pimpf’s obedience hauling him forward, lips barely parting, stalled by visceral loathing. Eisenmann met his look with a tight smile, shoulders tense under his ragged shirt, still teetering on the edge of that abyss. Müller, scenting their hesitation, clapped his hands, his voice cutting like a blade: “Well? Dawdling? Move, or I’ll make you rue every wasted tick!”
Heissler wavered, the clap’s jolt ringing in his bones. Then, driven by slavish instinct, he advanced, each step a wrench, legs wobbling under the weight of Nazi dogma. As he closed in, Eisenmann’s warm breath brushed his skin, and a thought stabbed him: Under their eyes, I’m a beast, not a master like in my dreams. The shame of bending, exposed, seared his veins, far from the fantasies where he ruled as a secret tyrant. At last, Eisenmann’s full, parted lips loomed near, grazed the tiny gap between, then pressed against his in a wet, clumsy jolt that froze him with repulsion and forbidden stirrings. A raw urge surged, and he forced the kiss, his tongue plunging in with awkward heat. Their spit mingled, a bitter, warm, metallic taste churning his stomach; their ragged breaths filled the air, broken by slick sounds—a gasp, a sticky slide. Their tongues met, tentative at first, then tangled in a clammy friction that ripped a shudder of disgust from Heissler.
Eisenmann answered, lips parting with restrained ease, like a move he’d known before, etched in memory—a cold, soulless reflex. His tongue slid against Heissler’s with measured precision, but a tremor in his jaw and clenched fists behind his back betrayed a crack. That taste again, he thought, a vague memory—tender, distant—crossing him like a bittersweet echo. But not under this icy command, this forced mate, so far from the warmth I once knew.
Klein, nailed to his desk, watched, fists tight under the wood. What a rotten mess, he thought, bile rising at each wet smack, his cheeks burning despite himself. Moebius beside him gaped, mouth open in mute shock. Can that be? he wondered, the sticky sounds twisting his gut, his innocence battered by this public outrage.
Müller stood still, eyes gleaming with perverse glee. Seeing these two buckle under his rod, their revulsions laid bare, fed him a dark thrill. He gorged on every falter, every sound, his sadism sated by this torn submission.
Dettmann adjusted his glasses, a nervous tic twitching his eyelid. What filth, he thought, disgust laced with a sick pull tightening his chest. His gaze lingered on Heissler, so raw, so torn, his backside stretching the worn fabric of his shorts as he leaned—a dull heat rose in Dettmann’s loins, savoured in silence. Then on Eisenmann, whose poise barely bent. Him, who hooked me from the start, leaping off trucks with that brash ease… He’s got so much to give, he mused, recalling the night before—Eisenmann bare before him, under the guise of a Mission test—a dark scheme rooting in his mind.
The kiss died out, Heissler staggering back, breath jagged, eyes wild with a mix of fury and scalding shame, Eisenmann’s taste clinging to his tongue like a stain. Eisenmann wiped his lips with a quick swipe, his nervous grin fading under a taut mask. “Finished,” he said, voice clear but frail, an armour near collapse. Silence fell again, thick, saturated with crossed looks and swallowed thoughts, while the golden light still danced on the floor, deaf to the tumult just played out.
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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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