Зачем он нужен? Вместе улыбаться, глядя на изображения Рейхсфюрера, мечтать об арийском молочке и сладкой начинке Булочки.
Почему дрочим на Хайни, а не на Гейдриха (Кальтенбруннера, Рёма, небо, Аллаха)? Потому что мы любим Хайни (что не мешает, конечно, любить кого-то ещё и сообщить об этом итт).
Вы никогда не думали, что общего между аниме и идеями нацизма? А я вам отвечу — много. В обоих случаях их авторы были нацистами. Ни в одной картине мира в томах нацистских трудов нет места для евреев, как и в любом аниме. В любом аниме любые расовые признаки, отличные от арийской светлой кожи, голубых глаз и светлых волос, гиперболизируются и превращаются в повод для шутки, как и в... да, вы угадали.
В "Mein Kampf" негры описаны как обезьяны? В аниме они тоже с наичернейшей кожей, пухлыми губами и повадками вождя племени. Пропаганда Гёббельса говорит, что азиаты — кровосмесители и генетический брак? Неожиданно, но в аниме азиаты (китайцы) изображены с жёлтой кожей, узкими полосками вместо глаз и кривыми зубами. Похлеще, чем даже пропагандистские листовки США во время войны во Вьетнаме.
Идеи евгеники тоже не чужды для творчества мангак и мультипликаторов. Пока вы ахаете, картинно осуждая зверскую идеологию сторонников управления эволюцией в 40-е года, в наше время аниме вовсю продвигает стереотип, что встречаться обязательно должен самый умный и красивый мальчик с самой умной и красивой девочкой, причём, как и в немецком менталитете третьего Рейха, в аниме девочка зачастую также находится в роли домохозяйки и хранительницы очага, а мужчина там — статный добытчик и защитник семьи.
И таких примеров очень много, начиная от общей иерархии по принципу авторитета и заканчивая общим восхищением воинственного прошлого своей страны, вплоть до фанатизма. Между тем, аниме широко и быстро распространяется среди всех слоёв общества и возрастов, во всех странах его принимают и смотрят, его рекламируют, покупают и показывают в кинотеатрах, разрешая смотреть это даже маленьким детям.
Вот взять аниме и новеллу "Steins;Gate". Да ведь это же натуральная пропаганда нацистских, националистических и фашистских убеждений крайне правого толка. Можно сказать, что это обнажённая нацистская личина всей аниме индустрии.
Начнём с самого жирного намёка. Машины времени. Завязка в том, что некоторые учёные пытаются переместиться во времени, чтобы предотвратить третью мировую войну. И делают это изо всех сил, и у них никак не получается. Но что же им мешало, спрашивается, переместиться не в 2010 год, а в 1939 или пораньше, и убить всю верхушку НСДАП, таким образом кардинально сменив мировую линию и предотвратив не только третью мировую, но и вторую? А я скажу так — они бы ни за что не стали убивать своих кумиров, от которых они взяли большую часть своих убеждений. Они, так же, как и третий Рейх, манипулировали двумя масштабнейшими силами на планете с целью извлечь выгоду — Россией и Америкой. И в обоих случаях манипулятора ждало лишь поражение.
Если присмотреться, в аниме крайне нетолерантны к человеческим недостаткам и особенностям, проявляют немалую степень расизма и часто любят объяснять собственные поступки некой высшей силой, хотя в основе их идеологии лежит гуманизм и рациональность мышления вкупе с популяризацией науки. Ничего не напоминает?
Даже лидеры похожи. Так, Окарин не объясняет суть своих поступков всем товарищам, советуясь только с "элитной" верхушкой посвящённых, однако, очень любит экспрессивные воодушевляющие речи и крайне активную жестикуляцию, настолько, что слушающий его народ внимает каждому слову, не понимая ничерта, но готовый броситься за лидера в любую передрягу. Также, Окарин придумал себе пафосный титул, да ещё и ввёл характерный жест руками в честь восхваления себя самого. Некоторые так прониклись культом личности, что стали приветствовать его специальным приветствием, которое лидер снисходительно считал сентиментальным. На него даже было сделано несколько покушений, впрочем, неудачных. Ближе к концу своей истории он даже помутился рассудком. Если бы не упомянутое имя, то любой бы сказал, что эти поступки характерны для... Адольфа Гитлера!
Образы в калитке тоже достойны упоминания. Так, в роли мерзавцев и опустившихся мразей оказываются персонажи со смуглой кожей, кривым длинным носом, кудрявыми волосами, в некоторых случаях даже стереотипной афро причёской, а также неестественно кривым телом, худощавой фигурой и жидовской бородкой, либо щетиной южных народов. Между тем, почти все положительные персонажи оказываются высокими, статными, красивыми, без единого изъяна. Кроме монгольского пятна на заднице
Да просто откройте кадр с персонажем Алексисом Лескиненым. Почему, будучи профессором и уважаемым учёным, он имеет такой рост, светлые волосы и голубые глаза? Почему его фигура подкачана, характер стойкий, нордический, а во взгляде читается только невероятная выдержка и сталь? Почему он выглядит как влажная мечта куратора одного из лагерей Гитлерюгенда? Ответ на поверхности.
Разумеется, все мы понимаем, что рядом с правителем всегда есть серый кардинал. Так и с Гитлером, который всецело доверял идеологию страны своему другу Гиммлеру, и точно так же и с Окабе, полагавшийся в научно-практических вопросах на Макисе Курису. У этих "кардиналов" тоже общее прошлое — неважное детство, острый ум в раннем возрасте, последующие выступления перед публикой в молодости. Образ Курису был буквально списан с Гиммлера, ведь скопирована даже та деталь, что Курису долгое время работала над некими трудами, которые должны были привнести изменения в общество, и ровно так же за эти труды её потом осудили и оклеветали, не осознав значимости этих трудов. Даже была предпринята попытка их уничтожить. Будь результат этих трудов достигнут, то в данный момент общество бы качественно шагнуло вперёд в развитии, но вместо этого победили сторонники тёмных веков и закапывания прогресса глубже под землю.
В связи с вышенаписанным, предлагаю именовать Макисе Курису "Надеждой арийской расы" и прошу считать её символом нацизма и Рейха.
У меня всё.
Это охуенно, спасибо, анон.
>Неожиданно, но в аниме азиаты (китайцы) изображены с жёлтой кожей, узкими полосками вместо глаз и кривыми зубами.
Тебе спасибо за курочкотреды.
>В любом аниме любые расовые признаки, отличные от арийской светлой кожи, голубых глаз и светлых волос, гиперболизируются и превращаются в повод для шутки, как и в... да, вы угадали.
>В "Mein Kampf" негры описаны как обезьяны? В аниме они тоже с наичернейшей кожей, пухлыми губами и повадками вождя племени
>В "Mein Kampf" негры описаны как обезьяны? В аниме они тоже с наичернейшей кожей, пухлыми губами и повадками вождя племени
>>238407841
>>238407987
Вот не лень тебе было в ответ на откровенную толстоту выискивать пикчи и сохранять их, ты совсем ньюфаг?
Мне только повод дай попостить любимое аниме, чо.
Есть кстати аниме про арабку - Canaan. И Canaan означает название древней семитской страны.
Himmler was utterly plain and normal, an ordinary blend of small town police officer and school teacher, friendly, strict and a little neurotic in just the way that it was acceptable, maybe even called for, to be neurotic when one carried so much responsibility.
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.
But then it was too late to escape his grasp and his young adjutant found himself trapped by things mundane, like contracts and obligations and expectations, and otherworldly too, dark secrets left best unspoken, old rituals and lost artifacts and things that came crawling out of a deep darkness that had never seen a single star.
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.
Himmler talked to him like father to son. He held him tight in his arms only to calm and comfort him as the tentacles slid up his legs like snakes seeking warmth, slid around his thighs and his abdomen and touched his limp sex briefly, disinterested.
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.
Other arms came sliding up his heaving chest and caressed his mouth that stood wide open from the pain of it all, breathlessly gasping beyond screams. Himmler kissed him on his quivering lower lip, intimate but without lust. One tentacle slid inside his mouth and down his throat. The invasion was so brutal he couldn’t even gag.
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.
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.
Thirdly there is the doctor. The doctor dons clothing specific to his profession. The white coat or an armband, red cross on white cloth, transforms a human like any other into a trustworthy medical professional. One could say it’s actually the reverse and the human is merely inhabiting the cloth and role of the doctor, like the hand of the puppeteer, who slips on the puppet Kasper. Kasper defeats the crocodile and saves Gretl, no the hand operating the puppet. Once the hand slips out, it retains no memory of its heroic actions and jest, it remembers merely the movement of its muscles, not the meaning attached to it. Whatever a doctor sees and does, it’s the white coat and the paper of his degree that carry the weight. Karl Brandt was certainly a fine doctor. There was no doubt about this in Jochen’s mind nor about his decent nature, but he did not look like a doctor wearing that black uniform and riding boots up to his knees, an awfully long way up for a man of his stature, and he did not look like one either when he took off his tunic and rolled up the arms of his shirt like a butcher.
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.
He looked at himself in the mirror above the sink. Two dark eye sockets stared back at him and a thin line, and under that was an angular pair of shoulders, bones protruding like clipped wings and under that every muscle was tense. You could see the line on his neck where the uniform covered his skin and the colour of it changed from pale to transparent nothing. Hardly hidden by that membrane the veins shone through, a fine blue net spanning across his chest. He scanned his own image for blemishes and irregularities. There was no sign of sickness, but then again not all sicknesses did have visible symptoms and when had his brother ever seemed ill like that?
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.
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.
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.
When Brandt let his thumb slide between Jochen’s cheeks and into the concave of his asshole he expected it, yet his mask slipped and he bit his lip to muffle his protest and then bit harder to concentrate on the pain, concentrate on anything but that feeling when Brandt stroked him there, entirely unsensual, like you would rub a spot of dirt on your clothing. But it didn’t feel unsensual and that was worse than the invasion of privacy. It felt like an itch offset just slightly on the sensory scale, a needy pleasure that demanded repetition and a harder, deeper satisfaction. New and unnerving, because of how sexual it was and should not be. He was fighting it, biting harder and thinking about anything but that sensation and in these days anything but the material was his brother and it was those hot summer days when they had been conquering forests in the improvised uniforms of the early Hitlerjugend and to think of any of that while being so wanton made his skin crawl with disgust.
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.
“If you don’t behave we will have to use this,” Brandt said and it wasn’t a threat but a fact. Without further ado he pushed Jochen down until his cheekbones touched the table and his ass was propped up, leaving him even further exposed. The metal tool reflected the white of his face back at him. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from it.
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.
>стройный как Гиммлер и норд как хайни
Ты ведь в курсе, что Хайни это и есть Генрих (Хайнрих) Гиммлер?
way inside as always and nod numbly at the offer of help with his uniform.
Peiper’s father had not had the same slithering ingratiation in his fingertips as the Reichsführer does when he would undress him as a boy (those touches had an immediate confidence of ownership that Himmler has to build to every night, one accidental slip after another) but the way he looks at him is just the same, so much love, oh they do love
their Jochen very dearly don’t they?
Himmler breathes soft, encouraging noises against his ear as cups his hand between Peiper’s legs and squeezes the limp little package of his genitals; cooing his pleasure over what a marvellous, vital lad Jochen is while worming fingers between cotton and skin to stroke him until he’s had his fill – leaving Peiper with a damp kiss on the forehead and the tears he refuses to let spill over, staring unblinking and unmoving at the back of his bedroom door, until he’s sure it’s safe.
Просто я хотел написать про того толстяка, но почему то написал гиммлер
Шрифт не продирается, надо новую клаву покупать
Уж не герра Геринга ли ты толстяком обозвал?
Короче я видимо оч сильно хочу спать и у меня все путается
Да,тот самый милый добрый толстячок Генрих
Himmler loses his glasses somewhere in the process of being pushed to the ground face first with Röhm’s fat hands around his neck. The bathroom disappears, the closed door, the stalls and urinals disappear, only the cold tiles of the floor remain, his face pressed into them as he collapses under the crushing weight of Röhm’s huge body. Now for lack of other distractions the smell of the man, breathing on his cheek, stinking of sweat and beer and aftershave, is more unbearable than ever.
Very softly, without a hint of brutality, all the more menacing for it, Röhm says, “You’ve been wondering about it, haven’t you? Wondering what it would feel like, you on all fours and a nice fat prick up your arse.” He leans in closer and Himmler feels his cock then, the bulge of it pressing between his buttocks, hard and huge and terrifying, and he forgets to breathe for a moment, the thought of what Röhm could do to him running wild in his head, every outcome of it with him filthy, humiliated and crawling back for more.
“I can take it slow if you want me to, Heinrich, I can make it feel good”, Röhm says and with one hand he is stroking Himmler’s cheek, gently like he’s one of his boys, and with the other unbuttoning his own pants, slowly, taking pleasure in the way every button opened makes the man under him hold his breath. “But you don’t want that, do you? You want to be defiled, debased, violated.” And under him Himmler winces at every word. Now he’s pale as a corpse and Röhm is no longer on top of him, he’s standing over him, lazily stroking his cock but Himmler doesn’t move, doesn’t try to get away, and Röhm ejaculates on his back and leaves him lying there, waiting.
Блять Геринг>>238408951
>Да
>Генрих
Что ж ты делаешь, содомит, имя Геринга было Герман
Читал фанфик про Геринга, Геббельса и штрудель?
Jochen came to enjoy their private time in the office, when he sat in Himmler’s chair and Himmler himself was kneeling at his feet, kneeling not like in prayer but like a small animal with the limbs drawn to his body, running his stubby little fingers over his adjutant’s feet, following the veins with his fingertips as if admiring the lifelike details of a marble statue, and smiling up at him with the desperately submissive smile of a wandering salesman begging for alms. If Jochen allowed it he placed wet kisses on his feet and on his toes and he pressed his tongue between them humming with delight at the salty taste of sweat. He was a nasty little worm of a man and he liked hearing that from Jochen’s mouth, his eyes then became just a bit more bug like behind the glasses as he eagerly agreed, calling himself pathetic and vile and calling Jochen such a good boy while hoping the good boy would spit on him or worse.
Bones are feeling sleazy
Head spinning around
Spend the night with Josef Goebbels
Think I'm coming down
Thru having fun
Spent the night with Heinrich Himmler
Think I'm on the run
Прочитал фанфики?
>>238408534
>>238408410
Of everything around
Flew the plane for Rudolph Hess
I've landed upside down
Something in my head
Shot cocaine with Hermann Göring
Now I wish I was dead
Хорошо выглядит
Хуй будете, герр Чмоня?
мимо красноармеец
Тут принято вместо
>Хуй будете
писать я бы с удовольствием выпил молочка.
К примеру, так: я бы с удовольствием выпил сладкого арийского молочка Хайни. А ты выпил бы молочка, скажем, маршала Смерть?
Fresst Stahl!
Schwarz die Zeit, noch finsterer der Ort - Blindheit, die sich durch die Seele schlich
Gebrechliche Stimmen, ohne Anmut, ohne Glanz - die Leere meines Seins erfüllten
Einst erwacht, aus scheinbar - unendlichem Tode, lag am Boden und spürte, die Hand die mein Herz ergriff
ССыкливые педики они все. Только Геббельс умер как человек, верный идее.
Читал про Геббельса, Геринга и штрудель?
Verführer!
[G.W.Bush-Sample]
Monolithen des TODES -
Maschinerien, es drehen sich die Räder, unaufhaltsam, immerzu
Die Schmieden des Todes, gläserne Paläste, goldene Tempel dem Mammon geweiht
Die neue Hure Babylon!
Monolithen, stolz und steif, starren sie der Zeit
Todgeburt Mensch herrscht!
Es stürzt der Phönix
Macht
Ist nicht für immer
Tod
Плохим зрением. Тут и ослепнуть можно, каждый день видя такую красоту в зеркале.
Да, мы на месте.
Alcohol made him hopelessly romantic like he used to be when he was young and wrote poems about death in the margins of his notebooks and the old man, the poet, called him a knight and a hero with words like honey, dripping into the deepest pool of his soul, and no amount of growing up could ever sift it clean. The poet had instilled in him other urges too, urges that he usually knew well to keep to himself, and it wasn’t hard now that the war provided ample discomfort to keep him entertained, but that French wine, it was too much for his weak heart, wine like that could only make you soppy and servile. And the way Rommel looked at him, with such horrible stern kindness, he couldn’t keep himself from kneeling, finger kissing, tears welling, begging with his eyes and with his tongue, more dog than knight when he licked the desert’s dust off the man’s fingers, whispering Erwin and please until Rommel reluctantly gave him what he wanted.
Погодите, я правильно понял, что вы тут дрочите в прямом смысле, а не в переносном?
Конечно, правильно. Фанфики читаешь уже?
Разумеется, правильно.
