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It had felt as though the world was spinning around you the day you met him.
‘Him’, being Colonel Hans Landa, of course.
The way his sharp gaze had merely just acknowledged your presence, a fleeting moment of recognition glistened beneath his cold, perceptive glare, before his eyes flickered away, much more focused on his affiliates surrounding him. It felt demeaning, having him look at you in such a belittling way, as if you were a cheap toy used to distract him for the briefest of moments.
Disappointment clawed in your chest, an ugly emotion fighting animistically to be let free. Your freshly curled hair and pale lip gloss now felt a bit strange on you, your memory quickly replaying the shameful moments of wearing your mother's expensive makeup as a child, and her mortified face at the thought that a child your age would be interested in such things. His scrutinising stare had made you feel as if you were that child again; maybe that child in you had never left. Meek and insecure, desperate for approval, even for it just to be a fleeting glance.
You were now standing awkwardly in his doorway, fidgeting with your fingers as if you were unsure of your presence there. The wait felt like a vexatious burden upon both parties. As you continued to stare at him, your eyes flickered between him and his associates, while he barely acknowledged your presence. Even though you both knew, you were to be his new secretary.
Secretary.
The word rang heavy in your mind as you waited for him to finish his clearly riveting conversation; the concept of settling down and becoming a secretary for an SS colonel had never even flickered across your mind, not even a year ago, while you were still at university, your dreams grandiose and bordering hubris as you wished to continue your youth resistance to Nazi occupation in France. But the War carried on, your fellow—relatively small—resistance group had all gone their separate ways post-graduation, some being forced against their goodwill to join the military, others fleeing before the worst came to ahead. Leaving you here, desolate, all alone in Paris, alone and broke. With only a degree in linguistics and an overpriced rent to a flat that you can’t even call your own.
That’s when reality hit you, an epiphany smashing the teeth through your skull, leaving blood ringing through your ears. That perhaps job hunting and actually embracing adult life were the most likely pursuits that were in your best interest. The taste of bitterness clinging to your tongue at the thought of engaging in adult life, a persistent notion burdening your mind every second of your youth, and an ugly disdain crawling up your spine at the thought of ‘growing up’ made you itch and shiver. That wasn’t you, you weren’t one of those mind-numbing adults who so clearly resented life and, therefore, youth in and of itself, the general tiredness and loathing for every living being around them making you gag in your mouth.
You had sworn to yourself that would never be you, an image of your child self watching your parents scream at each other, plates smashing, and fractures of red dashing through your mind, with incessant boring phrases being thrown around. The crumbling realisation hits you that this is what maturing provides for you.
And that made you sick.
But soon, the chipped wall of your flat began to chip away at you. The bed frame creaking every time you dared to turn in your sleep, and the forever-dampening roof right above your bed staring down at you, a degree of indignation in its glare, with the threat of it caving in on itself ever present as you counted up whatever spare change you had managed to pawn off your friends and family.
And when the nights sometimes waned, and the only sound penetrable between the four walls of your flat was the blaring late-night Parisian traffic, a force beyond your own managed to compel you to reach for that secret stash of blades you kept hidden. The mask of a stationary box fooling essentially no one but your own sanity, as it was never like you had any had visitors over. But good lord, those blades seemed so delicious, sharp and painful, and they were even more delicious when you would drag them across your skin, so deep and jagged blood would rush from your own self-inflicted wounds. But that was never enough for you, you would want more and more, you would gash your cuts so deep to the point all you could see was nothing but deep crimson red. Despite this, the pain was so fucking good, managing to distract you from your collapsing life as a moan erupted from your mouth.
So incidents like those were the straws that broke the proverbial dams, so to speak, and made—no—forced you, to find a job. With a degree in linguistics from a top-grade university in Vichy, France. Your secretary application soon reached Colonel Hans Landa’s door, as you used your family's connections to pull some strings, as well as glowing letters of recommendations from your professors, describing you as a ‘pleasure to teach,’ and a ‘wonderful delight, yet quiet at times. ’
Although you doubt the truth and extent of that thought. Most likely, they conducted a thorough background check on your family, and upon seeing your upper-class background and education, they thought they had struck gold. And your inexperienced resumé meant a presumption of malleability, your thoughts flexible and loose, ready to be deconstructed only to be built back up again, the right, proper way. Your ‘quiet’ and ‘delightful’ nature only probably meant one thing to those Nazi scum, that you were meek and insecure, soft and ready, that you would always sit back and take whatever treatment they gave you with no complaint, like a good—
“Ah! Fräulein!” he chirped. Your head snapped to look at him, his eyes now meeting you with painful scrutiny and a tone of mockery. “Come, sit!” He motioned towards the chair opposite his own, the only barrier being the desk between you both.
You were so out of touch, lost in your own head, that you hadn’t even noticed the Colonel’s affiliates leaving the office. It had made you wonder how long you had stood there, thinking, dozing off. And how long he had sat there, just watching you.
Every step felt heavy as you made your way towards him; each step had felt as though you were shortening the distance between that of yourself and a predator. Nerves coursing through your veins like blood, the crippling sensation almost making your knees buckle in anxiety. With luck on your side, however, you made it to the chair in time.
His face was almost hard, stiffened in age and maturity, like fine leather. You couldn’t help but stare at every single line and wrinkle sporting his countenance, wondering just how old he truly was. He couldn’t be older than perhaps late forties, but if the strands of grey decorating the sides of his temples suggested correctly, he very well might be in his fifties. But his eyes, his eyes told you everything you wanted to know about his age; they acknowledged you with almost a degree of immaturity, as if you were a petulant child and he knew far beyond your years. He could pass for wise if the intimidating nature of the storm behind his eyes didn’t surpass a level of cruelty, so instead, it felt like an aura of condescension radiated off of him like uranium. However, his sharp, crooked nose interested you the most; you couldn’t help but notice the line running through the tip, and you remembered an old friend who told you it was a physical manifestation of selflessness in a person, but this felt like a crude perversion of that meaning. The calculating glare he wore, paired with the hard lines of age, implied a lack of toleration for things so futile, like ‘selflessness’.
The Colonel’s office was diligently neat. Shelves of books were behind him, all of which were perfectly placed, and from what you could tell, they were ordered on an alphabetical basis. His waxed floor was so polished that when you looked down, you could see your own reflection looking back up at you, the blinds pulled down just enough to let the smallest sliver of sunlight in, yet the room was still shrouded in an aura of mystique and intrigue, as if the corners were fraying slightly at the edges. And everything on his desk was faultless, the stacks of paper perfectly balanced, not a corner out of place, even his pencils were ordered and freshly sharpened, somehow all the same size. It was honestly a bit unnerving.
He interrupted your morbid admiration for his dedication to all things chronological, however, when he began.“So I have been told you have a degree in linguistics?” While you never had a formal interview with him personally present, the information had clearly been relayed back to him. That level of intrigue in his eyes told you he clearly approved of this. “I assume you to be multilingual, yes?”
You cleared your throat, unsure if your voice was even still present. “Ahem—yes, sir, I am fluent in English, French, Italian, and German, of course.” Your face flushed from the attention, your fingers picking at the skin around your cuticles, wondering when the onslaught of questions would end.
“Ah, wunderbar! Sagen Sie mir: Wie konnte eine junge Dame wie Sie so,”—Ah, Wonderful! Tell me, how could a young lady such as yourself become so— the Colonel paused, his dark gaze raking over you, as if you were a new toy, or a tantalising piece of meat, “erfolgreich werden?” —so accomplished. The switch in language caused you to jump, and you began picking around the flesh of your nail beds even deeper, praying the pleasure from the pain could distract your nerves for even just a second.
“Ach, wissen Sie, ich habe das Lernen einfach immer genossen,”—Oh, you know, I just always enjoyed learning— you could physically feel your voice trembling, and his eyes boring into you with a disturbed fascination, but you could only stare at your cuticles, as you dug deeper and deeper into them, “und Sprachen sind sehr anregend.” —and languages are very stimulating.
“Bellissima.”—beautiful.
Your head shot up before you could even react fully, a bewildered look flashed across your eyes before the skin surrounding your thumbnail finally snapped, and you began to bleed, a lot. But despite the blood gushing from your skin, the cut was superficial, as the pain couldn’t distract you from Landa’s impenetrable gaze.
“Ah, Fräulein! You are bleeding!” The whiplash between the concern in his voice and that hardened stare left your mind reeling, and knees heavy, “Quick.” he commanded, rising from his side of the desk, ushering you to do the same as he took you by the hand and practically dragged you out of his office and into the ladies' room. Your face burned with embarrassment as you felt everyone's eyes on you and the Colonel, your blood slowly seeping into the palm of his hand, as he conjoined his own to yours.
“Err, C-c-colonel, I don’t think this is entirely—” you barely managed to stammer out, before he hushed you.
“Hush, Liebling,” he turned to look at you, seemingly unbothered with everyone else's stares, only gazing into your own, somehow managing to telepathically read your mind and grasp your concern lied within the stares that continued to linger and gawk, “Don’t bother with them, when you’ll be working for me, you won’t even interact with them.” And his words provided a strange comfort while you continued to bleed.
Before you knew it, you were practically dragged through the door of the ladies' room, thanking whatever deity there is that no one else was in there as the Colonel rinsed your bleeding thumb under the sink, the dried blood slowly washing away under the cold water from the tap. And against your better judgment, you couldn’t help yourself from asking:
“Why?” You all but whispered, the single word barely louder than the silence penetrating the room.
But, he still managed to hear your hardly audible words, his frighteningly impressive perceptive skills forcing you to realise why he was the most esteemed detective the Deutschland had. “Why what, mein schatz?” Though, you knew he was teasing you, you both knew the implication of your ‘why’.
Your gaze flickered back to the sink and away from the mirror, tucking your hair behind your ears with your free hand as you did so, as he continued to bore into you through the reflection. “I mean,” you continued to whisper, your voice apparently unable to go beyond a certain decibel in the midst of his presence, “why are you doing this for me? I—” the words were left unsaid, but the thought was so loud and heavy, you could both hear it, ‘I’m just your secretary.’
“Because,” he drawled with a confidence only guaranteed to someone who has been granted their superiority through their own command, “Je n'aime pas que ce qui m'appartient soit,”—I don’t like what is mine to be— he began, pulling you away from the sink, and raising your head with his blood-stained hand, “endomangé.” —damaged.
It had been a quiet few weeks since you started working for Colonel Hans Landa, since that incident, which you like to store as an embarrassing moment in a secret, hidden compartment of your mind. Filed away with the other myriad of inherently shameful moments you’ve managed to accumulate over the years. But what you don’t let yourself acknowledge, even for a split second too long, the secret only held between you and the night.
The dead of night would chip away at your senses, your body flushed and desperate, practically fucking moaning with the how bad it was aching, for something, anything. And in lapses of shame, or perhaps something more tempting than shame, you would reach for that cursed stationary box; the illusion of innocence it provided could almost ease your desires within of itself. But once the lid was lifted, your thoughts were racing, a myriad of fantasies rushing through you like blood as you brought a blade to your thigh, slowly letting out a warm, wanton moan. Feeling the flesh between your legs grow warmer and wetter like a perverse animal, thoughts of the Colonel flashed behind your eyes as you imagined his warm fingers pressing into the now healing wound on your fingernail, the pain hardly there, but instead the memory of his hard eyes suddenly turning soft and malleable with concern.
With concern.
You knew it was pathetic, and there was no use in denying it, so you were pathetic. Pathetic as the blood leaking from the ocean deep cuts across your thighs, dirties your skin, and you couldn’t resist from moaning and dipping your fingers into the pools of crimson, as if it were cream for a dessert, and licking it. You revelled in the shame, the disgust, both entities liminal in the borderline that is pleasure for you. And when you closed your eyes, you would imagine it was Colonel Landa licking his fingers clean of your filthy blood, eyes reverent behind the cloak of coldness.
The sensation was calming, in its own, mangled way. The tearing of the soft, putty-like skin on your thigh gouges deep, ugly wounds that bloom onto the surface of your skin, like freshly plucked roses during the spring. Your thighs slowly becoming a mutiliated canvas that you couldn’t help but admire, the work of art prominent on your form, with the oozing red paint decorating it. Perhaps Landa would kiss the marks littering you, old and new, licking and savouring the life gushing out of you as if it were sacred. The cold glare that normally could stop you dead in your tracks, now in full concentration. And maybe, just maybe, his teeth would rip at your damages, deepening them, claiming them as his. The message would be clear, only he’s allowed to hurt you, to provide that strange balance between pain and pleasure, wrong and right. And when time would pass, your fingers would trace the wounds, now faint bruises slowly morphing yellow in colour, wishing Landa was actually there, with you.
And it was so, so wrong, but also so right. This was your place, it was where you belonged, where he owned you.
Obviously, when you were at work, those thoughts were hidden, or more accurately, stored away. Not to even be reminisced, let alone actively thought about with genuine consideration. Those moments were fleeting, shameful, and they would remain so.
But sometimes, when his fingers brushed against yours as he handed you a sheet, or when he would lean up against you from behind, guiding you in your inexperience, as if you were incapable, useless, or when his eyes would meet yours, tired from a long day at work, yet they would soften ever so slightly, you couldn’t help yourself.
You couldn’t help yourself as you would calmly dash to the ladies' room, excusing yourself in a reserved, meek tone. Inpure thoughts flashing through your mind, causing your voice to crack ever so slightly, and before you knew it, you were hiding behind a stall door, left hand muffling your moans and whines as your right sneaked underneath the hem of your skirt. Closing your eyes, you imagined it was Landa instead of you; it was Landa rubbing your clit furiously with the rough, calloused pad of his thumb. Whispering less than sweet nothings into your ear as he did so.
‘You pathetic slut, so fucking weak, you get so wet at what, my kindness?’
Your knees buckled at the imaginary degradation, the fake, empty words your sick and twisted brain thought of, that you only wished the Colonel would say to you. But that couldn’t stop your eyes welling up with tears, and your thighs getting even more impossibly drenched, just at the mere thought.
The feeling of tightness curled into your stomach like a devastating hunger, as your moan was muffled once again.
‘Aw,’ he would coo, you were just purely incapable, and he needed to supervise every move you made, ‘is my sweet thing close, already? Go on, doll, you can do it. I know you want to, you fucking whore’ And the sweetness bordering on faux sent you over the edge, as your climax finally grasped onto you, as if it had been chasing you this entire time.
It still felt like your breath was laboured and catching up to you, even as you washed your hands and tidied up your hair. Looking at yourself in the mirror, feeling nothing but shame as the memories of just minutes before flashed into your head. Fighting the urge to groan in embarrassment, you just decided to tidy yourself up even more and sigh before opening up the bathroom door.
You flinched in surprise, however, when the older man stood amongst his colleagues next to the watercooler, seemingly having a pleasant conversation. Yet his eyes were strictly on the door, or in its place, you. His gaze appeared interested, as if he had been waiting for you.
Your head shook as you dismissed the thought. Why would he be waiting for someone like you? You were only his secretary.
He beckoned you over with his finger, as if he commanded you. And maybe he did, because your body was seemingly compelled to listen, as before you knew it, your legs were making their way towards him and his fellow lieutenants and majors.
“Ah! Fräulein! I was just waiting for you!” You gulped, okay, perhaps he was waiting for you. But what does that mean? His eyes gazed into your own with that level of curiosity that he bore when a case was particularly intriguing, like you were a game—or better yet— a puzzle, just waiting to be solved. “You need not worry, mein liebe, I have already gotten your bag for you.” He continued, as you approached closer, with a pleasant, chaotic look on his face.
The perspiration on your forehead felt heavy; your eyes dropped to his hand, where the handle of your bag was gripped; and your stomach plummeted as you met his eyes once again.
Shit, you thought, all panicked and wide-eyed, but trying to remain a passive smile on your face as he finished talking to his colleagues. Did he look inside the bag? Did he find the stationary box?
There was a weight on your legs that felt like ten tonnes worth of bricks, chaining your feet to the floor while you walked to The Colonel’s car. Trying desperately to listen to the torturous small talk the older man was inflicting on you.
“So, how are you enjoying working for me so far?” Landa began, after an awkward pause of silence. “I know working for me specifically can be very… taxing.” And the way he looked you up and down, with suspicion and something deeper, even pleasurable, left a shiver running down your spine.
Your very presence felt out of place when you were beside him; your limbs felt simultaneously too long and too short, and you could feel your bones protruding grotesquely beneath the surface of your skin. Even your hair felt like unnatural clumps of fur glued onto your scalp. He just had that effect on you, you figured.
But that couldn’t stop your practically fatal attraction to him.
The truth was, you quite enjoyed working for him, or at least the menial tasks he provided for you. The endless letters that had you click-clacking against a typewriter for the better half of your day. If not that, you spent your time note-taking, highlighting, keeping tabs on whoever he asked you to, whenever he asked you to. The simple, mind-numbing repetition of these tasks dulled your brain in such a way that only a pleasant buzz could be left ringing through your ears. It was to the point that you couldn’t tell if your thoughts were the distraction, or your work.
“Oh, it’s no matter, sir,” you clutched onto your handbag almost aggressively, but you didn’t have the heart for aggression, did you? So it was just something weaker, more meagre. “I’ve really enjoyed working with you so far.” Your eyes were glued to the ground as your voice became progressively quieter. Feeling the Colonel’s gaze burning into the side of your neck.
You heard him hum, the kind of hum you would give as if you were pleasantly surprised by the result of something. “You need not lie to me, Engel.” A breathy chuckle escaped him, the sound uncanny to your ears. “But I will admit, you are very good at what you do, just warn me if I am spreading you too thin.”
The compulsion of nodding came before you even allowed yourself to speak. Not trusting your own voice.
However, you were so lost in your own thoughts, hypervigilant of every breath you took and every misstep you made, you found yourself tumbling into the Colonel’s shorter stature. Apologies tumbling out of your mouth before he interrupted you.
“Ah, it seems we are here.” Amused by your anxious behaviour, he nodded towards his car and opened the passenger’s side door for you. “Please, Fräulien, sit.” He said with an insistence that bordered on domineering, clearly, it was not a suggestion, but a command. The ‘please’ had just been a formal nicety.
But, as obedient as you were, your body couldn’t help but follow his command. The all-encompassing nature of his presence only forced you to be aware of his acknowledgement of you constantly, and you couldn’t handle disappointing him.
Awkward could only scratch the surface of this strange situation, you and the Colonel both find yourselves in. The silence was bordering on deafening, only interrupted by his occasional humming, which, instead of pleasant or even domestic, felt unnatural, an irregular displacement of his usual being.
Soon, the silence grew somewhat comfortable; perhaps it only felt awkward due to your perception. This could be an act of allowance, from him; he could be permitting you to bask in the pleasure of stillness, without having to worry about deadlines and quotas. Eventually, you allowed the calm to wash over you, and the sleep hiding behind your eyelids began to take over. Suddenly, the plush leather of the seat lining began to feel very comfortable, and the dizziness from the trees passing by, paired with the Colonel’s almost hypnotic hum, lulled you to sleep.
You were always a dreamer, quite literally so. Ever since your youth, your dreams and reality often blended into one morbid dimension. On the one hand, your visions were so bright and vivacious, yet on the other, reality seemed so dull and grey; your brain couldn’t help but intermingle both entities, your conscious and subconscious constantly at a battle for dominance. And this dream was no different.
Your breath was sharp and quickened, and if you could focus hard enough, you could see the foaming condensation of your breath in the air. The soft touch of satin sheets bundled up underneath your back, paired with the gentle callouses of the Colonel’s finger tips running up and around your thighs, peppering the litany of scars decorating them with kisses. You felt coy as you looked down beneath you to see him propped between your legs. Shame crawled into your stomach, and it left your mind reeling. But the soft kisses soon turned into rough hickeys and bites, your brain struggling to jostle between the hardened pleasure and the pliant pain. Gasping, you let out, “Ah, Herr—Herr- Colonel,” as if you were even prepared to reject him when he was sitting beneath you, looking like this.
However, your futile complaints were soon rendered forgotten in the back corner of your thoughts. When his sharp tongue took a long, painful lick across your pussy. A moan erupted from your mouth, and your hands rushed by default to muffle your sounds.
“Wage es ja nicht.” —Don’t you dare— he bought his head up to look at you, his gaze full of malice and cruelty, but you couldn’t help but grow wet at the sight of his dishevelled hair and reddened lips. “Ich möchte alles hören.” —I want to hear everything.
He then returned to slowly tease you with his tongue once again; the rough texture alongside his aged pace made the experience almost painful. Just how he knew you liked it. Each stroke growing deeper and deeper, the movements were skilful, having you gripping your sheets, your moans bordering on screaming as he essentially tongue fucked you. But before you could lose yourself once again, he started to playfully bite and suckle at your clit. Causing you to cry out. “Ah-ah fuck, Hans, fuck!” Tears soon built up behind your eyes, your pupils rolling out, and you could physically feel yourself losing control.
The strange contortion of grief at the loss of his tongue almost made you feel guilty. “Say that again.”
Confused, all you could do was whine at the loss, too lost in the pleasurable daze he cast over you to even comprehend any noise he was making. That’s when he slapped you.
He slapped you, and all you could do was moan.
“You fucking whore.” he spat, but the degradation only made you even more horny. Wet at his cruel words. “Stupid slut is so fucking wet, all you can do is moan and whine like a cheap whore?” And you felt yourself nodding in agreement, the shame evaporating from your pores, because yes, you were a stupid slut, a cheap whore. “I gave you an order, bitch.”
Relaying his words, the cogs began to turn in your brain, “Hans?” Unsure if you mispoke, hoping he wouldn’t punish you, but also praying he will.
He hummed in appreciation, gripping the soft tissue on your thigh, his nails digging into your scars, “That’s my good girl.”
You awoke with a gasp, feeling the real Colonel, completely separate from the conjuration of that in your mind, actually gripping your thigh as he continued driving. It was done with such normalcy that it could pass as domestic, and perhaps it was, perhaps this was him allowing such passive domesticity between your dynamic.
He was still humming, unbothered by your awakening, the melodic hypnosis of the tune almost lulled you back to dozing off again, as you were still dreary from your nap, sleep still fraying the corners of your mind. This makeshift plan was broken, however, when Landa broke the impregnable silence.
“What were you dreaming about, Fräulien?” Images of his head propped between your legs, lapping up your juices, breaking you down with mere words flashed before your eyes. Face flushed, you snapped your head towards the window, feeling the heat of your blood and his concentrated focus rise across your neck, unable to make eye contact with him.
“Oh, nothing-nothing much, sir.” You mumbled, trying hard to focus on the view outside, and not the fresh, hot arousal pooling between your thighs.
“Tsk,” the older man began, seemingly disappointed with your answer. Causing your stomach to curl, the disgust with yourself from his disappointment, with the troubling excitement of your dream, left you nearly disoriented with sensations. “Look at me when you're talking to me, girl.”
The harsh tone of his words mimicked that of your dreams, and that made a strange compulsion take over you, and your eyes couldn’t help but sneak towards him, as if your very body was ensnared under his spell. You hated dissatisfying him, but the enchantment of his cruelty left you almost begging for more, having to constrict every muscle around your mouth so as not to humiliate yourself.
“Good girl.” The praise and his smirk of victory, leaving you hazy, the refined smile lines and subtle dimples that only deepened with age, made your heart skip a beat; you hardly even noticed his eyes skipping towards your plump lips, before jumping back up to your own, the stormy grey of them so loud you could practically hear the thunder behind them. “Now tell me, what was it you were dreaming about?”
Trapped. He had effectively trapped you, with the opiate nature of his gaze and commanding presence; you couldn’t escape. The knowing expression on his face would normally leave you irritated. Still, if you were honest, you found solace in your imprisonment, feeling exactly where you were, reaching a state of belonging. Accepting your fate as the simple-minded mouse, caught endlessly between the paws of the amused cat.
Your mind ran with endless possibilities of what you could say. What would you say? Would you tell him the truth, tell him u fantasised about him in such a debauched position, would you tell him your body had an instinctual reaction to him slapping you up and calling you a whore. Or would you lie, lie and tell him it was nothing, that you couldn’t remember, it was all too vague. Like a scale, you balanced out both options in your mind, as if the former were ever a tangible option.
Lie it was.
“Oh, it was nothing, sir,” you silently thanked God that he turned his head to look back out the main road ahead of him, you didn’t think you could look him in the eye and lie so blatantly, “I can’t remember it quite so well.” Feigning ignorance by giving a weak smile, catching a stray strand of hair and tucking it behind your ear.
“Hm.” Landa seemed disappointed—no, disbelieving— perhaps even insulted that you would even dare think he would ever believe that. You watched with a sinking feeling as his smile faded and his focus hardened. He continued in a grave, “I don’t think I quite believe you.”
Panicked, an alarmed chuckle escaped you. “What—what do you mean, Colonel?”
All of a sudden, the feeling of his hand gripping your thigh nearly made you jump out of your skin. You gasped quietly, trying to constrict your moan as his fingers directly pressed into your still-healing scars; the lasting pain made you nearly delirious. “In fact, I know you're lying.” He repositioned his grip once more, allowing his fingers to press into your wounds even deeper, with intent and purpose. Your heart dropped as the realisation hit, and his warm breath crawled around your ear as he whispered, “Do you want to know how I know?”
You could only nod in futility, even when you both knew how he knew, but your body was incapable of any other motion as he continued to tease the pain out of you, breathy little moans and whines escaping you as you began to let yourself go. “Because,” He drawled, the accent thickening at his apparent arousal, and in a sing-song tone, he murmured, “I know your dirty little secret.”
His fingers began to lift your skirt, slowly, playfully, as if he finally cracked the puzzle and was taking his sweet time going over the answer. However, all was confirmed once the air hit the gashes that painted your thighs. Your only protection from the biting cold was the thin layer of your tights. “You’re a masochist!” He whispered, shouting, his excitement bordered on infantile as you watched him smile with all his teeth, clearly pleased with his correct deduction.
Suddenly, his fingers let go of the hem of your skirt and began to slowly caress the waistband of your tights, wandering with purpose as they began to pinch and tug at your soft skin, picking at the scabs of the older scars on your thighs. The quick succession of the pain left you irritated; you wanted more, the teasing nature of his appendages just wasn’t enough for you, and soon, your moans of pleasure morphed into whines of frustration.
He chuckled, amused by your dissatisfaction. “Aw,” he began to coo in jest, “does my little angel want more?” You nodded your head dumbly in response, the remaining pride you still had left you unable to actually vocalise your needs. “Too bad, you fucking slut, you’ll take what you're given.” The shift from that mocking sweetness to the harshest of words left you weak, and you could physically feel yourself getting wetter.
You whined at the loss of his touch as he quickly pulled away from you. Too dazed to realise he was parking the car, and even more so at the sight of the unfamiliar driveway. Confused, you realised when he graciously offered to take you home, he meant his own. Was this his intention all along? To fuck you? Had he always wanted to do this? To have you and claim you?
Your questions were left unanswered; however, when he pulled you by your arms, dragging you as if you were constantly indebted to his orders and direction, unable to do anything of your own volition. And maybe, that was true, maybe you took delight in how his large hands manhandled you, and gripped onto your wrist, not letting go, even when he was fumbling to unlock the door in front of him.
Finally, he managed to unlock it, pulling you by the arm and pushing you against the door as he slammed it shut. His mouth was immediately on yours, biting the skin of your lips and that all too familiar metallic taste invaded your senses, causing a high pitched moan to come crashing out of you, as his tongue was a dominating force taking over every nook and cranny of your mouth, like he was searching for any more secrets, making you feel even more vulnerable and exposed. And you revelled in it. You couldn’t help but moan into him, completely melting, limbless, ready to be rearranged at his will.
When his tongue let go of yours, you were both panting, chasing both or either of your breaths, and if you looked hard enough, you could see the condensation forming up from between you two. Just like your dreams.
He never allowed you to think for too long, you gathered. It was almost like he could recognise when you were about to drift off, but he just couldn’t have that, and he needed all your attention to be on him at all times. So before your mind could even begin to fully wander, he pulled you towards the sofa, latching onto your mouth with an aggression that whisked away any lingering thoughts you still had. His kisses felt just as forceful and vindictive as him, but also as all-consuming; he kissed as though he was thirsty and you were the only water left for miles.
The attention he gave you was divine.
You were now pinned down by the Colonel, fully encased under his hardened gaze. He had that same look of concentration and malevolence that he harboured when interrogating a suspect, or when he was about to kill a man in cold blood. God, you shuddered in delight, was this how he fucked?
A gasp was torn out of you as his teeth grazed your neck, leaving wet kisses all over your nape, marking you, claiming you. There was a particularly loud scream of delight ripped from your vocal cords as he bit down into you, tearing the skin barrier. Scolding yourself internally, you attempted to muffle your own noises, but Landa’s unrelenting grip grasped onto your hands and forcibly pulled them away from your mouth. And he looked angry. Angry that you could even dare deny him what is rightfully his.
Then, he leaned in, the harsh lines of his lips dusting over the skin of your ear. His breath was hot and strangely gentle, and he began to murmur, his voice deep and thick with arousal, “Those pretty little noises you make,” he paused to bite down onto the cartilage of your ear, eliciting yet another whine out of you, “they belong to me, alright? They’re mine to hear, mine to enjoy.” He started to nuzzle into your nape, before biting it once again, “Verstehst du, meine liebe?” —Understand, my love?
Nodding, he continued to undress you. Never allowing you too much time to think, his mouth was constantly on your own, or around the skin of your neck, or whispering sweet nothings into your ear. The sharp air nipping at your bare skin, the contrast between his warm hands on your cold skin felt near feverish. Your body shudders, and you whimper with every button undone and layer tossed away. The sound of the soft rip of your tights rang in your head like a pestering case of tinnitus, the only noise present besides the panting, groaning and whining coming from both parties. (Mainly you.)
Before long, all that was left were your bra and panties clinging to your skin. And suddenly, you were hyper aware of every sensation that tingled against you, like the soft tickle of the frills on your panties, or the subtle tightness of your bra pressing into your chest. And most of all, Landas' thirsty hands taking up and fondling you as if you were a finite resource, and he just wasn’t psychologically prepared to let go.
“Mein Gott,” the Colonel muttered, seemingly encapsulated by your form, “you are simply enchanting, puppe.” The veneration of his tone left you embarrassed, and your face flushed, snapping your eyes away from him, self-conscious of —what you felt was— the undeserving praise. Suddenly growing coy at the image of Landa studying your scars, old and new, feeling ashamed of your starving, cannibalistic sense of lust.
But it seemed Landa had taken offence to your bashful behaviour, because he gripped your jaw tightly; you were certain the imprint of his fingers would bruise from how hard he was applying pressure. “Don’t—don’t look away from me.” He all but growled, looking into you with a degree of possession, somehow having the ability to dictate even the most minute of your actions.
And you loved it.
Without thinking, you nodded vigorously, your mind beyond your soul as the only force keeping you grounded was pure instinct and his overwhelming presence. “Yesh,” you drawled, becoming so useless and latent that you could barely even speak.
This seemingly wasn’t enough for the Colonel, because before you could even say or do anything else, he slapped you. Your eyes widened with shock, bewildered by his audacity. Still, he seemed to be placid, awaiting your full reaction, as if he could predetermine every move you could make long prior to you even being aware you were about to make it. His calculated stare was proven right once again as a prolonged slutty moan crawled its way outside of the concave structure of your mouth.
You watched in terror and a horrid desire as his eyes widened in excitement, and he began to slowly grin with all his teeth like the Cheshire Cat. “Oh, you dirty whore,” he practically giggled with delight, “I knew you would like that, didn’t you?”
At the lack of your reply, he slapped you once again, only for a sluttier, more broken moan to escape you, a silent beg for more on the tip of your lips. “I asked you a question bitch.”
You gargled on your spit, and an incessant torrent of whimpers and whines was the only sound heard as he waited expectantly for your answer. You felt your body flush up and the blood pumping through your veins, “Yes! Daddy!” His eyes flashed with something dark and inhospitable, “I love it, daddy, I need more please,” tears began to form in your tearduct at the humiliation, but you couldn’t stop, “please Daddy, I need you.”
Oh, and the look he gave you, a countenance of pure animalistic lust washed over him in the blink of an eye, and just like that, he began to manhandle you into place, pulling and pushing you into place as if you were completely limbless and in complete need of his direction. Having you sit on his clothed lap, legs hanging off his thighs, and if you looked hard enough, you could see the muscles tensing beneath the fabric of his uniform. The sight alone had you weak, and collapsing into the crook of his neck, muttering a litany of “Ah, please!” And “I need you, I need you.” Into the comfort of his neck.
He remained silent, brooding, his arms holding you still as he unclasped your bra; they were an anchoring force, for you were afraid that if they weren’t there, you wouldn’t be able to keep your own hands off of him.
Everything shifted when your bra finally snapped out of its place. The sound was sharp like a crack or a pop, echoing in the chambers of the home. And those calloused hands began to grope and fondle you, every graze and brush felt immensely delicate, but also hesitant; you could gather he was holding something back.
He began to speak up once again, and you felt yourself growing impossibly wet, soaking your panties at the deep husk of his voice. “Oh, you’ve been a naughty girl,” his hot breath dewing up against the cartilage of your ear, “you’ve made Daddy fucking crazy over you, been thinking about fucking you dumb ever since I first saw you,” a tight groan escaped him, like he was reminiscing his utter restraint, “Mein Gott, you were just stood there, all dazed, and I could tell you needed a good man to fuck you into your place.” At that, his fingers pinched your nipple and twisted it, causing you to scream into him and scratch his back, feeling the skin tear beneath your fingernails.
“Oh, do you like that, puppe?”
You squealed, unable to restrict your urges, “Yes! I love it, I love it,” you drawled, drunk off his mere presence alone.
He merely hummed, finding your answer to be satisfactory. His attention soon diverted to your soaking wet panties, the fabric now digging into you painfully as you waited patiently for him to absolutely ravish you.
An all-consuming shudder ran through you as he gently grazed over your clothed pussy, clearly marvelling over your overly apparent desire for him. He chuckled, continuing to stroke your desire like he would an obedient animal, “Wow, just look at that, is meine liebe that fucking horny for Daddy?”
You wanted to tell him everything, how you would cut yourself and plunge your fingers deep into your soaking wet pussy, imagining it was him degrading and praising you all the same, how you would dream of him eating you out, his death grip leaving bruises against your skin for days, how he would mark and claim you as his, and his only.
But instead, all that came out was a strangled moan and a quivering of your marked thighs. Feeling impatient and so insatiably horny all at once, just waiting inoperatively for him to take you and do with you as he pleases.
At the lack of your reply, he pries your face away from his neck, gripping your jaw so tight it was almost in veneration, like he needed your attention; it was a source satitation for him. But when he looked into your dazed, glassy eyes, his gaze softened as he noted what kind of state you were in. “Oh, I’m sorry, princess,” he cooed, his iron grip soon being replaced with a gentle caress against the side of your face, “I didn’t know how bad my fucking whore needed to get ruined tonight.”
You nodded your head vigorously, seemingly aware and unaware at the same time, your remaining sanity disagreeing vehemently with the provocation, but your subconscious couldn’t help but melt into it, accepting it as the truth.
With a cruel sense of humour, he teasingly pulled the strap of your panties, letting it snap back, the sensation reverberating against your skin, as you mewled pathetically. Leaning into his touch like a lifeline, keeping you grounded.
“Shh, shh,” and you revelled in the gentle timbre of his voice, when you would close your eyes, you could almost imagine it to be loving in a way, “daddy’s gonna take care of you, okay,” the comforting tone left you even more aroused, constantly torn between the praise and degradation, both so disgustingly beautiful.
Then finally, finally, you felt his fingers pulling down your soaked panties and threw them aside, the cold air now corrosive against your sensitivity, and you couldn’t help but shudder at the piercing sensation. Now completely bare in front of the great Colonel Landa, how humiliating, presenting yourself to him like a bitch in heat.
The fact that he was fully clothed left you sick with delight; it was as though he was fully unaffected by the devouring lust between you two. The only things that could possibly give anything away were the visible vein bulging out of his neck, the strained erection against his trousers and the subtle grit of his teeth. But all of these things were a shock to you; you had never seen the Colonel to be so affected and catalysed by anything before in the weeks you had known him. He was always a symbol of a menacing virtue, grace and etiquette in the most despicable of hands, but to see him evidently hard and eyes red-rimmed, God, it did things to you.
Your loins curled in on themselves when the feeling of those maliciously luscious fingers fondled your arousal, toying with your clit so softly the presence was barely there, but it was just enough to want more. The insatiable nature of your lust made you crave more, no, all of what he could give you.
However, it seemed Landa was interested in your sheer desperation for him, “Wow,” he practically giggled, so interested in your anatomy it bordered on amusement, “look how horny you are for me,” he said, bringing up his finger that was essentially glistening with your juices. Ashamed, you wanted to close your eyes and beg him to stop teasing you, but when he pushed his finger into your open mouth, forcing you to taste yourself, it was in your second nature to allow the command to wash over you, entranced by his sheer command as you diligently sucked his finger clean. Eyes glazed over and completely enthralled by the obdurate will in his own, the subtle smirk on his face gone now and replaced with morbid fascination, watching you so easily submit to him.
The feeling of his index finger pressing onto your tongue was almost oppressive, the pressure increasing like a heavy weight as you watched in lust as a dark haze clouded over his eyes. Something grim and morbid took over him, his pupils dilating and a subtle vein straining against his forehead; your adrenaline debating whether or not you should be scared or even more aroused than you already are.
A gag refluxed out of you, unable to keep up with his daring intensity, and that seemed to be the moment that broke all the intensity and darkness. The question that was dancing against the tip of his own tongue was finally asked.
“Are you always like this?”
Currently incapacitated, you were unable to answer him coherently, instead only responding in muffled whimpers and gags as he continued to press down onto your tongue. Ever so graciously, however, he seemed to acknowledge your incompetence as no fault of your own, and slowly removed his finger from your mouth, an obscene line of spit trailing alongside the removal that bordered on pornographic.
“I’m sorry, mein schatz,” he began at first, sickly sweet, the corruption of his sophisticated persona started to crumble in a near demented manner as you could physically see the anger and malice build up inside him with every ounce of hesitance and trepidation in his words. “I said, do you fuck every man like this?”
You were left breathless at his question, unable to even answer him. How could you? Would you admit to him that you were a hopeless, pitiful virgin who got off on her sick perversions? Admit to him that you would finger your pussy every night, dreaming of him slapping you, hitting you, cutting you, as if you were his property. Admit to him that every cut, gauge, and slash was for him, that you would fantasise that he would dig deep into your wounds and scoop up your heartstrings, only to fuck you with nothing but his bare fingers and your blood, it was your grotesque, macabre, wet dream.
Instead, you could only moan and shake your head furiously, hoping, praying to him that he would understand, because you couldn’t admit that to him, you just couldn’t.
Anger blazed in his eyes at what he deemed to be defiance, clearly taking your lack of verbal objection to be an admission of what he feared. In contempt of your idiocy and lack of coherence, he slapped you. So hard it stung with emotion, it felt more vindictive and personal than the last ones did, while those seemed to be playful and teasing, this felt like a reflection of his outrage.
This felt like an insult.
He didn’t even wait for your reaction, didn’t wait for you to catch up as tears welled up in your eyes and your cheek reddened, the imprint of his palm already forming on your face. The sting of pain felt hedonistically guilty because you couldn’t help but moan and sob at your treatment. You wanted more, more slaps and more hits, but you couldn’t let him think you fucked other men, especially like this. You put your heart on the line for him, so exposed like this, only to think you would do this for any man with a cock and a passion for sadism, like a cheap whore.
“Use your words, girl,” the Colonel gripped your cheeks, fingers digging in so hard they practically radiated his rage, and you were certain they would bruise, “are you that cheap of a whore, you would spread your legs for anyone with a cock, for any man willing to slap you around for a bit?”
Your legs quivered, and your whole body shuddered at the indignation of his words. The feeling of your eyelids fluttering, trying to hold back stray tears, made the sob in your throat hiccup. God, you were pathetic.
“N—mph—No!” However, your attempts at justification were made futile as his iron grip on your face muffled any noise you could make. Only causing more desperate sobs and hiccups to erupt out of your mouth, gushing out of you without any semblance of stopping.
That same look of pity flickered across his face; the overly apparent humanistic nature of his sympathy unnerved you. He always seemed to be an impenetrable force, a rampart hazard, incapable of such sensitive matters as sympathy or care. But that glimpse of his humanity had your mind running hurdles, before it was gone as quickly as it came, instead, replaced by that usual hardness with something more sinister lurking beneath its surface.
He suddenly let go of your face, stroking your hair and muttering into it, “I’m sorry, Mein Liebe.” An almost grounding motion, but less for you, and more for him. Mumbling mantras of apologies felt like a regret on his part.
But that’s crazy, Hans Landa doesn’t regret. Does he?
Before you could dwell on your thoughts further, your croaking voice began to speak up. “No—no, sir, I’ve never, never fucked anyone else,” your face began to flush, feeling the intensity of his gaze and the blood rushing up to your face all in one quick succession, whispering, you managed out, “your—my first, Daddy.”
All time stood still in that moment. The temperature dropped in an instant, the incessant ticking on the clock seemed to slow, and you even heard the Colonel physically hold his breath. In that split second, it had felt like nothing else existed beyond you two, the whole world could be crashing in on itself, but you wouldn’t know; all that mattered were those stormy grey eyes and whatever horrible secrets and fantasies lay beyond them.
He smirked. Long and slow. In fact, smirk was an inadequate description; it was elongated and thin and, if anything, more like a grin. Your heart dropped at the realisation of your confession, the epiphany hitting you that you had just given such vulnerable information to him. You were akin to a bleeding out deer, with its guts spilt and outstretched, presenting itself to the wolf, lingering around the fresh corpse.
Fuck.
His breath was hot and heavy against your skin as he mouthed against your lips, the feeling of his giddiness ever present while he talked, not only apparent through the menacing joviality of his tone, but also the fact that he was barely holding back a smile as he spoke. “Oh wow, am I my kleiner Liebling’s first?” And you could only nod your head against the open-mouthed kiss, words beyond embarrassment. “Isn’t that just wunderbar!”
When his lips let go of your own, you were panting after him and chasing the high that was his presence. Clapping his hands once as an uncanny act of triumph and finality, he exclaimed, rather bluntly, “Ah! So am I popping your cherry then?”
God, the crass tone of his words couldn’t leave you anymore flustered. Whimpering, your body couldn’t stop itself from melting into the Colonel’s nape once again. Silently wishing that if you hid yourself long enough, you would spontaneously cease to exist and escape this horrible embarrassment.
Unaffected by your amalgamation of coy desire and wanton bashfulness, he ignored you, humming into your hair and stroking it once more. It was romantic, in a way. The beauty of the simple intimacy left you strangely relaxed, and you didn’t even realise how fast your heart was beating until it finally slowed.
You shakily sighed in relief. The colonel slowly moved his right hand down to your thigh, stroking it at the same pace as his left hand was brushing through your hair. You could feel his hand graze over the rough, scarred terrain of your skin. The subtle jerks of pain when he would press especially hard on some of the fresher scars electrocuted you in the best, dizziest way possible. You were so enthralled in the hypnotic motion that you hardly even registered the fingers brushing your hair, slowing down and gripping the roots.
Until he pulled your head back. Hard.
A scream of gratification and agony was unleashed from you. In the midst of this distracting pain and his open-mouthed kisses, his right hand had slipped further past your thigh and was now dangerously toying with your clit once again. Pinching and twisting it like he didn’t hear what he was doing to you. All that could be heard were your pants and gasps, and occasionally, a constrained groan from the Colonel.
Amused by your crude satisfaction, a cold tremor washed over you as you felt his attention shift, and all his decades of experience suddenly came to fruition. You felt oddly empty as the grip on your hair loosened and snuck down to your heat, his left hand replacing the right, two fingers slowly circling your clit, while you felt the index finger of your right plunge into your pussy.
“Ah!” The foreign feeling of fingers other than your own felt bizarre, causing you to gasp, and your legs subconsciously tried to close, but the Colonel’s dominating grip pried them open.
With leisure, he began to rock his finger back and forth inside of you, marvelling at the way your muscles engulfed him so greedily. “Just look at that.” He murmured, more to himself than anyone else, transfixed at the sight of your virgin hole greedily consumed just a fraction of himself.
‘Gott, stell dir nur vor, sie mit meinem Schwanz’—God, just imagine her with my cock—he thought. His eyes were heavy-lidded with desire, images of what he wanted to do to you flashed into his mind, and he had to restrain himself from prematurely pushing another finger in.
He had to be careful. He had to be ready, he was your first afterall.
He wanted you to be addicted to his cock, for it to be all you could think about, so that when you would finger yourself, it would pale in comparison to him, leaving you empty and whining for more. He wanted to ruin you for every man out there, so that when you would lie with them, all you could think about was the relief he granted you, the tension he gave you, how he let you cross that borderline between pleasure and pain so easily.
He wanted all of you, mind, body and soul.
Practically yelling, your nails ran down his back once again, clinging onto him like a lifeline as the pace of his strokes against your clit increased rapidly, probably to distract you from that beautiful sting of his fingers inside your pussy.
You grew even louder, choking on your own moans when he started up his dirty talk back up, once again. “Fuck, just look at you,” his voice was laced with arousal in a thick octave, “ just a meagre virgin and already swallowing my fingers like you were made for this, made to take cock,” he paused in contemplation for a moment, his gaze hardening as a malignant haze took over him, “my cock. You understand?”
Quite cruelly, he slowed his impossibly fast pace on your clit to a halt. Making you dizzy with trepidation and an empty, unfulfilled desire burning inside you. “I asked if you understood that.” And that deep octave just grew even deeper at his impatience; you could physically feel yourself getting wetter.
“Yes, Daddy, I understand.” You answered quickly, learning from your past mistakes and not willing to let him mistake your hesitation for insubordination. Also hoping to avert his attention from your immediate arousal at his dominance, it would be like putting all your cards on the line.
But apparently, you already had. Despite your facing away from his face, eyes bashfully looking beneath you both, you could physically feel his sneer in your peripheral vision. “Oh, you fucking slut.” he grumbled in grim delight, taking satisfaction in the way your legs quivered at the insult. “Does my little girl like that?” He cooed, clearly mocking your soft and eager pants, mimicking all your pitiful whines and that airy, sex crazed voice.
Ashamed, you averted his gaze further, focusing on the speck of dust on the carpet, the way his hardwood desk seemed to be freshly polished, just anything but him. That was short-lived, however, when you felt his middle finger being unceremoniously pushed inside of you.
Curling over in surprise and passion, you were forced to meet his eyes. His devilishly chagrin smile caused your cheeks to heat up even further, and any coherent words that were about to come out of you suddenly evaporated at the tip of your tongue as he started rocking his fingers inside you, leisurely fucking you with his fingers as he continued to interrogate you.
“Would you want me to flip you over? Fuck you till you can’t think, until you're scrambling to remember your own name?” And all you could do was sob and moan as the thickness of his fingers stretched you tense and stretched, the deep callouses of his skin felt tranquillizingly delicious. It was quite literally scratching you in the deepest of places. You felt corporeally tied to him, yet you were too dazed to answer him, leaving a burning desire within him to tease you more.
“I could bend you over this desk right now.” He whispered into your ear, evidently aroused by the idea himself, “Would you like that, puppe? For me to fuck you senseless right here, right now?”
Just then, you felt a spasm racking through you, his skilful fingers having clearly found that spot, “Oh fuck! Ah—Herr Colonel!” You screamed, unable to control yourself at the attack of stimulation, “Please! Please fuck me, Daddy—need it, need your cock.” You slurred, incapacitated by the pleasure, but you didn’t want him to stop; he couldn’t. You wanted, no needed, more, more, more, more.
“As you wish, Schatz.” And just like that, he picked you up and flipped you around as if you were nothing, the sudden loss of his fingers and the disorientation of being so easily flipped like that left you whining, confused and empty.
But that emptiness didn’t last forever; the sound of the zipper being pulled down could be heard from behind you. Before you could focus on the biting frost that shuddered through your body at your bare breasts being pushed into the hardwood, or the sound of the clatter of books falling, or even the pressure of his hand gripping the small of your waist, fitting you into the right position and arching your back ever so slightly. You felt his cock teasing graze your clit, like a cat playing with its meal before gorging, and tonight, you were particularly delectable to him.
Desire burned within you as you croaked out, “Please, please—ah! Daddy, please—mhm, need you, need you to fuck me.” Your words fighting with the gentle moans that bubbled inside of you. It was pathetic how you felt your eyes well up with tears in anticipation, but you couldn’t help yourself; you needed him, carnally. “Stop t-teasing me, please.” It was humiliating how desperate your whines were, but you couldn’t help it; you just felt so fucking empty.
The feeling of his fingers gripping the roots of your scalp was almost ghostly, but when he tightened his grasp, you could only shriek and relish in the pain, pulling your head up and forcing your bare back to meet his chest. The soft tingle of his chest hair made you realise, sometime between all of this flipping, twisting and manhandling, he somehow managed to take his shirt off.
You let out a hitched sob and moan when the Colonel leaned in close and whispered, hot and heavy into your ear. Beguiling you with his cruel words and gentle touches, “You’ll take what I fucking give you, don’t be greedy, slut.” And in all his viciousness, he continued, “Du bist so verdammt dreckig, hast du dir etwa deine enge Muschi gefingert und dabei daran gedacht? Jetzt kannst du nicht mal mehr eine verdammte Minute warten, du Schlampe.”—You're so fucking filthy, did you finger your tight pussy and think about this? Now you can't even wait a goddamn minute, you whore.
His German sounded less graceful and sophisticated, but more vile and barbaric, as if something ugly was laced into his words. He didn’t even realise the anger building up within him, preoccupied with the pit of desire in his heart, unbeknownst to him that they were one and the same.
His hands caressed you, so soothing compared to his red in tooth and claw words, so soothing it felt hypnotic in a way. You basked in the somniferous nature of his touch until the grounding clench he had on your scalp was suddenly pulled apart from you. Leaving you to slam into the table, all limbless and stupid, proving once again your idiocy without him and his guidance. Mental and physical.
He barely left you any time to think as you thumped onto the table, your mind still reeling from the whiplash. And when he slowly began to enter you, you were left fully inebriated by sensations. The stretch of your pussy was agonisingly beautiful, and in any other circumstance, it would be painful, excruciating even, but he was taking it so slow, so gentle, like you would collapse if he went any faster, and the slow pace of fulfillment made you sigh with relief, as he finally bottomed out, whispering and muttering nothing but praise because he “knew Daddy’s little girl could do it.”
And you melted into it, not only the feeling of his dick twitching inside of you, rearranging your insides as he gave you a moment to breathe, but also the praise, his words. Maybe you were just his little girl, his to dote over, his to dress and arrange, his thoughts to become your own. You needed him in a telepathic sense.
Telepathic, he was too, as if he had reached into your mind and forcibly gripped your bleeding thoughts out of your brain. He began to speak, “Isn’t this just perfect, mein Engel, having you here like this,” he hummed, fondling the ends of your hair, stroking through them as he began his pace, his movements soft and delicate as you moaned at the feeling of his hands finding their grip against your hips from behind you. “To think,” he purred, almost fondly, “every day could be like this, I could take you like this wherever we went, I could feed you, dress you, and all you would have to do is say ‘Yes, Daddy’ and I would be yours, I would fuck you, hit you, beat you, cut you, all you have to do is say the word.”
Oh God, you could hardly think straight, and it didn’t help that he reached down and started to play with your now swollen clit. Pinching and pulling it, as if he were deaf to your shrieks of overstimulation, the relish so bright it became a discomfort, and it was fucking amazing. His gentle strokes inside you made you feel soft and loved, but his cruel fingers never made you forget your desire for that delicious pang of anguish.
With every subtle pound, your knees wobbled with pleasure. The completely foreign sensation of a cock actually inside of you was nothing short of mind-blowing. The thickness, the stretch, how every time he would hit your spot, it would be just enough to tease you and also leave you dumb-fucked.
The moans couldn’t stop themselves, “FUCK! D-daddy, fuck, feelsh so good,” your vowels were elongated and drawled, so fucked out you could hardly help but slur your words. “Mhm, pleashe don’t—don’t shtop.”
His bare chest leaned into you once again, his arms wrapped around you, while his fingers pinched and twisted your nipples, in the same way he was teasing your clit, purposefully trying to disorientate you even further.
Every fibre of your skin felt hot, as if you were on fire, and the fuel was the searing passion lacing the very air around you. The Colonel’s touches and grazes that were left all over your body felt swollen and bruised, and you revelled in the fact that there would be lasting marks of him all over you, for days to come. And maybe, when you are especially lonely, you could press into your wounds and reminisce on the love you felt today, the cold memory lingering in your bones.
But for now, you were living in the moment, and it was a high, ecstasy pumping through your veins with every slow, angled thrust, your cunt gaping for more as high-pitched wailing sounds reverberated against the walls of the lounge, his thick member hitting that spot over and over again.
You could feel your juices leaking out of you; the sound of depraved squelches was almost obscene, but your unabashed moans of pleasure were definitely obscene, but it was all the same to Landa, music to his ears. And the sight of you, his body shuddering when he pulled your tousled hair back to see your face, so utterly fucked out, eyes rolled back, makeup pooling and smudging beneath your tears, Gott, you looked divine.
It was at that moment, when he was boring into your fucked out expression, watching as you were too fargone to even realise what was going on, let alone the mental strife he was going through, that something just snapped. Perhaps it was his inhibitions, or perhaps it was something deeper—he didn’t know—nor did it matter to him, all that mattered to him was that he needed you now, carnally, and he was done playing coy, playing gentleman.
As if he ever was one to begin with.
With that, he slams into you at a near-ruthless pace. Biting his lip at the sight of your mouth stuck in that whorish ‘O’ shape, enthralled in the way your mind was chasing the concept of such intense pleasure. “Did you like that, sweetheart?”
But of course, you were too fucked out, choking on your own breath as his pace quickened with every thrust, slamming into you over and over again, the table beneath you rattling at the pressure, ready to give way any minute now. And every so often, the cutest little gasps would escape you as you realised that you needed to breathe, and Landa couldn’t help but fuss over it.
“Oh my poor baby,” he cooed, each word muttered through strained groans, clearly struggling himself, “so fucked out, you can’t even breathe? That fucking dumb, huh? Only thing on your mind is my cock, isn’t it?”
He waited patiently for your answer, not even halting his offensive speed as he continued to pound into you, but only hearing your dumb squeaks and whines was an indignation that pissed him off to an extent that could only be described as arousing.
Adrenaline pumping through his blood just led to one event after another, in what felt like a blur. It was as if a foreign force took over him as he flipped you around once more and held you up, watching the way your body sank into his touch, noting down mentally that you clearly enjoyed being manhandled.
Just like that, he slammed you into the wall. You could faintly hear the sound of the bookshelf beside you rattling with the force. All done with his dick still straining inside of you, bulging and twitching with every pulse and clench of your cunt, your mind simply unable to get over the sheer size of him inside of you. You couldn’t imagine life without him now that you had a taste; everything else just seemed so dull.
Before you were given time to think any further, you felt his grip on your chin as his pace continued back up once again, just as relenting with no mercy insight for your cervix. He was hitting so far that you could swear you could feel him in your stomach. God, it felt like he was claiming every inch of you with his cock.
He slapped you. And you moaned. He slapped you again, and you only moaned again. You were lost in the sensations. He would pull your hair till the sting felt raw, bite your neck till the skin broke, but all you could do was moan for more. His thrusts became successively more direct, as if he was fucking you with a purpose, to make you come undone.
And with that intention, he was becoming increasingly successful, your stomach clawed with an unfamiliar yet all too familiar sensation, and you could feel the pleasure tightening and constraining within you, and he could sense it too. Sense it with the way your cunt began to twitch and pulsate against his cock, and a wicked thought flashed across his mind, smirking against your skin as he kissed your neck.
You were so close, you could feel it, release only a touch away, his ruthless pace driving you to the edge of your orgasm. Until he slowed. Slowed so dramatically you could see him wince from the contrasting feelings; however, that didn’t relent him from his crude plan.
Whining, tears dropped from your cheeks at the frustration of your release being so cruelly taken from you, mumbling and muttering a litany of ‘pleases’, as if that would change his unrelenting gaze.
“Ah, ah, ah, Mein Leibling,” The colonel tutted, wiping the tears from your cheeks with something akin to mercy, “You see—” he drawled, enthralled with the way you bit your plush lips from trepidation, fascinated with the way the soft skin ripped to reveal the deep red leaking beneath, the way you winced at the pain, but your pupil dilated with desire, “you see, you never answered my question, did you?” Your body shivered with the way his voice dropped an octave, and he leaned in impossibly closer next to your ear, “Are you mine? Mine to possess, mine to ruin, mine to fantasise over? Do you fuck yourself thinking about me, dreaming of my cock pounding into your tight little hole?”
God! His words were so vulgar, but his expression was so raw and earnest, his grey eyes red-rimmed at the edges, his hair sticking out of place; if you didn’t know any better, you would say he was desperate. Your voice was stuck in your throat, and you were seemingly only capable of slight moans and hitched breaths from escaping you.
At your hesitation, he slowly thrusted back into you, drawled and elongating, practically teasing the answer out of you. “What’s your answer, puppe? Gonna leave Daddy waiting?”
Broken from your desire, a wretched sob was pulled from your vocal cords. Inhibition begone as you couldn’t help yourself from giving him what he wanted to hear, “YES, please! Daddy, please, I’m yours—I’m yours, you're all I can think about, I swear, I swear.”
Your nails clawed against his back, grapling with your confession and the way his eyes darkened with a haze of lust. Preparing yourself with the knowledge that he was going to absolutely ravage you.
His speed was instantly picked up once again, unapologetically slamming into you repeatedly. Your head slamming into the wall with every sharp thrust into your cervix, mind reeling from the pleasure and the unabashed way he treated you, throwing and tossing you around like a rag doll, ready to be fucked and thrown away so easily.
All that could be heard was the sound of your pained moans, his strained grunts and that depraved sound of you falling into the wall. The smell of sex was hot and heavy in the air, thickening the atmosphere and clouding your judgment. His fingers were cruel and harsh as they gripped onto your skin, and if you weren’t battered and bruised before, you were certain you were now.
But those sensations were thrown away when you felt that curling power within you. Chasing your body with its promise of fulfilment, and you could tell The Colonel was closer than he was letting on as his thrusts were getting sloppier and increasingly carnal, clearly chasing his own pleasure in a similar fashion.
Your toes curled, and your fingers tingled, your moans became increasingly more high-pitched and airy, and before you knew it, pleasure crashed over you like a tsunami wave; you swore everything went white. You had never felt anything like this before, not even with your own fingers; your thighs quivered with the aftershock, and your juices leaked out of you.
He wasn’t done just yet, though. He continued to fuck into your orgasm, if not just a bit gentler, aware that the overstimulation was probably painful for you. But it couldn’t be painful enough; you loved it. The feeling of him using you, regardless of your fulfilment or not.
And with a strangled moan, he came into you, muttering some nonsense in German before his head fell into the crook of your neck. Exhausted in a way only sex could make him. But clearly, it caught up to you first, as you were promptly passed out against the wall. Gott, weren’t the youth supposed to be more virile?
Amused, he picked up your frame, bridal style, satisfied not only in terms of sex, but also that of possession.