Unhinge the Universe

by Aleksandr Voinov;L. A. Witt

  His balls tightened in sympathy and arousal. All demons in hell, but this was incredibly erotic, though he could do precious little about it. He had to keep an eye on any guard straying in, and getting caught would most definitely end his career. What the Nazi did, nobody would particularly care. A totally different thing to be caught enjoying it in anything but a sadistic way. He could enjoy the Nazi’s humiliation, but not his body, not his cock, not the way his lips tightened and his eyes screwed shut as his back arched away from the wall as much as his compact position allowed.

  John shifted in the chair, his trousers pressing in just right to blur his vision. Fuck, he hadn’t had this in mind. Had he? God, yes, he had to have known this would happen, but he hadn’t thought it through, hadn’t pictured himself being hard and halfway insane while Hagen jerked himself just a few feet away.

  “Look at me.” His own voice came from somewhere else. “Hagen.” He licked his lips. “Look. At me.”

  The German’s eyes fluttered open. Made it to half mast, tried to slide closed, finally opened partway. The piercing blue eyes met John’s, and John had to fight a groan.

  Hagen didn’t bother fighting back his own. The low, ecstatic sound emerged from the back of his throat, and his eyes slid closed as his back bowed a little more. He swore in German. English. German again.

  Then he whimpered. And his eyes flew open.

  And John realized the whimper hadn’t come from Hagen at all, but from him. He gritted his teeth, somehow managed to contain that terrible pressure building up in him without relieving it. Right now, he envied the German for this forced act. He would have to wait until he had some privacy, and he had nobody to watch over him while he did it. Not after Michael’s death. Nobody to hold him tight during a stolen, quick mutual handjob and kisses that were all about ramping up the desire until they both broke.

  Restless, too hard to just leave, John got up again and pulled the chair closer to sit down, watching with fascination and mind-bending arousal as the strong hand slid over the hard dick (uncut, he noted, another German thing). He felt weirdly affectionate, not brutal at all, not like he’d be even remotely capable of using Hagen’s arousal as a weapon now. He wasn’t capable of what the Nazi had suggested. “That does feel better, doesn’t it?” he asked softly.

  Hagen’s mouth opened, lips pulled back from sharp white teeth in a grimace of desire and determination. He wanked like he fought, with that single-minded intensity that gave John gooseflesh. John reached out to those lips, ran a thumb over them, and Hagen promptly stuttered in his rhythm. So easy to throw off when he was surprised.

  Hagen looked at him, then down at the erection tenting his pants. “Do you . . . know what . . . the whores in Paris do?”

  John blinked. “No.”

  “They . . . use their mouths.” Hagen dislodged his free hand from his thigh and slid closer, reached for John’s belt. Just the tug at his waist sent electricity through John’s groin, and he had to put a hand on the wall to keep his balance.

  “Jesus . . .” A second later than he should have, he remembered the gun on his hip, dangerously close to his prisoner’s hands, and he grabbed Hagen’s wrist. What were you going to do? They locked eyes.

  Hagen’s eyes darted toward their hands. Then back up to John’s eyes.

  “Stand.” The word came from the Nazi as less of a command, more of . . . something less demanding. Like a simple observation of what they both knew John would do.

  And he did. On shaking legs, keeping himself steady with a hand on the wall, John straightened. He put his gun on the chair and pushed the chair away with his boot so it was safely out of reach.

  Hagen shifted onto his knees. The hand on his dick slowed, but didn’t stop, and with his other hand, he reached for John’s belt.

  John removed his hand from the wall, let it hover for a moment until he was sure the world wouldn’t list out from under him, and then helped the German with his belt and trousers.

  The cold was a shock, meeting his erect cock with the sharpness of a pistol whip to the face, but it was nothing compared to the sudden wet heat of Hagen’s mouth. John’s hand shot out and hit the wall again, the sound sending a jolt of panic through him, and he glanced at the door for any sign of movement.

  Fuck them. Let them come through. Oh God.

  Hagen tried to take all of John’s cock at once. Gagged. Tried again. Gagged again. John put a hand on his forehead.

  “Not . . . not all of it. Just . . . ooh, yes. Like that.” His head fell back, and he slid his fingers into Hagen’s short hair. His hips moved on their own, trying to force his cock deeper into a mouth that wasn’t ready to take it all, but Hagen must have learned from the Parisian whores, or perhaps just instinctively knew to keep a hand around John’s cock to control how much, how deep.

  Hagen groaned. His voice thrummed against John’s cock, and his hand tightened. John technically should have been afraid Hagen would attack him, that this was all a ruse, but . . . if it was, then he was a fool, and he’d die knowing what Hagen could do with his mouth.

  He looked down, blinking until his watering eyes focused. Hagen didn’t even seem to remember there was a gun nearby, just behind John on the chair. His elbow and shoulder pumped rapidly as he kept stroking himself, and his head bobbed over John’s dick until John’s vision blurred again.

  “Fuck. Hagen.”

  No language had a word for absolute insanity mixed with sublime pleasure. Gut-wrenchingly intense in the heat, unexpected, and yet so perfect. Barely a thought that Hagen’s teeth were sharp and he was well capable of inflicting terrible damage right there, barely a thought of any guards or guns or consequences. He’d been yearning for some kind of release for days, and here he was getting it, from an enemy no less, but an enemy in the same damned position—or rather, on his knees.

  He was on a hair trigger, and Hagen’s insistence, breaking through Hagen’s cold and angry reserve so spectacularly, was half the thrill firing his sudden, violent orgasm. He came even before the German, and, on instinct, grabbed the man’s head to prevent him from getting away. Always safer when they left no traces. Hagen struggled weakly, choking again, which just made John’s orgasm sweeter, added an edge to it that deepened when the powerful body below began to shake with Hagen’s own orgasm. Hagen sputtered and pulled away, desperately needing to breathe.

  A last spurt erupted as Hagen was sliding off his dick, and coated his chin, running down his neck and, before Hagen had even managed to lift his own semen-stained hand, dribbled down on the Iron Cross so prominently displayed on Hagen’s chest. No Knight’s Cross yet, though this harebrained rescue mission behind enemy lines would likely get him there.

  John reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, cleaned up quickly and tucked himself in even before clear thought returned.

  Hagen sat back on his heels. He’d wiped away the semen on his chin and throat, but either didn’t care or—more likely—didn’t know about the pearlescent drops on his precious medal. The soldier in John wanted to gloat over coming on a Nazi’s medal, but in spite of the swastikas and the iconic gray jacket on the man kneeling at his feet, John didn’t see a Nazi. An enemy.

  He lowered himself nearly to Hagen’s eye level, taking a knee on the hard, cold floor. Without looking the German in the eye, he brought up the handkerchief and carefully, almost reverently for reasons he couldn’t quite understand, cleaned the Iron Cross.

  With the heat of the moment past and the cold of the night settling in, the reality of their situation, of what had just happened between them, pressed down harder on John’s shoulders. While he could still trust his legs to do what they were designed to do, he pushed himself back to his feet and, without another word or even a look, holstered his gun and left the cell.

  Outside the door, he paused, glancing at one of the guards. “He’s got three hours. Then wake him up and come get me.”

  He paused only long enough to get an affirmative out of them and a confirm
ation in their faces that they had no clue what had just happened inside.

  Still. It shouldn’t have happened, he admonished himself on the way to his rack. He toed his boots off there, sat down on the cot. His nerves were frayed, and that delicious after-sex heaviness was just settling in his limbs. No danger to resting while the prisoner did. He was making progress—on the road to hell, at least.

  He lay back, covered his eyes with an arm, and tried to work out where things had spiraled out of control in that particular way. Takes one to catch one, he reminded himself. There was no doubt now that Hagen didn’t just respond with arousal to fear and deprivation. He was still capable of desire despite his situation. Young men and their ability to function in the strangest circumstances. He blew out a breath, forced himself to give in to the weight in his limbs rather than the brooding.

  They had twenty-four hours in total. He’d lost twelve. That left him just twelve more to finish the job.

  Ironically, it was John who only managed three hours of sleep. The body was willing, but the knock at his door woke him long before he was ready to face daylight. He thought about telling whoever it was to fuck off—with all due respect—but the damage was done. He was already awake.

  He grumbled and swore as he got up and crossed the cramped, makeshift sleeping quarters to the door.

  “What?” he muttered as light from outside slapped him in the face.

  “Sir,” the private said sharply. “The commander wants to see you immediately, sir.”

  Of course he does. And I’ll bet he won’t be so willing to suck my dick, will he?

  John stiffened, and his eyes darted to the soldier in front of him. The kid’s expression was blank, so John must not have spoken the thought aloud. Thank God.

  “Sir?”

  John scrubbed a hand over his face and glanced down at his rumpled uniform. “Tell him I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  The boy nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  John shut the door. Showing up with his appearance in tatters, even for a conversation with an officer of the same rank, just wouldn’t do. That wasn’t how John worked. Besides, cleaning himself up would likely help clear his head, leaving him focused and ready to deal with Hagen again.

  Yes, no point in sleeping any more. He was awake, and he already had the “oh shit” swelling in his gut as he thought about what had happened last night.

  It happened. That can’t be changed. Square yourself away.

  He quickly shaved and put on a uniform that wasn’t so wrinkled and reminiscent of last night’s . . . interrogation. He didn’t want Walters or anyone else in the camp to smell the German on him and find out everything. No point in risking it, feasible or not.

  He ran a comb through his hair, gave himself a quick glance in the grungy mirror, and left for the camp commander’s makeshift office at one end of the vestibule.

  “So, how’s it coming along?” Walters looked up as John took a seat in the drafty room. “Have you managed to get the Nazi to kiss Old Glory yet?”

  John cleared his throat. “We’re on schedule, though we’ve hit a roadblock regarding the question of who authorized the mission. There’s a lot of resistance in that particular area, but I’m expecting to break through in the next session, after he’s rested.”

  “Rested?” Walters laughed. “Why not put him out in the snow and keep him awake ’til he talks?”

  John laughed dryly. “No point. As it is, he’s exhausted to the point he’s nearly hallucinating. I wouldn’t trust any intel coming from him now. Not while he’s coming down from all the drugs that kept him awake for days on end.”

  Walters nodded. “So you’re reasoning with him?”

  Not quite the words I’d be using. John nodded. “He’s getting there. He’s young, he doesn’t want to die. He will understand that cooperation means getting into a POW camp and waiting out the war. Besides, I can appeal to the fact that he’s already lost a brother in this war—he won’t want to do that to his family, SS crack troops or not. I don’t expect he’s willing to die to keep the Führer’s secrets.” Unlike his brother.

  Walters’s lips thinned into a bleached line. “Well, make it quick. Your codebreakers have finished with the papers this son of a bitch brought in with him, and the higher-ups are breathing down both our necks now.”

  John sat up a little straighter. “Is that right?”

  “Mm-hmm.” Walters picked up a drab green folder and slid it across the small, cluttered table. “And they want answers ASAP because they think our Nazi boy in there is involved in something big.”

  “Do they?” John opened the folder, and his gaze immediately dropped to two words at the bottom of the page:

  H. Himmler.

  He pulled in a sharp breath. “Oh. Shit.”

  “Was my reaction too.” Walters folded his hands on the table, but his thumbs remained restless, each vying for the top position over the other. “In fact, I had them transmit it twice just to make sure I was reading it correctly.” He nodded toward the folder. “The brass is concerned these might be fake, but if the prisoner’s so hesitant to give up his CO’s name . . .”

  “Fake?” John glanced up at him, then back to the codebreaker’s translation. A great deal of intel on the movement of whole divisions, objectives, armies. Not small fry, this looked very much like the battle plan of an operation called Apfelschuss—“apple shot,” which, for those who knew European folklore, evoked Wilhelm Tell—the folk hero of Switzerland. Consequently, it detailed a lot of troops moving from the south of Germany into Switzerland. “Why fake?”

  “Just doesn’t sound right.” Walters leaned back in his chair, rusty metal shrieking against rusty metal. “The coordinates, where the bases are, it’s all . . .” He waved a hand. “It doesn’t make sense. The Nazis violating Swiss neutrality? Mobilizing two armies for a pincer attack? We’d have seen infantry and panzers heading that way by now. A declaration of war on Switzerland. Something.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time the Nazis moved large numbers of troops quietly.” That was how they’d taken France in the first place. Though, considering the losses and the tremendous amount of blood being spilled on the Eastern Front, it seemed beyond belief that the Nazis still had enough men to throw into France. Ever since Normandy, Germany had been fighting a defensive war, though there were odd rumblings from the Ardennes region. Surely, this was a last-ditch effort. Not only launching a counteroffensive in Belgium and the Low Countries, but mobilizing enough men and matériel for a second offensive, which could form the second pincer? Only madmen would—

  Well, there’s that.

  “I’ll see if I can confirm this.” John held up the folder. “The SS would likely spearhead any counteroffensive, and God knows what crazy schemes Himmler has come up with if he’s taken a personal interest or is trying to score points with his master.” Also, Himmler was in charge of the southern part of the German front, and closest to Switzerland. What if Himmler did have enough resources to split his forces and flank them via Switzerland? Madness, braving the mountains in this exceptionally harsh winter, but the Nazis had done crazier things—and succeeded.

  “I’ve got orders,” Walters said. “I’ve got to move my boys today.”

  “Yes, I know, but we need to get this out of him.”

  Walters nodded. “And under the circumstances, I can get away with a few extra hours, but not long. You’ve got to work fast on this, John. Main thing is, the brass wants to know ASAP if this should move up the chain, or if we’re calling it a fake. I don’t think I have to tell you how important this is.”

  “No, you don’t.” John understood well the terrible weight of that decision. Thousands of lives. Maybe more. If this was the big one, a second counteroffensive via Switzerland, then this intel could save lives, shorten the overall war, hell, maybe help them beat the Nazis to the punch and stop them in their tracks. It would mean diverting men and matériel to the east to be ready, which would weaken the overall effort
in the west. But not reacting could mean worse.

  “Twelve hours, sir. Let me confirm as much as I can from this source. I think he’s good for it. I’ll just have to squeeze a little harder.”

  Walters nodded. “You need any help from my boys, just say the word.”

  “Will do.” John let his gaze drift over the page in front of him again. Then he set the folder on the table as he rose from his chair. “I’d better go talk to my patient, hadn’t I?”

  Walters took the folder as he gave a tight smile. “Good luck.”

  John started for the door. Hesitated. Maybe the papers would offer him some leverage. If he waved them in Hagen’s face, the Nazi would know the time for bullshit was over.

  He turned on his heel. “Mind if I . . . borrow those?”

  Walters’s eyebrow arched. “These are classified documents, John.”

  John rolled his eyes. “And I’m fairly certain there aren’t any surprises in there for the prisoner.” He held out his hand. “Might save me some time.”

  The commander hesitated, eyeing John’s hand warily before handing over the folder. “There’s a single tear or wrinkle on any of these when I get them back, or there’s one page missing, it’s your ass, not mine.”

  “Understood.” John clutched the folder to his chest as he headed back to where Hagen was being held. When he got there, he asked the guards, “He awake yet?”