Kidding Hitler

As we moved through polite society and Germany I found that indeed I was special. Some philistines claimed that Hitler had no heart, but this was clearly untrue. He listened to me. We talked for long hours, when he was not fucking me in the ass, until he fell asleep. And I was the only one for whom he removed his mustache.

He bought me constant presents of pearls and Jews and often generously surprised me with back rubs and foot massages using wooden things he had found in the road. I was the Queen of Germany and had so much power I did not use, as I was locked in at night. But when Hitler was with me, on my arm or on my ass, I felt my influence. I was a person.

It may seem strange, dear voyeur, that I should still call such a person by his last name. Where is the love, you ask; the nicknames? Ours was a lust so close we did not feel the need for such sentimentalism. We spent many an hour, me on my back, joking against Mrs. Winston Churchill, whom spies had discovered her husband had nicknamed "Pooh" in a fit of love.

It was at this point, in such exquisite sex and comfort, that I began having fun with Mein Fuhrer. It began with a few sweet simple laughs when he could not find the hardness to enter my hole. He would, eventually, join me in the laugh, and I began to grow bold and tweak his pubic hair, and set fire to his underarm hair, which he laughed off like a dim schoolboy. S oon, I was daring indeed—clipping bear fur into his morning porridge, gluing the toilet seat down, confidentially repeating a rumor I'd never heard (black people are Jewish), placing the dead cats from the kitchen in the piano so he couldn't achieve the scale, in the midst of faking my orgasm, suddenly laughing uproariously, and even hiding his mustache.

To these and more he took a variety of umbrage, always resulting in deep, guttural laughter from us both, raising our hearts, collapsing us in a pile together on the floor, our eyes dying with happy tears. Mostly he would slap my ass and tweak my nose. I would exact revenge with a poke in his eyes or, while he slept, I might shave a Star of David into his ball hair, and how we would laugh in the morning!

By June of 1940 I was Hitler's exclusive fuck. To mean, he would still favor the odd whore down the road if feeling particularly horny while out on affairs, but no other soldier was allowed the feel of my skin from thence. Fortunately, I had a quite a barren womb during my misadventures and had long since skirted the fears other whores had of growing small children in their vast bellies. When we had first began, Hitler was minutely afraid of my uselessness should I produce a huge stomach, until I wisely pointed out that only shits were born of the ass, and we had great guffaws over that.

Of course we were careful to appear discrete in the presence of others, less my man's authority be usurped with doubts of his seriousness. In his mustache he was rigid, incorruptible, stern in his prejudice, dour and extraordinarily efficient. He ruled with an iron fist, but often smiled within the shouting, especially on days I would glue an aluminum condom to his cock or shave just a bit off the tips of both his eyebrows, creating a decidedly uneven look. He never noticed. If he ever looked at himself in the mirror, I never saw it.

For the first time in my life, I felt a freedom that cannot be articulated. The recurring dream of mine faded the more I was pussy fucked by this great man. Now that he was not sharing me with the Generals and the kitchen staff, he gave it to me good, finishing always inside, shouting the German names of apples as he came, which gave us both a good laugh after. Sometimes I would stick my finger right up his hole while he pumped me and he howled and came quickly, collapsing, and we did laugh. Other times I would put a bucket of champaign over the bathroom door, or mixed cocaine and white pepper in his poppyseed cake batter. Though I didn't have a favorite prank, I was careful not to repeat myself to keep the relationship fresh.

On his next birthday, after swallowing a particularly hot and full load, as he had been away to the front (where he would not let me follow) and did not have the time to whore or jack himself, I gave him a nifty red decorated Chinese box full of sneezing powder and Hershey bars. It was not very original, but Hitler stopped his sneering when he looked in the very bottom. Two Air Luftwafa tickets to New York City!

There were the obvious arguments I expected: "I'm too busy!" "I can't just leave!" But in the end, when I had the German leader in a terrible nose hold and my tongue in his hairy ear, of course he capitulated and we were off that Tuesday!

It was wonderfully warm and moist in July and we'd just missed the 4th so everything was normal and as uncrowded as you could hope for in the world's largest city. Hitler fell in love with everything immediately; the people, the thick, thin slices of New York pizzas, and once I dragged him into a Yankees game, he could not go without it again. We sat just above second base cheering against whatever team that dare oppose us! The seats were marvelous and we drowned in endless hot dogs and yellow beer, smoking our lungs brown with Lucky's.

We took the train to Newark, found there was nothing, and took a taxicab to the Statue of Liberty where I teased Hitler by telling him we had to walk it! Well, when he found me at the top (I took the elevator), he was simply livid, puffing and clutching at the rail. But when I showed him something on his shirt, then flicked his nose, we both roared with laughter and went to the railing to yell down at people.

Our fucking was good in America and soon he remembered my azho with a fondness that brought tears to my eyes. He wanted to do this in more public places after having witnessed two young doing it under a bridge. Though how he saw that, I'm not sure, as I was always with him and didn't witness such sex myself. But that was my Hitler! Once he got a notion in his brilliant head...

I was fucked hard in the ass on 49th Street, fucked hard in the ass on the West side of Central Park in some yellow bushes, and he dribbled in my cunt in the cab to the theatre that night. We saw a W. C. Fields personal appearance that night and I don't think I ever saw Hitler laugh as hard as he did that night. It was so healthy! It was a magical night.

The Yellow Cab was our main mode of transport, as it kept us private and horny, for the drivers didn't seem to care what when on in the backs of their cars. If this had been my Idaho, there would certainly have been some eyebrows raised when his mis-facial caught the back window!

It wasn't all backseat decadence. Ever the man, Hitler could not loosen his strong work ethic completely and would, at most opportunities, engage drivers, even "common" people coming out of jewelry stores, on the current state of world politics. Without his mustache and hair combed back like an Italian, he was safe, without doubt, but still I did the majority of the asking and the sounds and replies.

There was a wave, a stinking preponderance full of anti-German sentiment everywhere we went, no matter the neighborhood, which down heartened Hitler to no end. But there was an end! I was determined not to let his phobias ruin our vacation, and darted off quickly to a novelty shop, under the excuse of a bathroom, and bought enough tricks to keep the Fuhrer in deep mirth for the whole of the trip.

No, he'd never experienced the exploding cigar before! How he laughed!

Though they were clamoring for him back home, I convinced Hitler to extend our stay and run away with me by romantic train. It would only mean three more weeks. "What harm could that do to the Nazi movement?" I asked. And we could secure a first class compartment for all the ass fucking he could stomach. Oh, I did make it tempting.

Agreed, we jumped the first thing leaving, to Chicago, and bought our clothes, lubrication and tooth equipment en route.

As expected and as offered, my butt was full for almost the entire trip, with breaks for coffee and beans for Hitler. Sometimes I think he went out of his way to break wind in public, as it kept him aloof which was then not of his choosing, but when it was just us, somehow he found the will to control it.

We dined well in Chicago, thrilled by the gangster mystique so dominating in many of the nightclubs. We kept expecting someone so infamous to appear. It wasn't as windy as I expected. In fact, I was a bit chagrinned after telling my companion, during coffee, how windy it would be and it wasn't. Sensing something odd within me, Hitler bought me the Hope Diamond to cheer me up, though we had to leave without paying when we realized the thing was famous.

The afternoon after we arrived, after strawberries cakes and root beer floats, we bought a black Ford and we drove to watch children happily scream and run out of a local school. They seemed so delighted, running into puddles and smashing their heads together, and I pulled up from sucking him to ask if he'd ever thought of having children. "Who's children?" he wanted to know, so I explained the birthing process, and with a kindly smile and gentle downward pressure to the back of my head, he gave his rather original views on "fucking children, cunts!"

In a way I was relieved for his strong feelings since it was most likely that I would never conceive; certainly not in view of his vast ass work. No matter as our thoughts merged: every day is a blessing, an idea we shared until our last moment together.

It was foolish, really. The way we ended. We had partaken of a new thing at Club 21 named New York Cheesecake and it gave my poor darling the runs something horrible. As he was too self-conscious to subject me to the very real smell of his bubbling bowels, we did not make rough that night. All day the next day, most of which was taken up with a Cubs baseball game in the rain, he grumbled and cursed at the players who stood around until reaching the rather dismal score of 0-1 (0, Cubs) some hours later. I knew the true reason for his irritability was his deep belief that he disappointed me. Since we had become inseparable partners, with the exception of the occasional emergency, I had followed him to every state dinner, every troop inspection, all anniversary parties and this was the first time in months he had not fucked my ass in some way.

He felt less of a man, I knew this from his monster-like damnation of every "decadent American" thing or person he came in contact with. I truly thought he was going to hit some people, especially noisy bus children who funnily crowded him. I did my all to tweak his nose and keep his fly in a constant state of unzip, but the poor dear did not cheer up. Soon, however, I had him at giggles when I'd put that itching powder in my cunt and he bolted and jumped into the bathtub like Tyrone Power. Swoosh! You should have seen him that evening in The Chicago Fire Hotel, vigorously scrubbing his dick. Well, it was uncomfortable on me as well, but it was such a solid investment when I saw that smile.

The water poured from my eyes as I looked upon him, chuckling. At times I very much envied his charming schoolgirl giggle and did everything I could to encourage it.

Now he was back, and my tears stopped and my delight lit up his face. It was then I knew we were fated lovers -- destined for one another. We made us whole. As I said, "I love you" and bent to blow him, he put his hand beneath my chin and shook his head. Then, still in the warmth of the lovely afternoon bathroom shower, he clutched the white tub sides and fucked me in the ass.

The whole of my ass took a considerable pounding as he made up for lost time and made each insertion balls deep. Tears of joy swelled on my eyes and mixed with my tears of pain as he seemed to make my alimentary canal even longer. Dear Hitler grunted and howled and clutched my petite cheeks like he was pitting grapes, shafting and pounding, harder and harder, harder, until finally he came like an ocean and screamed his little girl scream to the heavens like there was no tomorrow!

For, alas, there was not.

Looking back through a veil of tears, I still see that day as the happiest that ever was. The sky was heavy with dark clouds, meaning neither of us had to wear our sunglasses, yet the coolness kept us young and gay for it could not rain on us, we thought.

We had slept in the bathtub, Hitler falling asleep on me, and when I awoke, he was already changed into his black shirt and tie and had checked us out already! "I haf a sorpris fo yu," he said with that rabbit-like smile of his, and threw clothes into my hands. We were at the train station again before I knew what had hit me. I knew today was an important Yankees game for division leadership against the White Sox, but I did not want to spoil his boyish surprise. His eyes like helium balloons, a spring in his step and those delightfully wiry elbows of his, he literally flew out of the taxicab, wagging a finger at me, and bounded away. I paid the fare and didn't get three feet before I was smothered with the largest bouquet of roses, basil and orchids I'd ever received in my life! Not even David had—

To cover my thoughts, I poked Hitler in the eyes and gave his nose some Three Stooges (how he loved those clowns!) violence and soon we were laughing, arm in arm, on our way.

He shielded my eyes from looking up at the lit-up signs denoting train times and locations, until we passed them. Perhaps we're not heaving back to the Big Apple, I thought. I spied our huge, steaming black train and he pushed me into accompaniment, looking at the tickets.

"5 E and Eef!" he cried as he bound away towards a little bent over man selling glittery jewelry in a wooden cart. He waved me inside, laughing as he ran backwards. He blew me two kisses before I was encroached in that terrible train. At the time, I was happy. Waiting; waiting.

Even when the train pulled away, I was not worried. No. He would back into our compartment wearing an usher's uniform, carrying all the diamonds and emeralds that Chicago and that man with the wooden cart could stock.

It was a non-stop to California. I had fallen asleep waiting; dreaming. And in my heart, in my dreams, I surely knew that that was the end of us.

No more.

By the time I realized I was in Wyoming—I realized I was alone. Forever would I be.

I thought of the times we'd had, and asked myself the endless question, what happened? What had happened at the station? It could not have been me. Had he suddenly stopped loving me or my asshole? No. The way my mind had taken the last picture of his face... it could not be.

I waited for him in California. He knew where I would be—he still had the tickets. But he did not come. After a few days, I made my way to Chicago, to wait. Then I waited several weeks in the lobby of our beautiful New York hotel, and still he did not come.

As dreary months went by, I started seeing Hitler again on front pages. He had always been there, usually his name, but he and I knew who had been impersonating him during our sojourn. No, this was him now. Back in Germany, and ruling, doing what he did best.

I kept checking the clerk for postcards. Nothing came for me in the seven months since we'd parted. It was agony. And now, my anal addiction had forced me to bottle myself several times a day, just to stave off depression. Every time, I thought of him. Sometimes I cried with my bottle. Sometimes...

I never saw him again.

Never felt him again.

Not until years after the war.

END