Date: Tue, 5 May 2020 22:22:01 +0100 From: Vincent Appleyard Subject: The Geisenberg Conspiracy Chapter 4 The Geisenberg Conspiracy by Vincent Appleyard A story set in East Germany in 1965 Please help keep the wonderful Nifty Archive going by donating to: http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html Chapter 4 Not long after Corden had first studied the photos, sitting across from Matthias Berg in his study at the Geisenberg campsite, the group he had caught a glimpse of earlier, the runners jogging through the woods, had completed their exercise and returned to the main building. Lothar Weill had stood at the door of the changing rooms and slapped each runner on the shoulder as they trotted back in, all tired, red and sweaty; muddy too. He had led them in a circuit through the woods he knew so well and once or twice had taken them off the main path, improvising diversions through deeper, more thickly-overgrown stretches of narrow track. A couple of the boys had stumbled, tripped by unseen, trailing vines that reached out in the growing darkness from fallen tree trunks. But it had been a good exercise, an inspiration to start the weekend camp off with a run like that, a bonding between the older, more familiar young men and the new boys, here for the first time. "Well done!" he said, encouragingly, as he directed each one into the warmth of the changing room, enticing with the promise of hot showers. "Good lad! Come on in! You made it, then. Well run, Paul, good lad!" He had a word for each of them and his easy, commanding manner was something all the boys respected, loved indeed. Even the young men in the group, the nineteen and twenty-year-olds, knew that Weill, at just 21 was a true Young Leader. It was known too, that he enjoyed the favour of Matthias Berg and whilst this was clearly to his advantage, it was not the reason he was liked and followed. That was very much due to his personal qualities of leadership; his good decision-making, his confidence in himself and in those whom he relied upon, his kindness towards everyone, especially the younger ones and his way of leading from the front, demonstrating commitment and initiative. He was an almost ideal representative, it was generally thought, of the kind of youth the German Democratic Republic needed; physically strong, ideologically sound and morally incorruptible. It helped too that he looked the part; tall and fit and blond and strong-featured with a strongly-set mouth and eyes that were blue and deep, like Rhineland lakes. But there was also a softness about him that maybe only an artist could have captured or possessed and which revealed itself, almost shyly, in the smiling but diffident welcome he extended to his friends; an honest-hearted openness that, gentle and discerning as it was, could draw in all and finally, rejected none. Indeed, he thought of himself - and others had come to think it of him too -- as a welcomer; a shelterer in life, a comforter, a man who's role would be to take the fledging, untried bird and show it to the skies and give it flight. He had an artist's sense of mission about this too and it was, therefore, only natural for him to take a special interest in those boys under his care who were as yet unformed or only semi-formed; whose character and destinies were not yet fully-revealed but peeked out shyly, as timid as creatures in an undergrowth, uncertain of life beyond the wood. Amongst this group, as they trooped gratefully towards the showers, were three new boys - all thirteen years old - who stood out from the other, older youths and whom Lothar Weill was particularly aware of and concerned with that evening for this would be the night of their initiation, as it were, their step into the wider society of the Young Communist League. They had all been selected, mostly by Berg, on the basis of the promise they had shown in the junior ranks. Tonight, Weill hoped, would act as a bridge for them and he, himself, would shepherd them across and when they reached the other side, blinking yet somehow familiar amidst the strangeness, they would know themselves with fresher eyes, deeper understanding; would find themselves, awesomely, newly-discovered. Some of the older lads had already stripped off and there was a good deal of larky play amongst these boys, who made a show of themselves, hoping by doing so to establish their own status in the group, to demonstrate their ease, their cool familiarity. They hoped in this way to shield themselves from the gaze of their elders, to make themselves anonymous to them. But at the same time they knew their antics drew the looks of all three younger boys and acted as a kind of admonition, showing them their lesser place, their lack of inclusion, their smallness. Paul and the other two thirteen-year-olds were slow and shy in stripping. They stood, huddled uncertainly about on the periphery in their little white underpants, gauging their moment. When, at first, a couple of the young men had stripped off and headed for the showers, Paul had followed their movements with undisguised interest. These seniors were fully adult in their physiques, muscled and trim, though relatively hairless except for the tangled bush of pubic hair that they sported. Both had, what seemed to Paul, enormous testicles which hung low, seeming to provide a centre of gravity for them. He had never really seen a naked man before up close and he gazed at their penises which were, likewise, fully adult; heavy, long and thickly-veined and so unlike his own smooth, soft member and those of his classmates which he had glanced at in the past, nervously, in showers or when lining up, naked, for compulsory school medical inspections. But his eyes and mind were drawn in fascination, eagerness. A distant drumming started somewhere in his head, a thick rumbling whose beating grew then subsided to single strokes; his own heartbeat, he realised. Paul was still plump and full, his limbs heavy, his backside ample and contoured. Weill had jogged behind him on the run, watching him, eyeing his fleshy, young body, the way his bottom moved from side to side with each loping stride. He had dark hair and a rounded face, sweet-natured and placid and Weill already liked him well enough. He sensed his curiosity and openness, a certain bravery about his stance which seemed to combine defiance and submissiveness in equal measure. He had a poise, a gravity about him that Weill appreciated. "Come on Paul, don't hang around," he said in a friendly tone. The other two young lads, Ernst and Rolf, were both taller, lighter, more skittish. They seemed younger than Paul although both were a few months older. Blond and sleek with longish hair, one curled the other straight and both thin with weedy arms and legs that seemed to move in five directions all at once. They seemed as yet but half-created; thin and undeveloped chests, the gangly, misplaced limbs, the slimmest of stomachs. Their ribs were defined and perfectly visible but the flesh was pale and sleek and somehow, malleable. Their veins, which showed through the skin, were precise and delicate. It was as if their bodies, incomplete, awaited still a sculptor's hand, a single finger even, to mould them and make of them a marbled, cold perfection. When the three youngsters had started to strip, they had done so slowly, as if they never had undressed themselves before and when they had all finally pulled their underwear below their knees and stood revealed, struggling childishly with their pants, their nakedness was met with jokey comments that focussed on their patchy, little bristles of pubic hair, the relative smallness and still-childish presentation of their cocks. One of older boys approached the three, grinning widely. He paused a second, looking back over his shoulder to where Weill stood, as if waiting for permission. "Hey, Lothar! What've got lined up for these three, then? We've got to mark their first time here!" The youth insolently brought his palm, quite hard, onto Rolf's backside and the boy gasped, not from pain but from the shock, the thrill, the sudden attention. He blushed deeply as he kicked off his underpants but grinned back at the youth because he knew this was the right, the approved and expected response. Lothar joined the little group, a twinkle in his eye. The others, those who were not yet showering, formed up behind him; almost by instinct they understood and were drawn in, remembering too their own initiations. "He's right, you know," said Lothar, mildly, in answer to the youth's question but addressing the three boys directly. He had a kindly but intense look that gave assurance in its kindliness but the intensity of his gaze made clear that there could be no shirking here, no get-out from whatever was to come. All three boys were fully naked now. Ernst, rather primly had covered his genitals, whilst Rolf, in response to the initial smack was touching his own lightly, in comfort, quite unaware of what his fingers did. Only Paul stood squarely to the group, defiant, ready, pleased and smiling wide. His little teeth showed and he licked his tongue quickly across his big lips, a gesture that communicated his readiness, daring and his nervousness, all at once. His little cock, soft and comfortable, snuggled as it was in its small, unfamiliar bush, hung openly towards the others, unconcealed, defiant and smooth. Without another word, Lothar Weill came right up alongside Ernst and swatted him mightily, leaving an almost comic, red handprint for a second on the child's backside. Ernst yelped, for the blow had hurt and had been unexpected still, the boy himself being rather slow - slower far than Paul -- to understand their situation and this was taken as a signal for the game to start. No rules were laid out and maybe there were none but all three boys quickly came to realise that, whilst they were surrounded now by smacking hands, a thick forest of limbs thrashing at them as in a storm, their only safety lay in the shower stalls and understood their task was to evade, as far as possible, the falling blows until they reached the showers which would be their shelter. Ernst and Rolf, laughing now, both made darting little runs from side to side, diagonally, changing pace, twisting, turning, anything to make escape. Rolf rather clumsily turned too fast and collided with Ernst, a clattering of bony knees and elbows, causing Ernst to pull up sharp and ensuring he received another couple of swats to his behind. "Sorry!" cried Rolf as he ducked away. Paul alone of the three stood still, observing until Weill came up behind him and landed a couple of hearty smacks onto the boy's bare bottom at which Paul turned round, grinning. He rubbed at himself, his little cock quivering and made a rather token complaint about the sting of the blows. Still he stood there looking into Lothar's eyes, a direct and unashamed communication, although what exactly was being communicated, Lothar could not quite work out. "You're supposed to run away!" he said, laughing, smiling at the presumption of the boy, his strange self-possessedness. One of the other youths had crept up now behind the pair. "Grab him!" he cried to Lothar, who clasped Paul to him. Paul laughed at this new passage of the game and struggled uselessly in Lothar's grip. He felt himself drawn into the young man whose large, swaying cock now brushed about his own much smaller one, making him tremble all over. The boy behind him took advantage of Paul's entrapment and smacked him hard five times in all, making his buttocks vibrate noisily and reddening him. "You want me to tan your arse?" he asked, not convinced that Paul was showing sufficient resistance. Before he could answer, Lothar released the boy and watched him dart away, laughing merrily as he did so at the image, which he conjured with enormous excitement, of his own rosy behind, fleeing the fascinated gaze of Lothar Weill. Finally, all three boys were standing under the showers, soaking themselves luxuriantly. By and by, they were joined by others from the group of older boys and men who clustered round them, crowding in, brushing up against them, each touch of shoulder or knee communicating some sense of hidden, frankly illicit, closeness. There was a mood of strange and creeping wildness, an exuberance which drifted like a dancing mist around them, insubstantial but definitely there, a summoning of expectation communicated wordlessly, as if by a kind of barely-heard, instinctive tribal drumming, the vibrations of which made Paul, Ernst and Rolf swoon almost with a deep, uncomprehending satisfaction. They recognised, all three, the evocative root of this mood, which was sex, primitive and unambiguous. Recognised it without knowing it; knowing it without ever having faced it; confronting it, painfully and nakedly unsure. All three, however, gave themselves up to it, mesmerised, fearful almost of its seductive power, the hold it would, they knew, have over them. But always they were drawn towards it instinctively and willingly too despite their air of feigned reluctance, the indifference and haughtiness they knew they must display, as if familiar and at their ease in this new world. Occasionally, one of the older boys would clasp one of the younger around the shoulders and make the boy submit, laughingly, to his superior strength. There was no contesting this, these games of conquest and submission but only bending to the tyranny of their allotted roles and waiting, swooning, satisfied. Eventually, shampoo was passed around and for a while a more focussed, almost serious mood prevailed as hair and limbs were lathered thoroughly. Lothar Weill sidled in beside Paul and began to wash the lad's hair, running his fingers roughly over the boy's head until the soap ran down his body. Paul stood still and submitted to this readily, bowing his head. Finally, Lothar stooped slightly to rub shampoo around Paul's pubic hair as others laughed and cheered in encouragement. One of the 17-year-old's had openly started to masturbate and quickly drew his cock out to nearly its full length with the aid of the soap. He stood directing his erection at Rolf who was encouraged to take the stiffened cock in his wet hand and play with it, pulling at it more and more as it lengthened before his eyes. Almost instantly, there were three or four and then more youths fondling themselves, fondling each other, a chain quickly forming of grasping fingers curling eagerly around thickening, soapy cocks. Ernst now clutched at Rolf and brought him with a steady pumping to an impressive hardness. Someone else, he didn't even know who, was working his hand around his own shaft and giving variety to the movement with a quick, slick rubbing of a palm directly over the lad's knob-head, an action which made the boy moan out loud, almost comically. Ernst had just a pencil-thin moustache of pubic hair, as if delicately traced with the finest of paintbrushes, above a thin, short pipe of a penis which rose now and started to point even of its own volition but urged on tremendously by the motions of his neighbour's slicking hand. Within barely a minute he began to thrust forward his hips in urgent, involuntary spasm and on the third thrust, a short, quick jet of watery spunk arced through the air and coated his belly-button with his slime. Paul meanwhile gripped hard the slippery, so-solid penis of the youth standing in front of him and as he tugged, his hand plunging down further and further, thrusting down to the very balls, the cock in his hand suddenly released three thick spurts of cum which slopped over his hairless chest. The force of this ejaculation amazed him and in response, he soon released a little dribble of 13-year-old spunk into the coaxing fingers of Lothar Weill and looked up again into the man's eyes, thrilled and hard and fully-realised. By the time that all who desired to participate had reached some kind of conclusion, the mood had changed again to something altogether more wistful and serene. The older boys and men talked softly in small groups, content that they had played their part and made a fitting ceremony of the boys' initiations. But they ignored the boys now; they had brought them memorably to such a place as they themselves had once been brought before and now were satisfied. They needed no more truck with these mere boys whose youth was still a barrier to their own more adult society. So once admitted, the boys were all disdained, rejected even, for this too was a mark of their status as new initiates; to be put in their place, their lowly rank insisted on. The boys themselves kept together, shy again and not even talking amongst themselves, so deeply had their introduction to the adult world impressed them. They dared hardly glance at the older youths and when they caught each other's eyes, the quick, involuntary smirks and embarrassment that flashed across their faces, did so only for an instant before a deeper reflection overtook them and they bowed their heads and concentrated with unnecessary focus on dressing themselves. Before long, the changing room was emptied as everyone trekked upstairs to secure their belongings in the dormitories and head off for the dining hall. Only Lothar Weill remained with Paul, who held back even after Ernst and Rolf had disappeared and more or less stalked Weill, keeping as close and as discreet as a shadow. At one point, another youth whom Paul had never seen before poked his head round the door and peeked in. "Hello, Markus," said Weill in a voice that was rich with genuine friendliness. Markus Rihm stepped inside and smiled at Lothar. He was well aware that for all his own status amongst the boys, Weill was senior to him in both age and achievement. But they had always maintained cordial, mutually respectful, if rather distant relations and he was pleased to see the young man once more. Just as Weill himself had a follower shadowing him in the form of Paul, so Rihm was followed, dutifully, into the changing room by young Robert Strauss. The two younger boys eyed each other warily, having never seen each other before. Both had a sense of exclusivity, being singularly attached to an older boy who would, they hoped, look out for them but also in their sense almost of ownership over those same. They seemed to share an understanding that they needn't compete against each other at least; that they needn't engage in any of the silly games of one-upmanship or in any attempt at sarcasm that comprised the standard emotional play of boys their age. They shared a sense that their own positions, so finely-judged, bestowed upon them undisputed parity. Despite the shyness and reserve they both habitually resorted to, both Paul and Robert recognised in each other a poise, a balance in their relations with Lothar and Markus, their respective protectors, potential lovers, their probable future mentors and undoubtedly, their heroes to be measured up against. They might still be prone to sudden, adolescent panics but they knew their worth; could stumble and mumble and blush uncontrollably and tears could pour from their eyes at their shaming knowledge of corruption in the world but still their instinct was to abide, to mark their time, secure in their own destinies. They didn't speak, they had no need. They listened respectfully as Lothar and Markus discussed some administrative matters in relation to the weekend camp. Finally Lothar turned to Robert. "Do I know you?" he asked, a question which perplexed the lad. He had no idea if Lothar knew of him or not. He presumed that he didn't. And so he found it a question impossible to give an answer to and this being the case, he kept silent, slowly blinking his large, dark eyes at Markus as if summoning him to his aid. "Robert Strauss. He was here last year but...I don't think you two ever met." Lothar smiled kindly and stretched out his hand. "Robert Strauss," he repeated unnecessarily. "I'm Lothar. Lothar Weill." "Yes, I know," said Robert finally, taking the hand in his and letting his own be shaken manfully and squeezed until it actually hurt. "Paul, say hello!" urged Weill and Paul nodded at the two strangers but said nothing. Weill and Rihm caught each other smiling at this response and this caused both young men to burst out laughing. Robert and Paul looked at each other, unsure as to exactly what was the reason for such mirth. Eventually, Weill took up his rucksack and handed Paul his smaller one. "Let's get these upstairs," he said. "Are you two together? Same dorm?" He meant Paul and Robert. "Er...no, actually," replied Markus, quickly. "Robert's coming in with me." He looked away then back at Weill. "If that's OK...," he added, lamely. Weill sniffed and studied Markus with a rather sly interest. "I don't see why not," he said. "If that's what you want." "Yes, thank you. It's just we came down together and it...well, it sort of made sense." "It's OK!" said Weill, smiling. "You really don't need to explain yourself to me." Markus grinned at Robert as if in confirmation of a previously-reached, if tentative, conclusion, something that Paul noted with interest. "I suppose I better go and find a space in one of the dorms. The best beds have probably all been taken by now!" Paul's voice still held a question mark and his words were accompanied by an appealing glance at Lothar, who only hesitated slightly, not immediately sure whether to say it in front of Markus and Robert. But then he just said it, casually, as if reluctantly; as if offering the only practical solution to a problem that had been vexing him all afternoon. "You could always come in with me," he said. "I mean, if you don't mind. I was going to share with Dieter Krauss but he can go in one of the dormitories; I'll put him in charge. He'll like that. So...you and I...can?" "Can what?" asked Paul, rather too eagerly. "Can share my room. Just the two of us. Would you prefer that? Prefer that to the dorm?" Paul was suddenly coy in front of Robert, especially. "I don't mind," he said in an off-hand way. "Whatever works." Lothar, however, was sensitive to the situation and realised that Paul's off-handedness was nothing but a cover for what he truly desired. "Alright, I'll have a word with Dieter. Come on, let's go and store our things upstairs." He looked at Markus and Robert as the four of them bustled out into the corridor. "I'll see you two later," he said and shepherded Paul towards the staircase, an arm thrown casually around the lad's shoulder. That night, as Markus Rihm was fucking Robert Strauss two rooms away, Paul sat on the edge of his bed in his pyjamas watching Lothar get undressed. Paul had been allocated the small, metal-framed cot bed whilst Lothar had the relative luxury of a double sofa-bed which had been unfolded for the first time in months and took up a good half of the room. When Lothar was naked, he sat down on the very edge of the bed, his legs slightly apart, his genitals hanging low and heavy in the darkness. There was a single reading lamp to illuminate the room since there was no bulb in the ceiling light and no-one could seem to lay hands on one. Lothar had noted a rather general state of disrepair about the accommodation; there were no plugs in the sinks either and no toilet roll holders, sometimes no toilet rolls. The cupboards had door-handles missing and sometimes there weren't even any doors, just small, recessed spaces with racks of broken coat-hangers. The place needed a good clean as well, a task for the morning, he decided. "Come over here!" he said to Paul, who had been watching him, uncertainly. As the lad approached, Lothar reached out a hand and pulled his pyjama bottoms down around his knees and gave his pale rump an almighty smack, unexpected and savage. "Ow! That hurt!" complained Paul, unsure as to what lay behind the stinging blow. Lothar laughed. "Keep your voice down!" he cautioned. "That was just the proper one I didn't get to give you earlier!" Paul pulled his pyjamas up and stood there between Lothar's knees. "Come in with me. There's room enough. We can sleep together. And I do mean sleep...I'm really tired and so are you, I think. Come on...," He rolled back and got into the bed, naked as he was and held the blanket open invitingly for Paul, who hesitated only a fraction before squeezing himself into the space, curling himself sideways. Lothar stroked the boy's hair tenderly. "I've got plans for you, you know?" he murmured, tantalisingly. Paul considered this. He thought that Lothar would probably want to wank him off again or, more likely, be wanked off. "What kind of plans?" he asked in a voice that was smaller and more tremulous than he had wanted it to be. Lothar took a moment before replying. He shuffled over a bit to give Paul more bed-space and lay back, an arm reaching out onto the boy's chest, where his pyjama top fell open. "How would you like to model for me?" Paul didn't quite understand, so kept silent. "Photos, you know? Artistic photographs. I have a studio, you know that?" Paul didn't and he mumbled something unintelligible to communicate this. "Oh yes," said Lothar easily. "I do a lot of business. It can pay very well. You could be paid yourself for a decent photo session." "Do you have a camera?" asked Paul, somewhat in awe. Lothar smiled at the boy being so apparently naive. He didn't bother to answer. Paul was lying back now, tired and empty. He didn't really want to consider the meaning of Lothar's proposal but he knew vaguely that he approved and understood that it was something they would do together, something that would be the basis of their bond. He was already drifting off to sleep when Lothar reached over and lightly kissed him on the cheek, and then again, a second time. "Oh, yes," he whispered. "I have plans for you, my lad. Fine plans. Just you wait and see." He smiled down at the round face snuggled into his arm and listened to the beginning of Paul's regular, light snoring that would form a steady, droning accompaniment to Lothar's dreams that night. His cock had already stiffened and it poked Paul in his side, nuzzling the lad greedily as both of them drifted softly into sleep.