On the eve of September 29th, 1938, British Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain entered his hotel room exhausted. He had just returned from a secret, day-long deliberation in Munich, where he and a group of powerful world leaders had drafted “The Munich Agreement,” a settlement which promised to return the Sudetenland to Germany — and hopefully avoid war in the process.
He carried the heavy stack of paper as he paced back and forth through the room. Chamberlain knew the natural reserves local to the land, and he knew of its tactical position relative to Poland and France. He knew Germany, sore after the events of The First World War, might use that land to instigate an attack. But most of all, he knew that Adolph Hitler was not to be trusted.
He dumped the draft on the desk and put his head in his hands. He looked at the oak clock on the wall. 11:58. A sigh escaped him. Ultimately, his signature would change the draft to a document, and he felt the weight of the future falling on his shoulders. It would be a long night.
The clock bell rang, signifying the end of day, but it carried an echo. No — a knocking, at the front door. Soft, slight raps, perhaps those of a small child. Chamberlain crossed to the door and peered through the peephole. He saw nothing. Something obscured his view, some swirl in the darkness. He hesitated, and then opened the door.
Outside, a man about 5’9” in his late 40’s stood wearing schoolboy lederhosen, the breeches of which stopped inches before the knee. The hair on his legs betrayed his youthful garb, yet there was a supple curve to his calf. A dose of femininity. And in both his hands, he gripped the stick of a massive, rainbow swirl lollipop, the size of which dwarfed both men. He stuck his tongue out to lick it, only able to reach its southernmost point.
Chamberlain stood aghast. The man before him was vaguely familiar, a shade of a face often portrayed in the papers. He hummed jollily as he stood on his tip toes to reach more of the gigantic lolli. Who was this man, and why was he on Chamberlain’s doorstep?
The man spoke, his voice proclaiming forward with a thick German accent.
“Vello!” he said. “You are zhe British Prime Minister known as Neville Chamberlain, yes?”
Chamberlain spoke with trepidation. “Yes…” he said. “I am he.”
“Excellent! I am here on behalf of zhe little boys club of Munich. We vant to vish you good morrow vith a singing telegram! Now if you please, could you invite me in so that I may perform for you? It’s very cold out tonight.”
Chamberlain was puzzled. This was obviously not a little boy. He bit his lip, forming some inward decision, and then he nodded and let the man in. He struggled lifting the colossal sucker, maneuvering awkwardly to fit it through the door frame, and eventually gave up, dropping the lolli to the floor where it shattered into thousands of tiny, sticky pieces.
“Vhoopsy!” the man said. “Bad on me! I’ll pick it up on my vay out.”
The man entered and closed the door. Despite his disguise, Chamberlain found something oddly genuine about the character’s smile. There was a real charm behind his eyes, a spark of passion that propelled Chamberlain to match his demeanor. Soon he found himself smiling as well.
Without delay, the man launched into a riotous song and dance routine. While Chamberlain could not make out the meaning in the words, he found the tune rather agreeable. The man’s voice struck a chord in Chamberlain’s heart. He danced this way and that, bobbing left and right to the rhythm of his singing. For a man of his assumed age, he carried himself with jest and vigor, swinging on the balls of his heels and bounding from step to step. His performance ended as soon as it had begun, and the man stood there breathing heavily and looking toward Chamberlain as though he were expecting a handout.
On impulse, Chamberlain applauded.
“What show,” he said. “Good heavens, my boy, what show! I must display you to my companions, they would think the world of you.”
“Oi,” said the man. “I’m not much for zhe spotlight. I get nervous too easily. Speaking of, might I be allowed to use your vashroom?”
“Why, of course!” said Chamberlain. “Go right ahead, please! It’s past the bed chamber, the door on the left.”
The man curtsied before his audience, and then scampered off to use the toilet.
Standing there, Chamberlain toyed with certain ideas, his mind moving too quickly to trace, and then he locked the front door and followed the man to his bedroom. He had something… peculiar in mind.
Meanwhile, the man slid his lederhosen down to his ankles. He unsnapped his suspenders and let them drop to the floor. Underneath, he was clad in the standard Nazi regalia of those who served the Reich.
The man looked through the mirror and at his own face. Bags slept under his drooping eyelids. Jet black hair lay parted to the left, the recession of which was slowly becoming more obvious. His skin appeared wrinkled, crusty even, as though years of the untold had passed him by. And flat on his mouth, directly between his upper lip and nose, stuck a narrow, bushy patch of mustache.
Adolph Hitler brushed out the wrinkles in his uniform. He saluted himself, and then left the washroom.
Draped on the bed, nude, lay Chamberlain. As their eyes met, both averted their gaze. Chamberlain took a double-take and then spoke.
“My god, you’re him!” he said. “You’re Hitler himself!”
Hitler smiled. “Yes, it is I, zhe mighty Adolph Hitler, here in your bed chamber! And it is you who has fallen for my ruse. You lay before me vithout your clothes, expecting. I can see it in your eyes, Chamberlain.”
Chamberlain’s cheeks grew rose red as he again turned away. Hitler went on.
“I know vhat they have planned for Germany’s land. I know zhis falls to you. And I know you vill make zhe right decision.”
He began to approach the bed, slowly unbuttoning his vest. He slipped his feet from his shoes as he removed the uniform, revealing a stout belly underneath. Pants unbuckled, he shimmied out of his drawers and into his birthday suit, covering his manhood with one hand.
Chamberlain looked on in awe. This would be a moment for eternity. Here, before him, stood the naked figure of the most powerful man in the world. A man of such stature that the winds themselves dared not drift against his plans for fear they might too make his list. And this man, this unholy being, displayed himself directly before Chamberlain now, the lengths of which boggled his mind. A dream. Surely, a dream.
But a dream never felt so alive, so rowdy, so crystalline it might fully form in a brittle state and eventually shatter. The seconds drew on and on, extending long into the night as their electric hands touched and became one and drifted upwards into the sky like an impossible ray of hope. As one man moaned in sexual agony, the other grasped his partner with glee, massaging and pulling and licking inch by delicious inch. Sweat poured from their brows, dripping onto each other’s bodies and the bed as the frame shook and swayed with each repeated thrust. The hair follicles on their face intertwined. Two mustaches became one.
A lamp on a nearby nightstand begin dancing, hopping to the rhythm of grunts, and then collapsed onto the floor.
Outside, neighbors’ lights began to switch on in a row, the community disturbed from their sleep by the seeming racket of a bar fight.
And still, one man entered the other with the curiosity of a Newfoundland explorer. He drew out caves, discovered landmarks, and manifested destiny with his Plymouth Rock. The blitzkrieg of bliss eventually grew to a deafening volume, the room an echo chamber of moans and aches, and then Hitler exploded with the force of a Panzer assault tank.
He collapsed onto the bed. Chamberlain lay beside him, floating in the release and subconsciously reaching for more, but Hitler slapped his hands away.
“No.” he said. “If you vant more, you know vhat you must do. See to it.”
He rose and set to clothing himself.
Chamberlain looked on, his fingers lazily tracing the outline of his nipple, his mind still awash in a sea of pleasure. He held no words, instead merely smiling as the memory replayed itself in his head.
Hitler crossed to the hotel room door and looked back briefly.
“You know vhat you must do.” He said.
And then he was gone.
Chamberlain blinked. The enormity of the hour had passed. The spark gone, a relative emptiness swelled in him, and he knew what he would do to fill it.
– – –
As the sun began to rise, a private aircraft crest the horizon over Heston Aerodrome in London. It yawed slightly, then pitched towards its dedicated runway and extended its landing gear.
Aboard that plane was Neville Chamberlain, who peered out the window in anticipation. A crowd was forming as they taxied towards their final destination, a crowd he would have to address when they landed.
The plane came to a stop. Chamberlain stood up. He walked to the exit of the plane, a staircase which led to hundreds of faces and flashing bulbs. He stepped to the prepared microphone.
“My good friends…” he began, reaching into his pocket, “for the second time in history, a British Prime Minister has returned from Germany bringing peace with honor.” He withdrew his hand into the air, displaying the freshly-signed Munich Agreement. “I believe it is peace for our time. We thank you from the bottom of our hearts. Go home and get a nice quiet sleep.”
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/4s3tke/reich_up_the_ass_hitlers_1000year_mud_gab_chapter
Good lord
Marry me