Nothing more than a chat...

Graeber approached the girl and placed both hands on her shoulder. He felt the primal lust and the animalistic desire to fold her into, but then through her skin, he felt the beating of her fastening heart and stepped back in a shameful retreat.

“I can’t do this to you,” he licked his lips, which suddenly felt dry. “You’re a human being.”

Natasha, the falsely accused sniper, stared at Graeber with a look stranger than his unexpected retreat. “I’m human,” she whispered, grabbing herself in a cold hug. It was the closest thing she’d had to a compliment since coming here.

“You are human,” Graeber breathed a hard breath. “I can’t **** myself on you. I’m better than that.”

He exhaled, and to his surprise, it was shallow. She smiled and pointed at him. “You are a good person. Better than the other one..”

“Felix?” Graeber asked.

Natasha nodded and then pointed outside. “Let us go. I remember you. Memorable face! I remember you,” she grinned.

“No,” he said. “Net. Bad idea.”

“Please,” she said. “Be better.”

Graeber shook his head.

“Not better then,” she mumbles, looking away in dismay.

Graeber reaches behind him, finds his gasmask tin, and unscrews it. Inside isn’t the respirator. Instead, there are treats and items of comfort, even a picture of Katarzyna. There is also chocolate wrapped inside with some parchment paper. Graeber produces this product and hands it to the girl. “I’m sorry, OK?”

Natasha is hesitant to take the item, but after some ****, she takes it. “What now? We are still alone. It's weird if there's no talking.”

Graeber shrugs as he looks around for a place to sit down. There’s a haystack he finds comfy enough and leans back. Natasha stands for a while but finds a spot on the ground. “Speak,” she says, sounding more pitiful than forceful.

“Where are you from?” Graeber asks. She looks at him perplexed. He thinks. “Home. Where is home for you?”

“Ukraine. But home is no more,” she says, using both hands and flexing her fingers out as she makes a puffing noise. “Planes. Bombs. Tanks. Rapists.”

“How did you end here then?”

“I ran,” she says. “Far away. I don’t know where I am.”

“Kursk region,” Graeber says with a wave, unsure even he was. “You’re in Russia.”

Natasha makes a face, but then it dulls into wonder. How far she’s come. Graeber lets her think about it, but she returns his gaze, curls her knees to her chest, and asks him the same question with one word: “You?”

“Dresden,” he says with a peek of pride. “My parents work at the train stations there.”

“My parents are dead,” Natasha follows with. “Because of Germans.”

Graeber wondered how he became much better friends with a Soviet Soldier than a Ukrainian civilian. He had spent so much time during frontline activities that it was easy to forget about the rearguard duties the others in the army typically did, especially the SS.

The mood quickly becomes awkward, and when the others return, he gets up and goes over to Natasha. “I’m sorry about Felix. But my hands are tied,” she stares at him like she doesn’t understand anything. “If we cross paths again, I promise I will help.”

Natasha smiles, piecing his last sentence gather. “Thank you.”

…

…

“You look like you’ve just come from Berlin!” Friedrich Zimmerman claps his hands, but when he gets close, he frowns. “And yet, your eyes look like they’ve seen the horrors of war.”

“Because I have,” Graeber says. “What will you have me do now?”

“It is raining again,” Zimmerman looks out the window. “How about a drink in town?”

“Is that allowed in these circumstances? So close to the front?”

“Even the Russians are unable to attack right now. Maybe then there we can finally get you to unwind for a bit. Let me see the unwasted youth you still have somewhere in your mind,” Zimmerman’s chipper mood makes Graeber wonder if he’s learnt that there is a master plan in play that is hopeful and not pointless.

Graeber drives Zimmerman to the bar. It would be nameless and otherwise empty if it weren’t for the bartender behind the counter. He doesn’t smile at either of the men when they enter but doesn’t say anything.

They sit down on a stool, and Zimmerman rattles off in Russian, ordering a drink for each of them. Graeber is zoning out when a voice as smooth as velvet brushes against his earlobe. He snaps around and sees a blonde girl there with eyes narrowed in a lewd corkscrew.

She’s wearing a clean red dress, and dark stockings adorn her legs. The toes of her flats poke against Graeber’s calf. Her chest almost busted out the front, and her lips were plump and dark red. “You look better than the day I found you, Herr Graeber,” the girl’s green eyes blink purple when she winks but revert to green in a flash. “What’s the occasion?”

“Alicen?” Graeber is surprised to see her like this, but she giggles and draws her finger to his lips.

“No one else sees me, playboy,” she coos and grabs his cock through his trousers. “I figured you didn’t like redheads since you ignored Natasha, so I thought German-blonde was more your style?”

Her finger leaves his lips, but then she snaps the space between them. Her hair turns chocolate brown, teasing the same shade as Katarzyna’s. Her features changed and soon, she wasn’t just mimicking Katarzyna’s hair, but all her features… “Or maybe you like brunettes?”

Graeber can’t help but smile. In less than a second, he could only think about Katarzyna and how badly he wanted to feel her against him. He remembered the sporadic times he’d had sex with women, have been real, or with Alicen. He was throbbing– precum was already forming at the tip of his erection.

Alicen’s eyes widened. “Don’t talk. Nod once if you want me as your far-away sugar, but twice if you’d prefer me with blonde and all bombshell.”

She squeezes, making him grunt slightly. “I need to drain some of the amazing cum out of you, Graeber, so don’t deny your desire to be with me.”