Tall, Grey and Sexy

Hitler can’t help but to stare at the figure of the man on the other side of the street. The way that his sickly smooth looking, almost gray skin is shown off in his short shorts. The way his lanky arms move as he smokes his cigarette. The setting sun casts shadows across his beautiful, nose-less face in a way that almost takes Hitler’s breath away.
He knows why this man is standing on the street corner; this area of town is notorious for it.
Hitler has never even considered paying for sex before. Why would he have to? He’s Adolf Hitler, leader of the Nazi party.
Yet, he can’t stop looking at this man.
The prostitute seems to have noticed Hitler watching him but it making no effort to acknowledge him. If Hitler wants to lay his hands on the man he’s going to have to go to him, he’s being tested.
With a deep breath Hitler steps on to the road and cross the street.
As he approaches the man he straightens his back, in an effort to appear taller, Hitler is not a tall man and the prostitute is towering over him.
“How much?” Hitler asks, with as much dominance as he can muster.
The man looks him up and down. “For you? Eight hundred for the night,” he says before bringing the cigarette back up to his lips.
Hitler tries to ignore the way his skin crawls with lust at his voice.
“Deal.” He takes pride in the fact that his voice does not waver as he speaks.
The man drops his cigarette to the ground and puts out his hand to shake. Hitler takes it; trying not to shudder with anticipation as he comes in contact with the cool, smooth skin.
Once they have shaken on it, Hitler is surprised to find he hand is not released, rather the man switches hands, interlocks their fingers and gestures for Hitler to lead the way.
Hitler drops his eyes in an attempt to conceal his blushing and begins the short walk to the motel he is staying at. He can hardly believe that he is walking down the street hand in hand with an obvious prostitute.
“What do I call you?” Hitler asks, keeping his eyes firmly planted on the ground below him.
“Voldemort.”
Hitler has no idea if that is a real name or not but he’s not going to ask, he simply nods. “I’m Hitler.”
Voldemort hums in response.

The walk to the motel is quick and mostly silent, but in no way unpleasant. The sun goes down around them leaving them in darkness. Under normal circumstances Hitler would be embarrassed to bring people back to the piece of shit establishment he has been staying at, but this is not normal. He is far more concerned but the rate at which his heart is beating in his chest because of this tall, intriguing stranger.
Their hands finally separate as Hitler moves to unlock his door.
Only as the door swings open does the intensity of the situation hit him; Hitler just brought a prostitute to his motel room, he’s going to pay to have sex with him.
A quick glance back at Voldemort kills the negative thoughts in Hitler’s head. A burning heat rushes through his body.
Hitler closes the door behind them as soon as Voldemort moves past him, into the room.
“So, how does this work?” Hitler asks, his attempts at a confident demeanour wavering.
Voldemort locks eyes with Hitler, sending a shiver down Hitler’s spine, that he hopes he managed to conceal.
“How ever you want it to work,” Voldemort says.
Hitler cannot ignore the way the words flow from his perfect mouth.
Hitler pulls together his confidence and closes the gap between himself and Voldemort. He presses his lips firmly against Voldemort’s cool, smooth ones.

Hitler hadn’t been intimate with anyone in a long time. He’d been busy; he’d been self-conscious, ashamed, emotionally desolate. He’s been a lot of things, but all those feeling slowly evaporated as Voldemort moved expertly to his touch, under the cheep white motel sheets.
Hitler slides his hands over as much of the exposed smooth gray skin as he can. Savouring how it feels under his fingertips as he presses into Voldemort. Again Voldemort moves flawlessly against Hitler’s body, pushing himself down onto Hitler.
Hitler runs his blunt fingernails down Voldemort’s cool back as he rolls his head back into the pillow.
Voldemort increases the pace as he works himself up and down while Hitler basks in the feeling of euphoria that is filling him.

Lying on his back, the sheets in disarray around him, Hitler comes down from his high.
He senses Voldemort lighting a cigarette beside him but makes no attempt at movement. He lazes in the unfamiliar contended feeling for a while longer and the smoke surrounds them both, sealing Hitler off from the harsh reality he lives in.
The sun will reappear in a few hours, dragging him back with it but for the time being Hitler feels perfectly satisfied.