Nazi Cock, Liberal Cunt

A broken activist finds solace in the arms of a Nazi.

I returned from the pro-choice march completely exhausted. I sat down on a stool and put the kettle on for coffee. My boyfriend was on the couch, flipping through TV channels. His silence was louder than any words. He didn’t ask how my day went, didn’t care how I felt—even though I came back so proud of myself for fighting for a cause. Instead, he threw out a short, accusatory question: "Another one of your marches?"—as if my activism was something I should be ashamed of.

My boyfriend used to admire my determination. Now he looked at me like a stranger—a woman he didn’t understand and couldn’t accept. Over and over, he claimed I was neglecting our relationship to push *my* feminist agenda. Was my fight for justice just selfishness, destroying what we had? Or had *he* changed, while I simply stayed true to myself? I didn’t know which was worse.

I didn’t answer him. I just went to take a bath. Afterward, I put on my robe—a gift from him for our first anniversary. I remembered that day vaguely: him, smiling, with that characteristic spark in his eyes that always made me feel special. "You’re too serious, Emily," he’d said, laughing as I unwrapped it. "You should wear something more feminine." Back then, I’d laughed it off, thinking it was just a joke, one of those little jabs that were part of our dynamic. But now, as I touched the soft fabric, the word "feminine" echoed in my head like a verdict—something that had become a tool of control, not a compliment.

I recalled how often he’d used that word—"feminine"—as if the definition of who I should be was contained in his expectations: quiet, submissive, ready to abandon my own beliefs for his convenience. "Why can’t you just be normal?" he’d ask sometimes when I came home frustrated after another march. "Why do you always have to fight?"

I clenched my fists in the robe’s fabric, feeling my nails dig into my palms. "Feminine." That word had become a symbol of everything he expected from me—to stop being myself, to become someone easier to love, someone who didn’t ask questions, didn’t demand change. But is love that requires giving up your identity even love at all? Or is it just a gilded cage, wrapped in promises of safety and acceptance?

My boyfriend finally turned off the TV, stood up, and walked over to me. "Are you going to another march tomorrow?" he asked, sitting down. I replied that I will. "Remember we were supposed to go to dinner at my parents’?" "Yes... but you know, it’s important..." He just sighed.

He stood up from the table, his chair scraping against the floor. His face was stern, his eyes cold—as if he’d already made his decision long before this conversation even started.

"Emily, I love you," he said, but his words sounded like a farewell, not a promise. "But I can’t live in the shadow of your fight anymore. I can’t be with someone who always puts the cause first, and treats me... like I’m second best."

I felt the ground give way beneath me. That wasn’t the point. It was never about pushing him away. It was about finding balance—being myself *and* being with him. But now, looking at his face, I realized that for him, that balance no longer existed. For him, it was a choice: either I changed into the woman he wanted me to be, or our relationship was over.

I ran out of the house, crying. I couldn’t take it anymore. What was wrong with me? Why were my good intentions, my hard work for the greater good, just... dismissed? Why did *I* have to change? How?

That’s when my neighbor, Jack, saw me on the stairwell. I genuinely hated him. I’d reported him to the housing association multiple times—for smoking in the stairwell and on the balcony, for drinking and causing scenes outside the building, for harassing other men, calling them "fags."

He was tall, bald, with a swastika tattooed on his shoulder. The complete opposite of my boyfriend—and me. *Ex-boyfriend*, I corrected myself. He looked at me like a curious animal eyeing a toy. I recoiled. But he just smiled and asked if I’d come in for coffee. I agreed. Anything was better than sitting alone.

His apartment reeked of cigarette smoke. In the main room, there was a sideboard with a surprisingly large number of books—authors whose names meant nothing to me. On the yellowed wall hung a portrait of some general in a black uniform.

When I sat on the couch, I saw Jack take off his shirt, leaving only his tank top. I noticed even more fascist and Nazi symbols tattooed on his body. I should have stood up, but I had nowhere to go, so I stayed put as he disappeared into the kitchen.

When he returned with coffee, we surprisingly hit it off. I unloaded everything—the breakup, the reasons. He just smiled, then pinned me down with his muscles, his hand sliding over my crotch. "I’ll teach you how to be a woman," he said.

I don’t know why I didn’t leave. Maybe I was mesmerized by his physical strength and eloquence. Maybe I thought that after this, I’d be able to go back to my boyfriend. Maybe that's why I let him undress me.

He buried his face between my legs. His tongue traced my pussy lips, licked my clit, kissed my pussy. Eventually, I dared to touch his skull, pushing his face into my cunt. It felt so good. I finally let go and came, squirting all over his mouth and face. I thought he’d be angry, but he just smiled, revealing his white teeth. That’s when I first thought that, actually, he had a handsome face and stunning blue eyes.

He took off his tank top, shorts, and underwear. I saw his huge, erect cock, glistening with pre-cum at the tip. He held my spread legs and entered me in one decisive thrust, all the way to the hilt. I sighed in pleasure.

He fucked me faster and faster. My eyes traced his torso—the large eagle tattoo on his chest, the skull on his stomach, the Nazi slogan under his neck. I *should* have been disgusted with myself. But how else was I supposed to change?

"From now on, you’re my bitch," he said, shoving his cock into my cervix. "You’re my Aryan princess," he whispered, kissing my cheek. I touched the swastika on his arm, swallowed hard, and then—almost in response to his words, "You’ll be my little cunt, you’ll give me children"—a shiver ran through me. My hand tightened around the swastika as I came, trembling with pleasure.

I did it. I betrayed my ideals. A Nazi was fucking his ideology into me. He flipped me over and took me from behind. He fucked me hard, complimenting my beauty, my ass. He held me by the green hair and fucked me, not letting me escape from his big, hard cock. Not that I was trying to take my wet pussy away from him. But I only came again strong when he said he was counting on my ovulation, that I’d better give him an Aryan child soon. My juices was all on his cock and his sofa.

It ended with me riding him like a wild woman. His cock was the best I’d ever had. I wanted him. I could be his Nazi tradwife if it meant getting fucked like this every day. I started kissing his mouth, my hands roaming his body. Finally, he grabbed my face and directed me toward the Nazi eagle on his chest. He told me to kiss it. I did.

I rode his cock harder and harder, grinding my hips back and forth so his hard cock would go in as deep as possible. I was already so wet that you could actually hear the sloshing sounds when, after a moment, I stood up on my feet and rode him while sitting on top of him.

I felt his cock pulse. I knew he was about to come. That his fascist cum would pollute my liberal womb. And I *wanted* it. I was done with my ex, who didn’t appreciate me, who wasn’t man enough to do what Jack did—just *take* what he wanted.

I sat down on his cock so it would go in as deep as possible, so he could come right inside my womb, which was begging for his attention. I thought this was how I’d finally feel like a woman. And I did. With every drop of cum, I felt more at peace. More drawn to Jack. I even thought about skipping my birth control pills. My body, his choice.

After sex, he held me, kissed me, caressed me. He lit a cigarette, but honestly, it didn’t bother me anymore. That same evening, I moved in with him. I never went to another march. We talked a lot. He was eloquent, intelligent, well-read. I learned a lot from him. In many ways, he was right—and I had been wrong.

Years have passed since that first day together. We have several children, whom Jack adores. I’m his wife. I don’t work—I take care of the home, the kids. I’m happy. And I’ve repaid him many times over for fixing me. I’m his Nazi slut tradwife of his dreams. You know what I love the most? When he comes on my little secret... the small swastika tattooed just above my smoothly shaved—just for him—pussy.