Author's Note

This fic was my submission to the anti-censorship art pack
Marenheit 451

I thought I could do some good by posting my fic here to drive more attention to the pack, which might not be well known about on this site.

Please click [edited out due to nsfw content] to go to the pack and support artistic freedom in our community with a small donation. Proceeds go toward Days End Farm Horse Rescue in support of real world horsies.

I know that this is a controversial issue, and very close to the heart for many of you who might disagree. I ask that you please remain civil, and bring discussion on this issue to my blog post, and leave comments on the story related to the story.

Thanks!

Rounding up her captive

She was nice.

Cute, even.

At least, that’s what I thought when I first met her.

Beautiful blonde hair, golden locks that spilled down her back — when it wasn’t twisted into a set of braided loops — eyes that were as blue as glaciers, and a body that completed the look of a slender bavarian milk-maid.

The fact that she wore a simple dress with a dirndl, complete with apron and lace took it a step further. When I first saw her, I literally thought she had wandered off the set of a ‘Sound of Music’ musical.

Somehow, I’d mustered up the courage to chat with her. No small feat for a social introvert like myself. School had always been a place to get in and out of as quickly as possible, sponging up as much information on tap then making for the exits. Sports and computer games were more my thing, places with rules and goals for how people interacted.

The strange interaction of people, chatting in hallways, or lecture rooms always puzzled and stressed me out: how to start a conversation, how to feign interest in another person that I really cared nothing about. Unlike games, the goal of social interaction was not explicit. All these beautiful and social people were getting together for one ultimate reason.

To fuck.

Sure, that might have been a bit of a cynical view, but it was apparent. The googly eyes of beautiful people, the cheery smiles as males and females pretended to be interested in what the other was saying. The way successful social butterflies touched and held each other.

Not that I’m angry about it.

I’m jealous.

I hadn’t expected to still be a kissless virgin by this point in my life, and I could already see the grains of sand falling into place on the hourglass of my life. Each passing day seemed to make me more of a curmudgeon, more of a loner. But I just found it so hard to talk to girls!

Except her.

Aryanne.

It was weird, she just seemed so different. My anxiety and natural standoffish-ness around regular girls just didn’t arise when I first met her in a hallway as she struggled to locate herself on campus. It was almost like she wasn’t even a human female, more like an android in disguise.

We’d hit it off so quickly it surprised even me. Falling into a happy, cheerful discussion as if we were old friends. It was almost like she had some magical friendship energy.

It wasn’t long before I started looking at her with more lascivious eyes and harboring still more lascivious intentions.

Oh sure, some other people around campus gave me some warnings. Telling me that she was weird, that she was always saying things that were really inappropriate, about superiority and master plans for people. Worse still was the disturbing amount of hours she put into playing Hearts of Iron IV. I mean what girl does that?

A few even went so far as to tell me I was hanging out with a Nazi.

Now, I had taken this little warning with a grain of salt. These days, around campus, it seemed like everything and anything had something to do with the Third Reich. At least if you were to believe the incredibly vocal minority of people that poured out of the more ‘nuanced’ — read: useless — social humanities and arts classes.

Over the last month alone, there had been a petition to disband the chess club because it was inherently racist to give the white pieces the advantage of the first move. When the club had foolishly tried to placate the demand by stating that the queen was the most powerful piece in the game, the whole group had been denounced as a den of goose-stepping monsters.

I had even caught some denunciation myself. In speaking with another student a little too loudly about my favorite faction to play as in a popular online tank game, I’d made the mistake of pronouncing the word ‘Königstiger’ a bit too accurately while discussing the merits of the Panzerkampfwagen Tiger Ausf. B with its eighty-eight millimeters of sound and fury. A bystander had quickly given me the evil eye and asked me why I wanted to play as a Nazi.

My somewhat bemused reaction that the Germans had more than a few good ideas when it came to the development of armored fighting vehicles drew me no goodwill at all. ‘So you really are a Nazi sympathizer then! Get out of here, Nazi scum!’

The memory of those words still made my heart rise a few beats in anger.

Nevermind the fact that my great-grandmother had a numbered tattoo on her arm and was one of the very lucky few to escape Treblinka.

But it was nothing compared to what Aryanne endured. Hisses, people screaming at her from across the grounds, spitting at her, in some cases trying to entice her to fight. And it wasn’t like any of those people were complaining about the blonde-haired girl’s stance against gun-ownership, or for state-control of production objectives, or for a state-operated daycare and health system.

That being said, I did have some lingering suspicions about Aryanne’s views.

When she would get going, especially over a stein of beer at one of the student bars after class, some of the things she would say were outright… troubling.

Separating people by class and culture… and race. ‘Dealing with’ dissidents and bringing them and their antics to a crushing stop under a jackboot. Creating lebensraum, ‘living space’ for people ‘like her’, even if that meant taking from others. And most troubling of all, questioning whether the value of human life really was equal across all people, even going so far as to ask if invalids and ‘undesirables’ deserved to ‘pull down’ the rest of civil society with them.

So, admittedly, it wasn’t entirely implausible that she could be, y’know, a fascist.

But fascists do these things. Idiots and misguided people say them. At this point, I thought she was simply one of the latter. It wasn’t like she was doing anything other than talking.

Maybe I could change her, show her a better path, teach her about the ‘American Way’; freedom, individual rights, equality before the law, peace, and all that. However she’d been raised, it certainly wasn’t the way I’d been brought up or anyone else I knew either.

Still, I had to admit it. I was pretty caught up in the fact that such a beautiful girl was actually showing interest in me, hanging out with me.

Whoever said ‘don’t stick your dick in crazy’ was obviously getting more sex than me, a 22-year old, kissless virgin.

Sorry, great-grandma… at least I can promise you if I’m lucky enough to take this girl home I’ll do my very best to ream her possibly-Nazi ass with my fat, Jewish kishka. There’s got to be some cosmic justice in that, right?

Ok, that sounds weak even to me, but I was horny, all right?

It wasn’t like it was going to happen anyway. Or so I thought. Like most of the abortive, half-friend, half-’potentially romantically interested’ relationships I’d ever managed to initiate, this too would surely end in nothing more than diminishing interest and yet another contact on my phone, never to be messaged again.

Imagine my surprise when, having drained the last of her stein, she grabbed my wrist with her hand clumsily, as if she barely knew how to work her fingers, staring up at me with those big, blue, earnest eyes.

“Herr Weisenstein,” she declared in an unnaturally formal tone.

I gave her a curious expression at first, the hardness in her voice catching me momentarily off-guard. I’d gotten used to her, though. For all the time we’d known each other, she’d often taken a tone I found inappropriate to the circumstances. More than once I’d considered that our socially awkward instincts and tendencies made us kindred spirits. Either that or I was just the luckiest guy on campus. Probably more the latter, honestly.

“Please, call me Aaron, Aryanne. We’ve known each other for weeks now.”

Aryanne smiled and took me by the hand, her freckled, button nose crinkling in a wholesome and endearing way that brought a surge of hot blood to my nether regions. “Aaron… mein stallion, I think it is time for me to take you back to mein place.”

I still remember how hard my heart pounded in my chest, the rush of adrenaline, excitement, and sheer terror overflowing at the sudden possibilities flowing through my very active imagination. While I hadn’t exactly been training my entire life for a moment I’d expected never to come, I knew I had to say something clever right then. Something to really impress upon her the quality of the goods she was bringing home.

“W-wha?”

Smooth, Aaron. She’ll be dropping you off in the nearest convenient dumpster!

“I haff been gauging you, and I believe you are ze right pony for vaht I have in mind. Come, valk vith me now.” Sometimes she still mixed up her words.

What can I say? The girl had a way with words and I had a way of doing whatever she asked. Call it charm. Call it guile. Call it her sheer Teutonic magnetism but I gave a knowing nod, asked no questions, and marched — Eins, zwei! Eins, zwei! — back to her residence at flank speed.