Take off Your Uniform

Damn, what's with uniforms...

There is this General. He looks so tough, so elegant, so perfectly in order.

It's Berlin, somewhere around the late 20s, when sexual freedom is rising, places like the Institut für Sexualwissenschaft are giving oxygen to the outcasts and all the queer, pervert, free souls gather in cabarets and clubs to express their true selves.

I -a woman in her twenties- am a member of an anarchist organization. Some of us live together in a house where care, love and pleasure are as political as distributing pamphlets.

I noticed that this General stares at me every time I pass by the cafeteria where he reads the newspaper every day. He has this mysterious thing going on. He seems so uptight, but there's something in his eyes...

One night, my roommate Erich and I go to this club. The General is there, alone. I have never seen him there before. I kiss Erich feeling the General's eyes on us. I stare at him, and he stares back at both of us. I sense he won't take initiative, so I approach him, take his hand, and without saying a word the three of us walk to the house. He is distant and rigid at first, but once our lips touch... oh, god.

"Take off your uniform", I command. He takes our hands and asks us to do that for him. Erich and I take off his uniform, slowly, until his pale, burning skin uncovers. We kiss, and we lick, and we touch, and we penetrate, and we cum and we keep going and we fall asleep exhausted over the pieces of the uniform.

The General lies down wide awake, though. Something's changed in him.

He is supposed to kill hundreds in the terrifying years to come. But he won't anymore. He is free.