Hey guys. First time posting. Long story short I have no one to ask for help reviewing a WIP of a story I've written, so I turned to Gurochan.

I need reviews, tips, and help and comments on my writing in general. The story is rather mild for Gurochans standards, and is meant to be read more as Erotica than straight-up pornography. I feel that it sort of jumps sexually at the end and need help regulating the mood of the story.

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TAGS-(WWII, Wound fucking, Mild, Reader(Russian Gravedigger Volunteer)xGhost of German Soldier, Non-Con, Semi Public, Reverse-Nazisploitation)

80 years later I still am on a scavenger hunt, exhumator turned adventurer. I find the corpses not in a single hole in the soil, but from belt buckles wedged in the trees, rusted sporks and mess-tins laying at the bottom of swamps, from shining red stars atop the long-gone cotton of well-used caps.

On all of it is inscribed God's absolute will of death, and I pick them up from their forgotten, decrepit corners and polish them back to a respectful liveliness in Rossoschka, delivered in white plastic bags full of bones. I am a volunteer, guilty of tremendously enjoying cleaning up after my ancestor's messes, guilty of enjoying those private pleasures of wars horrors when I successfully unearth another frail skull.

It brings a feverish joy to think that horror possesses so great a beauty. This I am proven every time I visit the cemetery. I trail my fingers across the long marbles of all 'nemetsky' names, in a foreign language I cannot pronounce, silently searching for familiar Cyrillic in alien Latin. I spend more time across the street in the Soviet section with my proud grandfathers. The land is well nourished by the blood soaked into it, and it protects them well, returning them to their simplest origins. My eyes become wet at the holy, sacrosanct sight of the Motherland united again in embrace with her brave children, pressed into her dirt bosom.

Close everyday proximity to the eastern theatre of War has fathered brute, prohibited emotions inside of myself that cannibalise me whole. My insides begin to boil, thinking of the violence and the bloodshed, of twitching fingers and pale, deadened skin. My skin begins to itch uncontrollably, fantasising over how comely the skeletons of soldiers I discover are in their graves, graceful, polite, and curled up, a relic of the unreachable past I can hold in my fingers and admire. And then the bit of horrified, eating shame—that too, sets me alight, my own admonishing of myself for daring to ever behave this way to real, tangible war heroes.

It is established then, that forbidden things tantalise me. In the digging camps at night I sing and strum Russian songs on the guitar, hoping that the dead will hear it and arise from their graves, when I know it is delicious blasphemy to believe I have authority over death. At the finding of a soldier's corpse, stripped bare to the bones without the modest clothing of skin, I hook my fingers into the entry wounds of bullet holes, pretending for Alyosha and Andryukha the fellow gravediggers that I am checking for cause of death, but instead marvelling at how well the openings on dry ivory bone can take the full five lengths upon my hands.

Young and passionate, I starved for the beautiful brand of seductive depravity, weakly transfixed like a boy at a young maiden to that despairing, horrific slaughterhouse of men made pigs. It found its beginnings here, when I was alone and distracted, unaccompanied but for the forests of Volgograd all around me, free to breathe as heavily as I wanted over the craters of soil, nestled in them rusted late-war metal I longed to press my tongue to. That morning already I was being confronted by endless oddities one after another—fern leaves waved me away, decomposing gasmasks glared at me through weathered and dulled lenses, and the remains of a decrepit, defunctional Ppsh-40 uncovered itself from the mud with the barrel pointed right at me.

The dusty pale rocks of the forest floor were still rolling beneath my sandal soles when the uniformed corpse emerged, perceptible to me now from between the trees, sat limply against a dead tree stump like a ragdoll with his limbs carelessly arranged. Blurrily in the corner of my eye I watched in the mirror reflection of my shovel the way my eyes inflated until its eyelids could not contain it anymore. The frail statue of a man stared back at me with the most pitiful blackened eyes, and I likened them to lumps of smoking charcoal, stuffed into his sockets.

His weak, thin and grey body barely expanded about his nearly concave chest, and he stared through me as if I were the ghostly lunatic in outdated uniform and not him. A lost reenactor, I tried to reason with myself, but everything about the man was so faraway I comprehended at once the incompatibility of him with our times and our native land. The Russian summer sol, more punishing than his outlander sun, refracted off him and made his shy self hidden to my human eyes at select angles, his silhouette now obscured then revealed, then concealed now clarified.

His mouth fell open for urgent breath, the jaw severed, and he began to scream, yet when his violently trembling, searching fingers found no gun upon his person, he panicked. His ghostly apparition flickered in and out as would a waning candle flame while I stood petrified to the spot. Within my stomach there was a sour lurch like a starting locomotive and abruptly I bounded at him, pressing him screeching into the floor. At the sight of my brandished shovel he forgot all about his own entrenching tools at the waist and clawed wildly at my face like Dymok the kitten who belonged to the neighbour.

I could not help myself. Inwardly I began to laugh. What absurdity. Here I was in cheap, knock-off Adidas pants and a worn black shirt with the patterns faded off, the very image of an accursed modern twenty-first century man, and I was frolicking in the mud and muck with the ghost of a frightened, flailing German who had died in winter, for the bride-dress white of his painted helmet and bloated camouflage told me so.

Firmly, I pressed him further into the ground, and a distressingly familiar kind of self-reproach bubbled in my acidic guts at the way heat bloomed into the hollow of my neck when he hollered sharply and twisted away from me at a particularly forceful grab. Unthinking, I grasped again at the same spot, like a child at their mother's teat, utterly taken with a sudden, maddening objective to coax that rotten, scared animal of a hoarse scream out of him once more, with an instantaneous ecstatic release.

At that time he thrashed and writhed beneath me like a wild young foal, the beating rhythm of his neurotically pumping limbs clashing hideously against the deafening rush of blood in my ears. The dirt, veiled in invisible sheens of the ancient sacrificial blood of his own comrades and his father's comrades, marked itself out across him in sprawling spiderwebs of smudged black soil, fighting to melt back into his skin.

A vignette of black threatened to close in on my vision, almost wrenching away the near-psychedelic view of his mad convulsing. I frayed at the seams and I could not pull tighter at myself, wrenched from all four sides by a supreme satanic pleasure. A million black and white pictures unfurled themselves across my mind like a spray of bullets, and in addition to the live corpse beneath me I saw them all, a young German laid face down with a bayonet sticking out of him, a Polish corpse face down by the drain which connected itself to it with a long line of blood, a severed American hand laying uselessly among French sand, a Chinese mother with her guts hanging open at the mercy of a Japanese.

I watched his eyes now the size of eggs almost roll out of him, his cracked dried lips open and close like a blubbering goldfish, his skeleton wantonly wane and bend precariously out and under and almost above the scanty blouse of his skin. To his death rattle I strained my ears unlike no other hymn or choir assembly ever before.

The dream ended when one of his desperate, worm-like wriggles came to a staggering, disappointing halt. He winded bonelessly and unnaturally backwards, shrinking into himself like used plastic by the roadside, unable to do much more than gurgle around his own spit at me as his body screeched hysterically its final protests.

I watched transfixed as he functioned to failure, experiencing true death with all five senses: my ears inflated with the wet, puerile squelches of his failing throat, my eyes witness to an apocalyptically romantic, swirling despair in the bulging eyes of his green face, and my hands, with palm fulls of his compacted meat-fleisch, clawed red to irritation beneath the cotton. Before long his eyes would not sustain themselves, and fell closed as if this were all something as innocent as going to bed.

I had successfully calmed the situation. Abruptly all became exceedingly still. The leaves would not shake and his legs, stationary, no longer kicked. I hovered above him, left panting, pearls of my overflowing saliva decorating his face, guiltily and feverishly hot in my own. My first murder. My body was not my own, and I could not move as I waited with suspended breath for his next inhale that would never come. I shocked myself with my own first thought, idiotically mundane and completely unimportant: I wondered stupidly if the stories were true, if his corpse would lose control of its bladder, or its sphincter, and cover us in more filth than we already were.

Dazed, I needn’t rhyme nor reason for my actions, and did not need to treat a corpse dead twice-over with dignity. My teeth grit I yanked apart his utility belt and threw open his tunic and undershirt, frantically pressing across an exposed belly, just the way I had before in all the fantasies I denied myself. As the cloth came away, the sickly sweet scent of rusted pennies distended my lungs, smelling strangely of sweet dry skin and dusty leaves.

Poppies and pomegranate seeds bloomed across his wrinkled navel as I tore the uniform away like a bandaid. Brilliant red blood flowed in abundance from a large flesh hole resembling a layered chrysanthemum with its thick petals of meat, carefully arranged around compacted globules of glistening white-yellow fat, garnished with sprinkles of clean, splintered bone, carving out rivers across the dirt soil of his green-grey stomach. He was like a canvas ripped apart, and I fancied that I could see right through him, though the thought made my mind spin.

Upon an animal impulse, as was everything else I had just done within the last short timeframe, an ugly disgust arose within me, the very one as when Miroslav charmed another pretty young girl I could only admire from afar, as when Kolya spoke over me at the dinner table. I felt myself a child again, gazing down an amazement I knew myself to never achieve, grappling with a dirty jealousy that I was not the one to have planted the seed of this flower wound upon the slate and span of this German body. Red, complicated agony flooded through me, flaring up an unbearably painful itch that was near to bursting. I felt truly frustrated to the point of scratchy tears, no climax of relief available to me, for I had just become equivalent to the man that found out the woman beloved to him was not a virgin, already before used.

I wanted his emotions, his feelings, his connection to the past, the past that was the only thing I’d ever loved. I had no future to look forward to, and found comfort only within the world of promised glory, violence, and polished knights armour. Why was I not the Smirnov, the Ivanov, nor the Petrov that had struck rightfully the killing bullet into the body of this enemy beast, finally pushed by a vindicating finger into the sexual madness of war, inseminating a glorious, ejaculative, frenzied death upon the fascist pig?

Here he was not just a name on marble, not just a black and white face on a webpage, not just a numbered casualty count. I saw with my two own eyes the qualities of this soldier, and felt myself bombarded with intractable fantasies, of him kniving maggots out of leg wounds, of him laughing and grinning on a train with his comrades off to war, of him clutching and caressing firmly the bolt assembly of a Karabiner, and then, of him squirming and screaming bloody murder beneath the strong, structured body of the Russian that had nailed him, that had held the gun that gave the final killing blow. How had he cried? For Mother? For Father? For a girl? I needed only to look at him to know, almost managing to taste the iron, the rubble dust, the warm blood.

With practiced precision, as every time I had before, only missing my gloves, I placed my hand on his crimson belly, pressing my spindly fingers into the body cavity. Blood surged from the wound, enveloping my entire body in a furnace-hot warmth, like sitting beside a campfire. My eyes rolled back, fluttering, my teeth chattering within my skull. I panted like a man that had just run a marathon. My forehead, as if it were running a fever, pressed against his small, bony chest, and I blew scorched breath in harsh exhales across his skin. It was as if he had enveloped me in a blanket, surrounding myself with him, caring for me, making sure I wouldn’t go cold, allowing me to enjoy myself to my fullest.

From the knuckle I inserted myself until the base, giving a hoarse, low scream, the kind I imagined I would utter at death. Better, this was, better than anything else I had ever in my life done, better even than when I donned the brown uniform with the square red shoulder boards within the private confines of my room, even than when I pinned upon myself reproduced red stars. Beautiful, crystal ecstacy, clear as a water stream, flowed from his limp, slaughtered body into me, and I found myself crying unashamed, overwhelmed, by the nourishment of his freely dripping blood into the dirt, by the freshly decaying grotesque wound, rupturing around me from another violent, unstoppable drill of my fingers, and I felt myself a jubilant, triumphant victor, pinning my flying red flag onto his defeated body with not more than a hammer and a sickle.

Shaking, I committed it all to memory: This corpse, this wonderful corpse, lay pinned beneath me in this expanse of isolated woodland, covered in authentic clothing that fascinated me, upon the ground, and I sat over him as victor, savoring in the feel of him, in the sense of superiority and dread that he had gifted me. My hand now up to the wrist had all been inserted into his ripping entry-hole wound, like some crude imitation of an anus, and as I clutched I felt his flesh press against me, and felt his blood flow. Oh, adored, how I adored the machinations of my war on his body, how thoroughly I had ravaged him and left an immutable mark upon him, how I had scarred him, violated him, killed him, all as if it were war again, as if Volgograd were Stalingrad again, as if Russia was red again, as if Germany were black again, as if I were where I belonged, the same as him, transformed only into another gun that fired the bullet, another bayonet to mince my brothers to the death.

I pressed a lingering, tender loving kiss to the source of my joy, though I knew it would never be enough to thank him for what he had given me. My hand came slipping out, my chest still heaving. A second wave of heady exhilaration swept me away as I became witness to how his wound gaped now, unfolded, fully in bloom. War had changed him permanently, as did it I, as did it everyone across the globe in every little corner and in every small terrace. I marvelled at what violence I was capable of, that he had made me capable of. The best and the most erotic in me he had incited, a thousand and ninety kilometres from home.
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The story is supposed to pick up from here and talk about digging a grave for the soldier, then the reader fingers the dirt of the grave until he climaxes. I'm not sure how I'll close from there. Any reviews, ideas, opinions welcome.