War Prize, page 10
part #1 of Captured by the SS Series
More than anything, I’m ready for this to stop. Being made to come again and again is almost too much for me. Once again, my muscles tighten and knot up painfully. I’m hoping he’s almost near his own release, but I sense he’s intentionally focusing on not coming. I think he likes doing this to me.
“P-please,” I whisper.
“Shh, this will stop when I decide.”
I’m not certain, but I think he finds something unusual in how he can make me come again and again, as if I have some gift or talent. Personally, I think he’s the one with the talent because he can make my body do things I never thought it could.
Hell, I could never even make myself do this with my own fingers, so I have no idea how he knows exactly what buttons to press.
Eventually, he reaches his own breaking point, spilling his hot seed inside me, and thrusts hard against my clit with a final, brutal thrust. My vision blurs as I let out a strangled cry. I’m sensing he’s angry with himself though. I think he wanted to keep going.
Breathing hard, he sags against my body. I take slow, deep breaths, trying to process everything that’s happened in such a short amount of time. Again the questions haunt me. What the hell is he doing? What is this? A game? An experiment?
In my confusion, I manage to tell myself this is all some strange game he’s playing. I don’t delude myself into thinking something that’s not true. He’s still my enemy, and I’m still an American spy in his custody. For all I know, my execution is tomorrow. Deciding not to dwell on the inevitable, I simply enjoy the feel of his warm flesh against mine. Pulling himself from me, he rolls over and scoops my spent body into his arms.
“How can you do that?” he mutters.
“Do what?”
“The way you can come again and again like that. How can you do that?”
“I don’t know. I thought it was some gift you had,” I barely whisper. I’m thoroughly spent and half-asleep. I wish I hadn’t said he had a gift, but I wasn’t really thinking.
Silence. I sense his body growing rigid next to me. I think he’s angry about something. I force myself to wake up. Something’s not quite right. Panic washes through me. Did I do something wrong? Is he going to kill me now?
He pulls away from me and clicks on a lamp. Blinking at the light, I watch him rise out of bed. I hear a drawer by the bed open and close. Before I can even react, he’s on top of me and straddling my hips. The familiar black bag opens on the bed next to me.
I’m not sure what’s going on, but I don’t offer any resistance. He looks angry. I look away while he unwraps another syringe. Keeping my head turned, I close my eyes. I feel him swab my wrist with something cold and wet. The pinch of the needle soon follows. Similar to what it did before, the drug almost instantly overtakes me. I feel his fingers on my cheek and eyelid. I think he’s checking to see if I’m under. Once again there’s only darkness in my vision.
“Are you trying to manipulate me?” he asks.
Manipulate him? “No.”
“Did you fake any of your orgasms with me?”
“No.”
“Were you trying to flatter me just now, especially when you said I had a gift for making you come like that?”
“No.”
He’s silent for a moment. “Are you trying to play me or seduce me in any way to gain some favor in my eyes?”
“No.” Although that’s what I’m supposed to be doing.
He pauses again. “Your orgasms were real?”
“Yes.”
“And you really believe I have some knowledge or skill to make you come like that?”
“Yes.”
Silence. “Why?”
“Because Steven never did that to me, and I’ve never been able to do that to myself.”
He chuckles softly at my statement. “Your former lover was incompetent and self-gratification can only go so far.”
He slips off me. I hear the drawer next to the bed open and close. The mattress shifts as he slips into bed next to me. His arms take my limp body against his muscular form.
“You like being in my bed, don’t you?”
No! “Yes.” Damn it!
“You like the things I do to you?”
I try to keep silent. “Yes,” I hear myself whisper.
He pauses for a moment. “But you don’t want to like it, yes?”
I don’t want to answer that question, but I hear myself answer, “Yes.”
He inhales deeply, clearly satisfied by something. “Good.”
I sense he already knows all this, and I don’t think my answers surprised him. I have the impression he likes asking questions and having his questions answered. I think he sees interrogation as some dark art. The drug forces me to answer, yes, but I remember from our first couple of sessions that a slight rewording can alter the response. I think he likes finding the right questions to ask.
“Thank you, American,” he whispers, kissing my forehead.
I’m not certain what exactly that was all about. I quickly dismiss the entire thing.
His body is like a warm boulder against me. Inhaling deeply, I take in his clean, masculine scent. I’m still under the influence of the drug, so my limbs don’t move the way I want them to. I’ve never felt so safe and so lost at the same time. I have no idea what this is or where it’s going. After several minutes, I will myself to sleep. There’s really nothing else I can do.
Chapter Four
When I wake up, it’s brighter in the room. I can tell it’s early. A soft noise jostles me fully awake. Lifting my head, I see my captor standing at the foot of the bed. He has his back to me. He’s wearing a long black leather coat. He turns slightly, and I realize he’s dressed in a fresh uniform only he’s added a coat this morning.
I watch him secure a delicate silver chain to the footboard of the wrought iron bed with a small lock. He picks up a pair of metal sheers, cuts into the chain and then loops another lock through the last link. Without looking at me, he gently takes my foot before hooking the lock around my anklet, essentially tethering me to the bed. His gloved fingers feel oddly familiar against my flesh.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He turns and looks at me. His eyes are shadowed by the low-rim hat. “I have matters to attend to in Berlin.”
“You can leave me loose. I have the locator.”
“Yes, but I don’t feel like chasing you across Germany, and I have a suspicion you’ll run if given the opportunity.”
I can’t argue with that logic. I probably would.
“The chain is long enough so you can reach the bathroom. I made you breakfast and left some fruit and nuts for lunch.” He gestures toward something, and I turn my head to see what he’s referring to. There’s a small table and chair set by the window that’s just big enough to seat two people. A covered plate is on the table, and I also see an apple. My stomach grumbles. There’s a stack of books next to the covered plate.
“You’ll probably be hungry by the time I get home, but I’ll make dinner for you later.” I turn my attention back to him as he talks.
After checking the strength of my leash, he looks satisfied. “It’ll be dark by the time I get home, so I left you some books to pass the time. I will see you later this evening, American.” He turns and then picks up a briefcase. With a polite nod, he leaves the room, closing the door behind him. Much to my disappointment, he takes the metal sheers with him.
I don’t move from the bed. I’m a bit surprised this morning wasn’t the day of my execution. A part of me thought it would be. I hear him go down the stairs and then the front door opens and closes. I even faintly hear his car drive off. Silence. I jump when the central heating kicks on.
As I pull the blankets and covers off, a sudden chill takes hold of me. I can tell it’s cold outside. It’s relatively warm in the house, but I’m only dressed in an unbuttoned shirt and I’m also barefoot.
I immediately examine the chain leash tethering me to the bed. Similar to my locator, the silver chain is thin and light. It looks delicate, more like jewelry than an actual leash. I wrap the corner of the sheet around my palm and fingers, using it as a glove, before winding some of the leash around my hand. I pull the chain taut.
Just because my execution wasn’t today doesn’t mean it won’t be tomorrow. My captor may have introduced me to passion, but that doesn’t mean I trust him. Bracing my feet against the footboard, I lean back and pull on the chain. I tug as hard as I can, hoping something somewhere will give. Since he’s gone, this is my best chance to get a head start. If I do escape, he’ll be able to track me with the locator, yes, but maybe I can stay ahead of him.
I tug until my fingers and hands ache, but nothing will yield. Sighing, I examine both the lock on the locator and the one tethering me to the bed. They’re small, light and fragile-looking, each measuring less than one square inch, but I’m quickly learning that looks can be deceiving. I frown at each small silver lock.
They’re both pick-proof locks. I can tell by the distinct V-shaped slot for the key. Even if I had a bobby pin or even real lock-picking tools, I wouldn’t be able to unlock either one. If I had my tool kit, I could use the saw. But I had to give that back to my supply guy.
I’ve only seen pick-proof, V-slotted locks at military facilities, and I’ve never seen one this small. I have no idea why he has such small, sophisticated locks just lying around his house.
In retrospect, I suddenly realize how calm he was about securing my leash to the footboard, as if he’d done it before. Maybe I’m not the first American spy he’s taken to his bed. Logic dictates I’m probably not.
Not wanting to miss anything, I stand and examine the bed I’m tethered to. I don’t see any way to take it apart…at least not without tools. I take a hold of the footboard and try to lift it, just to gauge the weight, but I can’t even budge it. Jeez, this bed weighs a ton! What the hell? I should be able to at least lift it. Baffled by the unusual heaviness, I kneel down, trying to determine the problem. Upon closer examination, I realize the bed itself is actually bolted to the floor. Hmm, so I’m not imagining it—he really has chained people to his bed before. Why else would the bed be bolted down?
I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. The man is a Nazi after all, not a saint. But for some reason, I am surprised.
I go back to yanking on my leash, not certain what else to do. After several minutes of pulling and tugging, I soon figure out that I’m not going anywhere. Exhausted from my pointless struggling, I sit on the floor, breathing hard. I’m actually sweating from my efforts, and I take a few moments to cool down and catch my breath.
I look over at the table by the window. The covered plate reminds me I have breakfast waiting. Snow flurries dance across the foggy pane, and I shiver slightly. The sweat is now serving only to chill me. The central heating is running, but I’m suddenly cold. I guess I could go back to tugging against my leash for exercise and to warm up, but I’m hungry.
I stand up and wrap my arms around myself, trying to warm up. I pull back the comforter on the bed before retrieving an ivory blanket.
Using the blanket as a robe, I shuffle across the room to the table by the window. Wrapping the blanket tighter around me, I check out what he left me for breakfast. It’s some bacon and scrambled eggs along with a muffin smeared with butter. There’s also a glass of apple juice.
I pull out one of the two chairs at the table before sitting down. I’m actually quite hungry, and I quickly dig into the food. I was forced to purge my breakfast yesterday, and I didn’t eat anything else. He also left me a banana, an apple, a candy bar and a jar of almonds. After finishing my breakfast, I quickly eat the banana. I scan through the books he left me as I eat. Not surprisingly, they’re all in German, which is actually what I used to read back home. I used to read German books to keep the language fresh in my head.
Despite the blanket I’m wrapped up in, I’m still a little cold. Looking around, I wonder if I can find a pair of socks. If I could cover my bare feet, I think I could warm up. I shuffle across the room to a three-drawer dresser. After kneeling down, I open the bottom drawer. I find several pairs of men’s socks. Victoriously, I pull out a pair.
“Score,” I whisper. I hurriedly slip them on. I already feel warmer.
I rise up on my knees, so I can pull open the middle drawer. I find several white t-shirts neatly rolled along with several pairs of underwear. Out of curiosity, I stand to check out the top drawer. There are several pairs of black leather gloves on one side. On the other side, there’s a felt-lined tray.
The tray is filled with stickpins and cuff links. There are also some medals and a watch as well as several rings. I pick up and examine one of the rings. Like most men’s jewelry, it’s heavy and bulky. Almost all the pieces have either a swastika or the SS Sig Runes on it. Everything looks more like service awards to me.
My jewelry box is also filled with similar rings, pendants and medals, except my pieces bear either a bald eagle or an American flag. A twinge of pain hits me as I remember that small wooden box in my modest military quarters. It’s not that I miss my jewelry box. It’s just that…I’ll probably never set foot on US soil again.
Yes, there was one spy swap. But that doesn’t mean anything. By now, my family has probably been informed that I’ve either been captured or killed. My arrangements are most likely pending. I shake my head slightly as I swallow hard. There is absolutely nothing I can do, so there’s no point in torturing myself about this.
I go back to looking through his jewelry instead. I find a gold ring that looks like a wedding band. It even has a date engraved inside, 7-7-2001. No name though.
After putting the ring back, I close the drawer. My gaze sweeps across the top of the dresser. There’s a small mirror, a brush, a hair dryer and some styling products. Out of curiosity, I shuffle toward the closet. My delicate chain leash lightly drags across the hardwood floor. I slide open the closet door and immediately find several black tunics and matching trousers hanging neatly inside. The uniforms are clean and meticulously pressed. They’re hanging with the red armband facing out. There are also some white and tan dress shirts, which are also crisply pressed, as well as several black ties.
Three pairs of boots are lined up on the closet floor while four hats are perched on the top shelf. After rolling open the other side of the closet, I find a few civilian-type clothes along with two pairs of sneakers. Some of the more casual garments are stained with paint while others look like work-out clothes. There are books stacked up on the top shelf, but they’re too far back for me to see any titles.
I retrieve one of the chairs by the table to stand on. Toward the back of the shelf are several language books, which are stacked up nearly to the ceiling. Most of the books are on the phased-out languages—the languages of China, Spanish, Russian, Portuguese, French…just to name a few. I retrieve one of the language books, Russian, and eagerly flip it open.
I find it interesting the world was once broken up in so many different nations and countries, each with their own language and culture, their own leaders, flags and anthems. As I flip through the pages, I stop from time to time and read something. I try to speak some of the words, but I have no idea how Russian is pronounced, so I’m just guessing. Shrugging, I put the book back.
There are some books on Italian and Japanese as well, but they’re not technically phased-out languages. Although German is the primary language in the empire, both Italian and Japanese are approved second languages that are taught extensively in school. No one really speaks either language anymore, but Italian operas are popular in the empire as are kabuki theaters and geisha houses. Both Italian and Japanese are commonly taught and referred to as the languages of the arts.
As a trained agent, I’m fluent in both Italian and Japanese, as any educated citizen of the empire would be, but I’ve certainly never had time to go to an opera or pop into a geisha house.
There’s also a shoe box on the same shelf. Always the spy, I retrieve the mysterious box, eager to look inside. Much to my disappointment though, it’s only some black shoe polish along with a brush and several rags. There’s also a bottle of metal polish.
Putting the shoe box back, I spot a black book lying flat on the shelf next to the high stack of language books. It’s back toward the wall and was hidden earlier behind the shoe box. I quickly retrieve it. Flipping it open briefly, I realize it’s a photo album.
Oh, this could be interesting. I carefully step off the chair, not wanting to trip on my leash, and then walk to the table.
I set the book down before settling into the other chair at the table. I flip open the album and quickly scan through the pictures. It’s a wedding album. I close it again and look at the cover. Like the wedding band, it’s also dated 7-7-2001. There’s a raised, gold emblem above the date. It’s an eagle with outstretched wings holding a wreath-encircled swastika. I’ve seen the image before.
I flip the book open and study the first picture. It’s the bride and groom. My captor is the groom. He doesn’t look that different back then than he does now. His black uniform is a little different in the picture though. Instead of a sidearm, he has a saber. He also has several pins and medals on his tunic and a red sash draped sideways across his chest. The uniform looks more ceremonial than functional.
The woman he’s standing next to is pretty. Blonde, early twenties. Her white wedding dress is lacy. The pictures are very typical of any wedding. There are several pictures of the bride and groom, pictures of flowers and guests. Some of them even have several SS officers standing together. By the look of it, the ceremony was clearly a VIP event.
Vaguely, I wonder what happened to my captor’s wife. There’s no trace of her in the closet, aside from this album. Flipping through the pages, I take in all the pictures, trying to figure out who my captor is. I come to the end of the book. Unfortunately, I don’t know much. All I know for sure is that my captor married a blonde woman on July 7, 2001. But I don’t know if he’s divorced, widowed, separated or still happily married.
