War Prize, page 13
part #1 of Captured by the SS Series
I hear him take a slow, uneven breath.
“Although your answers are certainly interesting, I’m no closer to determining why you’re so unique.” I hear him flipping through the pages of a notebook. “I know you were tested repeatedly from kindergarten to the second grade and you were probably selected by the age of seven, but do you remember having a surgical procedure done when you were a child? It would have taken place shortly after your parents received payment.”
“No.”
I find his question odd.
“Think hard, American. It’s important. Do you remember one or both of your parents repeatedly taking you to a place that looked like a hospital?”
“Yes.”
“You do?”
He sounds surprised.
“Yes.”
“How old were you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did these trips to the hospital occur after your parents came into wealth?”
“Yes.”
He murmurs something. I hear rustling. A pen scribbles across paper.
“What is your most vivid memory of that hospital?”
“A nurse always gave me candy and told me I did well.”
“What else do you remember?” He sounds intrigued. “Tell me everything.”
“The smell of alcohol and long, white halls and…toys, they always had toys for me to play with in the waiting room.”
“Anything else?” he prods.
“I don’t think so.”
How does he even know about that hospital? I only have vague memories of that mysterious place.
“Candy and toys,” he barely murmurs. He sounds angry about something, but I don’t think he’s mad at me. “Did you usually leave the hospital feeling sick?”
“Yes.”
“Was the sickness usually accompanied by a severe headache or a migraine?”
How the hell does he know that? “Yes.”
“Did you ever experience any ocular hemorrhaging that the nurses may have called bloody tears?”
“Yes.” That usually only occurred at the hospital, though it happened once at school. I was in the cafeteria with hundreds of other students. An older boy teased me and called it stigmata. A teacher calmly took me to the school nurse, who let me lie down in her office for the afternoon. I think the teachers punished the boy who teased me and warned the others not to say anything because no one ever mentioned it again after that day.
I have no idea why he’s asking me about this. I was always told it was nothing and not to worry about it. My mother was usually more concerned about the blood staining my clothes. It was never a source of stress or concern to anyone, so I never worried about it.
I hear the pen whispering across paper. The pages of his notebook rustle slightly. “All right. I have no more questions for you today. The drug will wear off in a moment.”
After several minutes, the darkness lifts and finally dissolves. When I open my eyes, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Why were you asking me about that hospital?”
“It isn’t important.”
I want to ask more questions, but his tone is somewhat final…and borderline threatening. I push back my questions.
He places everything neatly back in his bag before zipping it up. Without a word to me, he takes it and his notebook and walks from the room. I hear his footfalls going down the hall. He returns without the items.
“In case you’re wondering, we’re not finished yet.”
I watch him retrieve the sections of cut rope from the nightstand as he sits on the bed. He takes my hand and gently brushes his thumb over my wrist. He even plants a soft kiss where he stabbed me with the needle. I think he regrets his rougher treatment earlier with the syringe. He pulls my wrist to the wrought iron headboard before tying it firmly in place. Shifting around, he straddles me before repeating the same thing to my other wrist.
As he works, my eyes drift over his uniform. He’s still wearing his boots, which I find odd since he’s in bed with me. His sidearm is once again missing. I think he makes a point not to wear it around me because I haven’t seen it on him since the night he arrested me.
But there’s something else today, something different on his uniform. A sheathed dagger is clipped to his belt. The casing is black with silver trim. I’ve never seen it before. The handle of the dagger has a silver skull on the end, though it’s a little different from the skull pin on his hat.
After he finishes tying me down, he leans back a bit and merely studies me. His gloved hands settle around my rib cage before sliding down around my waist. As usual, I feel nervous and uncomfortable about being tied down, which I think he likes. Swallowing hard, I will myself calm and merely wait. His hands leave me before he pulls the dagger from the sheath. I tug against the ropes, feeling uncomfortable.
“Don’t move. I want you to stay very still,” he whispers.
My gaze meets his.
He presses the flat part of the blade against the side of my neck.
I don’t even breathe. The blade is cool against my flesh. I close my eyes, wondering what he’s going to do next. After several very stressful seconds, my mind starts to function once again. Filleting me to death would be awfully messy, and I don’t think he’d do it in his own bed.
I cautiously open my eyes. He’s not even looking at me. He’s focused solely on the dagger. I can tell by his body language and facial expression that murder isn’t his motive here. He moves the blade slightly and just barely presses the tip under my chin. I swallow hard as my heart races. Finally, he pulls the blade away, and I let out a heavy sigh of relief.
As if intensely cold, I start trembling. He re-sheaths the dagger before settling over me. Warm lips nuzzle against my ear.
“There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. I’m not even sure if he wants me to. He gently kisses my neck exactly where the blade was. Logically, I know I should be quiet and just let him do what he wants, but I can’t help but ask, “Why?”
“I have my reasons.”
I have the impression that what just happened was somehow important to him, as if it were a ritual he had to do. I know it doesn’t make any sense, but I think he just…claimed me. With a sigh, he sinks down against my body. I can feel his warm breath on my neck. His clean and unique scent invades my nostrils. He doesn’t say or do anything. There’s only the quiet sound of our breathing. My heart finally stops racing.
“I need to go to work,” he barely mutters. I don’t think he’s talking to me. I think he’s trying to motivate himself to move.
He sits up and studies me. He just looks at me for a very long time.
I’m not sure, but I think he just changed his mind about leaving. His demeanor seems darker, more in sync with how he was last night when he watched me from the chair.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs.
I’m still wearing the unbuttoned shirt, and his gloved hands push the fabric aside. Sighing, he cups my breasts. In quick time, his nimble fingers stroke and caress my areolae. An involuntary moan escapes me as my nipples become hard and erect.
“Your body is so sensitive,” he whispers.
It’s strange. He says those words as if I’m something valuable.
As he toys with my nipples, my arousal worsens and worsens as it did last night. But as I grow hot and wet beneath his skilled fingers, some of my sanity resurfaces. I can’t do this. Look at me. I’m growing hot and wet beneath my enemy’s fingers.
“No,” I manage, writhing a bit from his touch.
Oddly enough, my captor doesn’t seem the least bit confused by my words.
“Shh,” he whispers. “I know, I know.”
“No, please. Don’t.”
He says nothing.
As if to calm me, he presses his warm, clothed body against my exposed and slightly chilled flesh. I try to cling to my sanity. Nothing has changed. Fucking nothing. He’s still an SS officer, and I’m still an American spy in his custody. What the hell am I thinking? We’re not dating here. He’s not my spouse or my boyfriend. He is my captor! Period! I am not going to give in. I am not going to come like some wanton creature. He is not going to win this time!
Firm, soft lips press against my neck. I shudder from the touch but ball my hands into fists.
“No,” I whisper.
He alternates between licking and kissing my neck, which makes me shiver in shameless desire. As my fists slowly unclench, I realize something. This is my fault.
I should have followed orders and slept with more strangers. I should have done what my seduction teacher told me to do.
I came into this man’s house like an untouched piece of clay, free of anyone else’s fingerprints, unmolded, and above all else, very pliable.
“No,” I manage. “No.” But already, I am losing this battle.
My captor understands how neglected my body is, and he knows how easily he can break me down. His warm mouth gently sucks my earlobe as his gloved fingers toy with one of my nipples.
For now, my resistance is gone.
For now, I am his.
For now.
He presses his parted lips against mine. I sense victory from him as his tongue claims my mouth. He knows he’s won. After several minutes, he breaks our intense kiss.
I’m not sure why, but he unties the ropes pinning me to the bed.
“Come here,” he whispers, picking me up.
He carries me to the sink in the bathroom. My delicate chain leash lightly drags against the floor. He places me on the edge of the marble vanity top. He quickly unzips his trousers and frees his massive erection. His organ is more engorged and swollen than I’ve ever seen it before. He gently pries my thighs apart and steps closer to me. The plum-shaped tip of his arousal slips between my folds and brushes my clit.
“Watch as I take you,” he orders.
As if in a trance, I can only watch his swollen organ claim my sheath, inch by inch, seemingly molding even my pussy only for him. When he finally has his entire length fully inserted, he doesn’t move right away. Instead, he just leaves his member inside me, hot and hard, filling me, claiming me, branding me on the inside.
Gloved hands settle on my bottom. When he does start to move, I can only cling helplessly to his tunic. Each hard thrust is silently punctuated with his victory—mine, mine, mine. I couldn’t utter the word “no” right now if my life depended on it, and he knows that.
He climaxes hard, spilling his seed inside me. After a long pause, he slowly pulls his softening organ from me.
His gloved hand captures the side of my face, forcing me to look at him.
“There we go,” he whispers, eyeing me darkly. “I think that’s enough ‘no’ for today.”
I don’t answer. I can’t. There are no words for this.
“Come on,” he murmurs gently, scooping me up once again in his arms. Christ, he’s so strong. He carries me as if I weigh nothing. “I’m not finished with you, American.”
Oh, God, what else is he going to do? He’s not finished with me? To say that I’m spent is a bit of an understatement. I’m way past achy and downright sore.
I lie on the bed and watch him undress. Is he going to fuck me again? Will he fuck me to the point of exquisite agony, where every muscle in my body locks in painful spasm, where I’m sobbing and screaming in both pleasure and pain, where all I can finally do is just black-out and wake up feeling wrecked?
I tense when he gently takes hold of me. In quick time, he slips off the unbuttoned dress shirt that I’m still wearing. He shifts me around and spoons me from behind. He presses his lips against the back of my neck. It takes me several minutes to realize that this is all he wants—to spoon with me flesh to flesh.
“Relax,” he whispers, exhaling deeply. His warm breath flutters against the back of my neck. Again, I’m haunted by the truth—he only arouses me because I did something wrong.
I close my eyes.
“Let’s play a game,” he suddenly whispers. The words dance across my flesh, making me shiver.
A game?
“Let’s see if I can guess what you are thinking, American.”
I don’t respond, but I open my eyes, curious.
“You are blaming yourself for how you respond to my touch. You think you should have been more promiscuous, more experienced. Yes?”
What the hell?
I guess he senses my shock because he adds, “It’s my job to read people, American. Body language, voice, expressions—it all reveals the truth. Besides, you’re very different from most people. You have something of a transparent quality.”
I can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not.
“You shouldn’t blame yourself,” he declares. “I have a strong suspicion that sex with other men would have been…unpleasant. I doubt you would have achieved a true orgasm with anyone other than me.” He delicately kisses the back of my ear.
That seems a little arrogant. I can’t help but ask, “Why do you say that?”
“Because your body is very sensitive…a bit unusually so. It actually takes a great deal of discipline and restraint to keep from hurting you. Most men do not have that kind of patience.”
I swallow hard, knowing he’s right. I don’t have the guts to ask the unspoken question, Why do you restrain yourself?
Silence lingers. My captor pulls the bedding over both of us. He holds me firm against his warm body, making me feel oddly safe and protected, as he so often does.
“Go back to sleep,” he murmurs. “I’ve worked you hard.”
Drowsiness creeps over me, and I drift to sleep.
When I wake up, I can tell it’s still morning. I think I was only out for a little while, less than an hour I’m sure. He’s asleep next to me. I shift about on the mattress. As I study his sleeping form, wondering why he took the time to lull me to sleep like that, my stomach grumbles unhappily. For some reason, I’m starving. I abruptly remember I didn’t have dinner last night.
I vaguely remember him saying something about dinner just before he went to work yesterday morning, but I guess coming home and finding me with his uniform kinda distracted him.
I can tell by his breathing he’s deep asleep, and the agent in me immediately sees the opportunity. The key to my leash might be in his uniform pocket. Granted, there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to go anywhere, but I’m not stupid either. American spies have something of a poor track record while in Nazi custody.
But…even if I find the key to my leash, I can’t do a damn thing about the locator and he warned me I would regret an escape attempt, unless…I can find his phone I saw the first night. If he doesn’t have that, I don’t think he can home in on me. Maybe I’ll get lucky and find both the key and his phone. Of course, he might be able to pull up the information on his laptop, but I won’t think about that right now.
I silently move out of bed and hurriedly make my way to his discarded uniforms piled on the chair—by my count, there should be three. There’s the one I cuddled with yesterday, the one he took off last night and the fresh one he had on this morning.
Not wanting to make a sound, I carefully hold my leash, preventing it from dragging against the hardwood floor as I creep to the chair. Kneeling, I hurriedly rifle through his trousers first, listening for any changes in his breathing. I then carefully search each tunic before thoroughly exploring his dress shirts. I don’t find a damn thing except a crumpled receipt for what looks like lunch in one of the trouser pockets.
Oddly enough, I’m actually relieved I can’t escape, which only serves to confuse the hell out of me. My stomach groans, and I smooth a hand over my belly. I need food.
I abandon my quest for freedom and instead walk to the small table near the window. Along the way, I pick up the dress shirt I usually wear for coverage and slip it back on. I even button it back up for warmth.
I think there are some almonds left. I know the candy bar is still there, but it’s a little early for chocolate.
I find a covered plate with some bacon and scrambled eggs. I think he left it earlier. I guess his original plan was to go to work after his early morning interrogation. I sit down before quickly taking a bite of the eggs. They’re cold, but I eat them anyway. I even devour a strip of bacon. It’s not the best meal, but it makes my stomach happy. I gulp some of the apple juice before tearing into the second strip of bacon. Like yesterday, he also left some fruit and nuts for lunch. I eagerly eye an orange as I take another bite of cold bacon.
“I’m sure that’s cold by now,” he mutters.
Startled, I turn and look at him. He’s lying on his side, watching me. He steps out of bed, eyeing me with amusement. After retrieving a tan robe from his closet, he slips it on.
“I forgot to feed you last night, didn’t I?”
He walks out into the hall before quickly coming back. When he returns, he’s holding something. I know it’s the key to my leash. No wonder I couldn’t find it—he stowed it beyond my reach.
He takes my hand and tugs me out of the chair. “Come on. I’ll get you something better.”
After unlocking the chain from my anklet, he takes my hand again and leads me from his bedroom. He leaves the key on a table in the hall, just outside his bedroom, but I mentally abandon any future efforts to escape. I’m sure the tracking program for my locator is easily pulled up on any mobile device. And Nazis don’t make hollow threats. If I try to escape, I know he’ll find me, and I know I will indeed regret it.
Once we’re in the kitchen, he coaxes me near the stove and then picks me up as if I weigh nothing. He sets me down on the counter. It’s chilly in the house, and I pull the dress shirt tighter around me. I still have the socks on from yesterday, but I can’t warm up.
“You’re cold,” he observes.
“A little.”
“It is a bit cold in here.”
He turns on a gas burner that’s closest to me. Almost immediately, the heat from the stove warms me up. I place my hands over the burner. After turning on the stove, he walks away from me and stops in the hall. He fiddles with something on the wall. I hear the house’s central heating kick on. He returns to the kitchen.
