War Prize, page 16
part #1 of Captured by the SS Series
“You recorded over your wedding?” I ask.
Startled, he turns and looks at me. “I nearly threw it away years ago. I only kept it to keep from making the same mistake twice.”
He shifts around and studies me. “Besides, what we did today was far more significant than some bullshit ceremony. I wanted a video of that.”
I swallow hard. We both know he didn’t just fuck me. It wasn’t just about sex.
“What kind of paperwork did you file about me in Berlin today?”
He cocks his head, seemingly amused. “You don’t get to ask the questions, American.”
He settles in bed next to me and takes me in his arms. He smells of soap and his hair is wet. I know he didn’t finish earlier when he was masturbating to the video, and he’s still rock-hard and unsatisfied.
His warm lips press against my ear. “You know you belong to me now, right?”
My heart quickens at his strange words. I don’t think he wants me to answer. His knee wedges between my clenched thighs. He plants petal-soft kisses on my neck as his fingers rake through my chestnut curls.
“You’re already wet for me,” he murmurs. His fingers delve between my folds.
I don’t want to moan in response, so I gulp back the sound. My breathing becomes shaky and erratic.
He tenderly kisses and sucks my neck. An involuntary sigh escapes me. My head slowly rolls to the side, giving him better access.
His hands feel like they’re everywhere—my hips, my thighs, my stomach, my breasts. His cock prods at my sheath before slowly sliding inside me.
Although my captor has already fucked me several times already, my passage still feels snug around his inserted organ.
He lets out a heavy sigh. “You feel so good.”
Every molecule of oxygen seems to leave my lungs. I feel I might come at this very second—that’s how good his thick cock feels inside me.
Seemingly realizing my state, he expertly grinds against my mound. “Come,” he whispers, nuzzling my ear. “Come right now.”
His order trips the switch and sends me over the edge.
More hot wetness gushes from me as he works his organ in and out. I can tell by the look on his face that he’s going to fuck me until I faint.
“P-please,” I manage between cries of pleasure.
He only closes his eyes, clearly wanting to stay focused, clearly wanting to stay hard.
My muscles lock up painfully in spasm as I come again and again. I try to push him away, overwhelmed, but his strength is no match for mine. I gasp for air as large, dark spots muddy my vision.
Just before the world goes dark, I hear him whisper, “Mine.”
When I wake up again, it’s completely dark in the room, and I can tell I’ve been out for a while. I think it’s the middle of the night. My face is pressed against his chest. I want to go back to sleep, but I can’t. I have to pee. More than anything, I’d like to get out of bed and go to the bathroom. But I’m kinda trapped in his warm embrace. I can tell by his breathing that he’s deep asleep. If I move, I might wake him. Ignoring my bladder, I try to go back to sleep, but I can’t. I have to get up.
I gingerly ease myself out from under his arm. Just as I try to slip out of bed though, he grabs me.
“Where are you going?” he grumbles in German. I can tell he’s not completely awake.
“I just have to pee,” I explain. “I’m still chained to the bed, remember?”
With a sigh, he releases me. I’m not sure where he thinks I’m going. I’m chained to his bed. I creep through the darkness to the bathroom and then quickly relieve my bladder. I don’t make a lot of noise nor turn on any lights, so I’m convinced he’s probably dozed back off. He sounded sleepy when he grabbed me. As gently as I can, I ease back into bed. I’m a bit surprised when he gathers me against him and returns me to my previous position against his chest. I thought for sure he’d be asleep.
“Missed you,” he mumbles in German.
I can tell he’s drowsy, so I don’t say anything. He only sighs deeply. His slow breathing indicates he’s already drifted back to sleep.
Nothing in my training prepared me for this scenario. I was always taught that I’d be executed if I were ever captured, even my seduction teacher warned me that sex would only get me so far. So why am I still alive? And what paperwork did he file about me in Berlin? I mull these questions over. Logically, I know I’m not in any position to ask him anything, and if I did, he wouldn’t answer me anyway. Deciding not to think about it, I force myself to sleep.
Chapter Six
A warm kiss on my forehead wakes me up. Willing myself completely awake, I open my eyes.
“Good morning,” my captor whispers.
My hand moves to embrace him, but I quickly realize he’s not under the covers with me. He’s on top of the blankets and sheets. He’s dressed in a fresh uniform, and he also has his leather coat on as well.
“I have a few errands I need to run this morning, but it won’t take very long. I’ll be back by lunchtime, and we can finish celebrating.”
Celebrating?
“There’s one more thing. I don’t want you to touch yourself anymore when I leave. Your body belongs to me now, and I only want you to find pleasure in my arms. Do you understand?”
“No,” I whisper, although there’s a part of me that does understand.
He chuckles at my answer. “Just obey me.” He kisses my forehead again. “I’ll be back soon. Now eat your breakfast before it gets cold.”
He stands and collects his briefcase, which is on the bed and just below my feet. I find it strangely sweet how he always tells me goodbye before he leaves for the day.
With a polite nod, he leaves the room, closing the door behind him. I hear him going down the stairs before the front door opens and closes. I’m not hungry, but I don’t want to turn down food. Looking around, I realize he left the television from last night in the room. It’s still on a table at the foot of the bed.
I sit up. The moment I start moving around, I realize something else. All the endorphins from last night are gone. Completely and totally gone. I freeze in pain. I take slow, deep breaths. My back feels like it’s on fire. Instead of getting up, I lie back down but on my stomach. I glance over at the table by the window, debating what exactly I should do next. I should eat. I have no guarantee when or if my next meal will come. And staying in bed is not going to fix anything.
I slowly sit up and climb out of bed. Taking small steps, I walk to the table.
There are at least two dozen red roses in a crystal vase on the table. I survey the flowers. I don’t see a note anywhere. My breakfast is laid out next to the roses. Waffles and bacon along with some syrup and butter. I think he even used expensive china and pricey silver flatware. There’s also a pitcher of apple juice. It doesn’t exactly look like the type of meal left for a prisoner.
My stomach grumbles. I actually love waffles, though I haven’t had them in ages. I’m suddenly hungry. Since my upturned bottom took the brunt of the flogging, I have to be careful when I sit down. Eventually, I settle in the seat and when I do, I spot something even better than the flowers. In a small cup, there are two pills. It’s only a couple of ibuprofen, but I’ll take it. My captor must have known I’d wake up sore. I eagerly take them.
I dig into the food. He left me some new books today, a few works of fiction and a very dense volume of poetry. I don’t think I have the energy to even lift one of them today, though. I finish off the last bite of the waffles. They were delicious. But as soon as I put the fork down, a feeling of dread settles over me. I know what I have to do next, but I’m not looking forward to it.
Steadying my nerves, I walk to the mirror. There’s no point in putting this off. I stand with my back toward the glass. Letting out a slow exhale, I turn my head.
“Oh,” I mutter, surprised by what I see.
My skin looks a little splotchy, yes, but really, it’s not that bad. There are patches of pink skin and several faded pink lines. Here and there, I see a few angry-looking, bright red lines and marks but the skin isn’t broken anywhere. Nothing bled. In fact, it’s a bit of a stretch to even call this an injury. Hell, if I showed this to a military doctor, he’d laugh at me. Though, I suppose some might consider this relatively severe…if I was his wife or his girlfriend, then maybe, yes, but for me, an American prisoner in Nazi custody, if all my fingers and toes are still attached, hey, that’s a good day.
I decide to take a bath.
I draw the water and submerge my tender flesh.
I carefully shave my legs and my underarms. I shampoo my hair and scrub my body, but mostly, I just sit in the water. I hear the house’s central heating kick on, I hear the wind outside—the noises of his house are becoming familiar to me.
Sinking down in the water, I let my thoughts drift to the night before. I didn’t really like the flogging, but I didn’t hate it, either. I’m having a hard time figuring out what it was. It hurt, a lot, but it wasn’t exactly torture. At least, it wasn’t my definition of torture, and I know that he knows what real torture is. So…what was it?
I stay in the water so long, I have to warm it up several times with short bursts from the tap, which is a little unusual for me. I don’t usually spend hours just soaking in a tub.
I finally get out and drain the water. I wrap myself in a towel and shuffle back into the bedroom. Much to my surprise, my captor is home. He’s lounging in bed and flipping through a book. He’s still dressed in his uniform except his hat and boots are missing.
“Oh, I didn’t hear you,” I say, clinging to the towel.
He looks up and smiles at me. “I peeked in earlier. I didn’t want to disturb your bath.”
He tosses the book aside. “Come,” he orders, motioning with a gloved hand.
I wrap the towel tighter around me and walk to the bed. When I get closer to him, he gently takes hold of me and pushes the towel off. He pulls me in his lap, forcing me to straddle his thighs. I’m still wet, and my hair is dripping, but he doesn’t seem to care. He captures both my wrists and holds them behind my back with just one hand. With his other gloved hand, he cups the side of my face.
“You are so beautiful,” he whispers. “I like seeing you naked and wet.”
His gentle touch only confuses me. I feel so lost. I can’t look at him. I only avert my gaze.
He seems amused by something. “There will always be resistance from you,” he states. “Always.”
Oddly enough, he doesn’t sound mad or displeased about that. I look at him, trying to figure him out, which of course, I never do. He can see straight through me, yet I know nothing about him.
“Tell me, American. Do you know the number one employer in your country?”
Actually, yes, I do. “The Third Reich,” I reply evenly.
The numbers change, depending on which experts you ask. Some estimate that half of all Americans work directly for the Third Reich. Some say more, some say less. And those figures don’t even include the legitimate trade deals with the empire.
For example, an American auto company may assemble American vehicles and hire American workers but chances are, all the parts were made in German-controlled countries—and that’s legal.
Working directly for the Reich is technically high treason. From time to time, I hear of arrests, but I don’t think anyone is ever convicted. A lot of people argue it’s a victimless crime that has nothing to do with treason and everything to do with just paying bills. I’m not sure what exactly the Reich pays people to do nor do I know how they contact American citizens. I only know it’s very insidious.
“What’s your point?” I ask carefully.
“When a war drags on for too long, loyalty wanes.”
“It has nothing to do with loyalty. People are survivors. They’re just trying to get by, to provide for their families.”
“You’re so quick to defend them,” he murmurs. He seems pleased by my answer.
“It’s my job to defend them.”
I’m not sure what game he’s playing now.
“I know a lot about your country. I know your former presidents, your history, your language. But more importantly, I know how your country used to be. I know what your country’s hopes and dreams once were, what it aspired to be, and I know the reality of what it is now.”
“What is it?”
“A lot of your fellow citizens want to be a part of the empire.”
Unfortunately, that’s true. When I was a kid, no one even mentioned joining the Reich, ever, but in the last few years…well, I don’t know, something changed. Like wildfire, whispers started to spread—safe travel, seeing the world, high-paying jobs, yes, yes, the Germans can help. I’ve even started seeing flyers and elaborate brochures lately. They pop up in random places. They’re usually taped up on utility poles or left in public restrooms. The more brazen solicitors put them in mailboxes, which makes it a federal offense, while the really brazen ones leave them under windshield wipers, which is a crime technically punishable by death.
The flyers and brochures usually have phrases like, Let’s End This or Join the Empire and See the World. And of course, they always, always, have gorgeous pictures of exotic beaches or foreign cities lit up at night—things I’ve never seen before, places I’ve never been, places most Americans have never seen.
Most of my missions involve getting into Berlin, so I’m not sure if such tropical places really exist or not. I have no idea if there are beaches with white sand and clear, turquoise water. Geography is a taboo subject in school, since so much of the world belongs to the Reich. Critics call it the flat Earth curriculum—if you travel past American borders, you fall off the edge of the planet.
Speaking as someone who has traveled past American borders, I can say that ‘falling off the edge of the planet’ is not a bad analogy. I don’t know. Maybe the Caribbean is from a fairy tale, some fictitious story parents used to tell their children. I have a hard time believing such a beautiful place exists, but a lot of Americans think it’s true.
I think pro-German propaganda is what the Reich pays a lot of people to create and distribute. I think that’s the bulk of the illegal jobs in America, but I’m not sure.
“It’s really a stretch to call the current citizens Americans. They’re really just future non-native citizens of the empire.”
“They’re tired.” In many meetings, I’ve heard the term, “war weary nation,” more than once.
He just studies me for a very long time. “You are an American.”
I think he meant that as a compliment.
I wince at what he’s saying and look down. He’s implying that I embody something admirable about my country. He’s wrong. It’s everything I can do to keep up, to be acceptable to my superiors.
“Don’t look that way,” he insists. His fingers hitch my chin up. He clearly wants me to look at him, which I do.
“You’re wrong. I’m not—”
“Do not argue with me, American.”
His tone is ice-cold, his expression hard.
I don’t say a word.
“Good,” he murmurs. He rolls me to the side, positioning me on my back on the bed.
“Ah,” I whisper in pain. My back, shoulders and bottom are still a little sore from the flogging.
“Turn over,” he whispers, coaxing me on my stomach. With a sigh, I press my face into the bedding. He murmurs approvingly as he gingerly touches my back.
“I know last night was difficult,” he says. “But you took it very bravely.” His warm lips press against my lower back.
Last night. I clearly remember his intense words, “You know you belong to me now, right?”
“No,” I whisper.
I’m still damp from my bath, and my hair is wet.
“You’re shivering,” he states.
“I don’t belong to you,” I whisper.
Firm arms take hold of me, repositioning my body. A lofty comforter fills my vision. I’m on my back now and looking up at him. The comforter is tented over both of us. Light filters through the warm, fabric cocoon.
There’s amusement in his pale blue eyes.
I’m still shivering, but I’m not cold.
“Relax,” he whispers. His gloved hands settle around my ribcage.
“I…I don’t belong to you,” I whisper again.
“Shh, you think I want your loyalty. You think I want you to be like the girls in those pictures, to willingly kneel before me and call me Master.”
“Don’t you?”
“No.”
His knee forces my thighs apart. He reaches between us and unzips his trousers. His warm lips press against my neck.
By now, my captor knows exactly where to touch me, where to kiss me. My eyes unwillingly close. Hot wetness pools between my thighs. I try to cling to my sanity but already, it’s slipping away. He firmly sucks my lower lip as his gloved hand cups one of my breasts.
I’m not sure why, but a small part of my brain wants to define this. In those books he left me, I saw the words, submissive and slave. I read what they meant. I saw the pictures of the smiling girls kneeling sweetly. Willingly. And I don’t think that quite defines this. I’m a prisoner, yes, but American prisoners in Nazi custody don’t receive waffles on fine china.
So, what is this?
What am I?
His tongue claims my mouth as I helplessly cling to the sides of his tunic. All my thoughts evaporate. I just want him to hold me, to kiss me. I want his cock to fill me. I moan softly as he intensifies his deep and possessive kiss.
The blunt tip of his erection slips between my folds before pressing against the entrance of my sheath. Holding me tighter, he pushes his rock-hard organ inside me.
He breaks our intense kiss but only to nuzzle and kiss the side of my neck. I moan softly. He expertly grinds against my mound, forcing me to climax.
