War Prize, page 18
part #1 of Captured by the SS Series
I don’t say anything.
“Now, a ‘slave’ in the context that we are talking about, is a submissive who has been formally claimed in some way, either with a collar or—”
His words stop suddenly. After a long pause, he finishes, “Or a slave can be claimed through marriage.”
I immediately know he’s talking about his ex-wife.
“In either case, there’s a willingness.” A bit bitterly, he adds, “Or an agenda.”
He lets out a deep exhale. “To properly answer your question, though, your psychological profile is clearly that of a sexual submissive, yes, but your loyalty lies with your country. So technically, no, you are not my submissive or my slave because there’s resistance from you. Unwillingness.”
I don’t say a word. I’m intrigued with his explanation.
“Throughout history, nations have taken slaves, yes. But realistically, a slave, a real slave, even one used for sex, is disposable, expendable and replaceable. So, you are not a slave in the more traditional context of the word, either. You are not disposable, expendable or replaceable.”
His explanation is much more complex than I thought it would be.
“What do you think you are?” he asks carefully.
I inhale deeply, uncertain what the correct answer is. “I guess technically I’m a prisoner, but I don’t really feel like one.” I’m not sure I should have admitted that.
“Good,” my captor says. “Expand on that. Why do you not feel like a prisoner?”
“American prisoners in Nazi custody don’t get waffles on fine china. And they don’t get to take long baths or sleep in a nice warm bed like this or call home.”
There’s a moment of silence.
“Interesting,” he murmurs. “You didn’t mention your interrogation, the flogging or even the day I held a dagger to your throat, not to mention the fact that you don’t really consent to the sex. But I do understand the point you’re making.”
“I’m not really a prisoner.”
“Yes, you are and no, not quite. Prisoners are also expendable and disposable, which you are not.”
Well, we’ve talked a lot, but I don’t have a good answer.
“So, what are you then?” he questions.
“I’m not sure.”
He chuckles. “I’ll tell you someday.”
“Why not now?”
“You’re not ready to know. You’re still processing all this.”
Without a word, he rolls me slightly and uses his knee to part my thighs.
The tip of his cock presses against the entrance of my sheath. He nibbles my earlobe. The world around me turns blurry.
Holding me tighter, he slowly pushes his thick cock inside me. Hot wetness gushes from me, coating him. His lips graze mine. Without thinking, I clench my jaw, disallowing his tongue from entering my mouth. He pauses and lifts his head. I sense he’s confused.
“I want to know your name,” I whisper. I’m not sure why I feel compelled to demand something nor do I know why I’m disallowing a kiss. After all, his cock is inside me. Withholding a kiss seems insignificant. I think I’m angry because he knows everything about me, including exactly how to touch me, and yet I don’t know a damn thing about him.
He chuckles darkly at my statement. His thumb presses hard against my chin as he pries my mouth open. I can tell this is a pointless struggle, so I slacken my jaw.
“I don’t bargain, American.” He sounds amused.
He presses his lips against mine and plunges his tongue deep in my mouth, quite literally taking the kiss I tried to withhold. Every thought disintegrates. He doesn’t move right away. He simply leaves his organ inside me, hot and hard, filling me. His skilled fingers play with my nipples, edging my arousal higher and higher.
Eventually, he slowly works his thick cock in and out of me as he kisses me deep and possessively. As usual, he gets me to climax quickly. Just as I cry out, he breaks our intense kiss, but his lips never quite part from mine. Instead, the tip of his tongue teasingly traces my bottom lip as I come.
My soft whimpers and sharp exhales only excite him, and his movements become even harder and faster. My muscles knot up painfully as he forces me to come again and again and again.
I try to push him away, overwhelmed, but he’s too strong.
Just before the world turns dark, I hear myself chanting the one word I know he likes, “Please, please, please…”
Reality slowly comes back to me. Opening my eyes, I realize I’m lying in his arms. My face is pressed against his chest. I can tell he’s not asleep.
“Are you awake?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Are you all right?”
His concern for my well-being always confuses me. “Yes.”
He exhales deeply. I can tell he’s sleepy.
“Can I ask you another question?” I whisper.
“You know the answer to that.”
“Will you ever tell me your name?”
He laughs softly at my question. “Yes, but not tonight.”
“When?”
“When I decide.”
His fingers brush through my hair. “Now go to sleep, American.” His gentle petting lulls me into a deep and peaceful sleep.
Chapter Seven
I’m half-asleep when the phone stirs me awake. My captor actually stayed home from work today, even though he said last night that he had to get up early. I think he was worried about leaving me alone since the phone call with my mother upset me last night.
We spent most of the day in bed except when we ate breakfast, lunch and dinner. It’s relatively early in the evening. Glancing at a clock, I see it’s only a little after eight. I think my captor left me to nap while he went to work in his office.
The phone rings a second time. It sounds as if it’s coming from his office at the end of the hall. The phone in the kitchen is still broken. After two rings, I hear his voice. He answers and converses in German. I can tell he’s talking to a friend.
Loosely translated, I hear, “Hello.” Followed by, “Yes. How are you?”
There’s a stretch of silence.
“Nothing, just working.”
He sighs. “I take time off. My American has kept me more than distracted lately.”
I perk up at that. He’s talking about me.
“No, of course not. You can meet her.”
Meet? Does he want me to meet someone? What’s going on?
I hear him laugh, followed by, “Uh-uh.” And then, “Yes.”
The conversation seems to switch more to business. “No, I don’t think that report is coming out until later this month.”
After a pause, I hear, “Right.” And then, “Yes. I have a copy of that report.”
Silence, followed by, “No, come by the house tonight. I’ll give it to you. You can meet my American.”
Oh crap! What the hell is this?
He says goodbye before I hear his footfalls coming. He finds me sitting up in bed.
“Oh good, you’re awake,” he declares in English.
“I heard you on the phone.”
“Yes, that was a friend of mine. I want you to meet him.”
He’s not wearing his uniform. Instead, he’s wearing his tan robe, but he’s obviously intent on changing. I don’t say anything but instead watch him slip on a fresh uniform.
He tosses a clean white dress shirt to me. “Here, put this on.”
This is all I get for company? I don’t say anything. If I protest, he might make me stay naked. Hell, I’ll take what I can get. I slip on the shirt before carefully buttoning it up. Since I have so little, I don’t want to miss a single button, though I leave it parted at the top.
After getting dressed, he looks at me and frowns.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“It’s nothing,” he chuckles, grabbing a hair brush from the top of the dresser. He uses the brush to smooth down my hair. He doesn’t hurry, and he patiently brushes out my shoulder-length hair. “There. Much better,” he declares, setting aside the brush.
He unlocks my leash before taking my hand and then leading me downstairs. We walk into the rarely used living room. He grabs something off the couch. It’s a large, flat crimson pillow, which he tosses on the floor by the sofa.
“Here, kneel down,” he instructs, gesturing toward the oversized pillow on the floor. I’m a little annoyed I have to sit on the floor, but I guess there are worse things. I kneel on both knees and sit on my heels.
I’m actually nervous. Who’s coming over? What’s going on?
He turns on lamps in the living room before stepping into the kitchen. I’m not certain, but I think he turned on the coffeemaker. My palms are sweaty, and I press them against my shirttails, which are covering my thighs.
He walks out of the kitchen and then hurries back upstairs. His footsteps thud above me, and I study the ceiling, wondering what he’s doing. As he moves around upstairs, I hear a car pull up outside. I even hear the engine die before the distinct whumph of a car door closing.
Fresh nervousness courses through me. I’m not sure why I’m so nervous, but I am. There are heavy steps on the front porch. A half-second later, there’s a knock.
I steady my nerves. My captor descends the stairs with a bundle of papers in his hand. He glances at me briefly before setting the papers down.
“Relax, American,” he declares, unlocking the door. “No one is going to hurt you.”
He opens it. I lean to the side, eager to know who his visitor is. From where I’m sitting, I can’t see anything…yet.
I hear greetings and pleasantries. His visitor is a man, but that’s all I know. They’re casually conversing in German. My captor asks him to come in and sit down.
There’s movement in the foyer, and I finally see who his visitor is. And much to my surprise, it’s another SS officer. He sees me almost immediately, though I can’t quite tell what he looks like. The foyer is shadowed.
“That’s her,” the stranger states simply to my captor in German. It’s not a question, which I find somewhat alarming. I sense this person has seen my picture somewhere.
“Yes, this is my American,” my captor declares, gesturing toward me. “Please sit down.”
“Thank you.”
They’re both still talking in German.
My captor’s guest steps into the living room, where the lighting is better. The stranger is older than my captor, mid-forties perhaps, but I can tell he’s physically fit like my captor. I’m guessing it might be a requirement in the SS, but I’m not sure.
The stranger’s uniform is a little different than my captor’s. He’s dressed in a black uniform but he has a yellow stripe under his red armband and a crimson braid looped over the shoulder of his other arm.
Only members of the Waffen wear a yellow armband. The Waffen is a branch of the SS, yes, but they serve as an elite, military group meant only to protect and defend the emperor, much like the US Secret Service.
Since the yellow band is sewn under his red armband, revealing only a one-inch stripe, I think it means he’s officially retired from the imperial guard.
The crimson braid over his shoulder means he’s a voting member in the emperor’s council. Though technically a dictatorship, the Third Reich also has a council of appointed members. The council votes and decides on more mundane business, such as budgets and certain laws.
Just from his uniform, I know my captor’s friend is an expert linguist who once served as one of the emperor’s bodyguards and is now an appointed member in an elite political group. To say this is an ambitious and intelligent man is a bit of an understatement. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was a named successor to the empire.
“She’s even lovelier in person,” the stranger says in German. “I can see now why you wanted her.”
I say nothing.
“May I?” He’s gesturing toward the sofa next to me and looking at my captor.
“Yes of course, please sit down. Visit with her. I’ll get some coffee.”
I’m nervous about being left alone with this stranger, and I anxiously watch my captor leave the room. I sense the stranger sit down close to me. A gloved hand gently takes my jaw and turns my face away from the kitchen. The stranger’s gaze meets mine.
“Don’t worry, he’ll be back.” It’s a whisper in English. Like my captor, though, his English is heavy with a German accent. He almost seems amused by something. I’m not sure what’s going on.
His fingers stroke my cheek. It’s weird that this stranger is touching me, but I’m not sensing anything malicious from him. His gray eyes study me intensely. Curiosity and intrigue color his expression.
“You are quite breathtaking, my dear.” Again, he says it in English. “I can see why the American media is so enamored with you. Usually, captured spies don’t even make the afternoon news, even back when we executed them, but you’ve landed spots on prime time.”
Sadly, he is indeed correct about media indifference. Whenever one of us is captured, no one really cares. But I’ve apparently garnered a certain level of national attention, though I have no idea why—I’m just a spy. I’m not sure extra news coverage is a good thing. I fear the media may be heightening my importance in the eyes of the Third Reich. This mysterious, high-ranking visitor seems to confirm my suspicion.
Uncomfortable under his heavy stare, I break eye contact. My eyes take in his uniform instead. I can’t help but notice the differences. Details have always been my thing. The yellow stripe and the crimson braid are the most striking differences, though he has a couple of pins on his tunic that my captor doesn’t have. And unlike my captor, he has a sidearm clipped to his belt. I haven’t seen my captor’s sidearm since the night he arrested me.
The stranger turns my face gently toward a lamp. I study his eyes, wondering about his motive. He’s furrowing his eyebrows. He looks confused.
“It’s not the light,” my captor declares in English. He approaches us and sets down a coffee cup near the stranger.
“Why do her eyes look like that?”
“I have no idea.” My captor sits down in a plush chair before taking a sip of his coffee.
“There’s something of a curiosity about her.”
“Really? I think it’s more of a vulnerability.”
“Are you certain she was put through the same training as the others?”
“As far as I can tell. All the classic markers are present. She remembers the hospital, the migraines, even the bloody tears.”
The stranger grimaces before stroking my cheek again. “Please give me your hand.”
I can tell he’s talking to me. Hesitantly, I offer him my hand. He interlocks his fingers with mine as his thumb strokes my knuckle. My fingers look delicate and pale between the patches of the stranger’s black leather gloves.
“Does she understand what they did to her?” Without releasing me, he takes the coffee cup in his other hand.
“No.”
I don’t understand what they’re talking about. It’s weird for them to talk about me in front of me, but I take in everything they’re saying with piqued interest. They’re not trying to hide anything. They’re even speaking English. Questions start to gnaw at me. What did they do to me? Is there something wrong with me?
“Honestly, how can any nation justify such a practice in the twenty-first century? It’s barbaric. The Americans act like the concentration camps are still open. Don’t they understand this is a civilized empire?”
My captor only rolls his eyes, obviously annoyed about something. I’m not entirely sure what they’re talking about, but this isn’t a good time to ask. What practice is this man talking about? What’s barbaric?
I find something odd about the stranger’s comment about “a civilized empire.” Hmm, let’s see, I’ve been arrested, held captive, interrogated, broken down, seduced and claimed by an enigmatic SS officer who won’t even tell me his name. I don’t even want to know what this guy’s definition of an uncivilized empire is.
Of course, I am an American prisoner. All in all, I’ve been treated surprisingly well. And I can’t say I hate the things that have been done to my body.
I glance at my captor. He’s looking at his friend. He furrows his eyebrows before speaking. “I don’t understand why the American government is so adamant about refusing any real peace treaties. They don’t seem to have any problem doing business with us.”
It’s not exactly a source of national pride, but the United States is actually quite dependent on the Third Reich for several things. There are multiple business arrangements and corporate peace treaties in place for just about everything, including food, clothing and especially oil. Most citizens don’t know that many of the things they buy are imported from the Third Reich.
“We’re making progress,” the stranger comments. Holding my fingers between his, he keeps stroking my index finger with his thumb. “We’ve had a significant break in the auto industry. In time, the Americans will come around.”
I know what the stranger means about the auto industry. A few months ago, German cars started cropping up in the States. And unlike other product names, American citizens know that both Mercedes and BMW are German companies. I’ve heard the cars are actually quite popular. The dealerships that sell them claim they fly off the lot, despite the high price. Capitalism will most likely open borders eventually.
“You look really good, my friend,” his guest announces. “I don’t think I’ve seen you look this rested in years.”
“Did I look bad before?” my captor asks, laughing softly.
“No…well. You looked tired, a lot, especially after your divorce. You were working too much. But you look good. I think your American is beneficial for you.”
My captor only smiles at him.
The stranger studies me briefly before turning back to my captor. “The embassy asked about her. They inquired about a possible spy swap.”
“Really?” My captor doesn’t sound happy. In fact, he sounds kinda pissed off.
“The embassy was informed that she is now the official property of the Third Reich. She’s not going anywhere, my friend. Besides, when certain officials discovered she was the trouble maker breaking into the Echelon, well, I don’t have to tell you what some wanted.”
