War Prize, page 22
part #1 of Captured by the SS Series
Everything about the performance is beautiful—the costumes, the sets. The performers of course live up to their reputations as being the best of the best.
Much to my disappointment, the curtain eventually closes and the lights come up. A voice announces a twenty-five-minute intermission.
People file out of seats. I frown. I don’t want a break. I don’t have to use the restroom. I want to see the rest of the opera.
“Ah, time for a break,” my captor whispers in English.
I turn to him. He stands up briskly before walking across the small box.
I suddenly realize there’s champagne chilling in the corner of the darkened box. There are also some chocolate-covered strawberries and chocolate truffles. I’m guessing the champagne and the sweets were the “arrangements” the thin man in the glasses mentioned.
“Turn your chair around,” he instructs in English. I don’t know why, but it sounds strange for him to speak English in public, even though we’re alone. He turns his chair around and moves it farther away from the edge. I do the same.
We’re now facing away from the stage and we’re hidden back in the shadows. He pours me a glass of champagne and then feeds me the strawberries and truffles. He has a few, but he gives most of them to me. His blue eyes seem to darken as he slowly feeds me. His gaze becomes hard and intense.
After we polish off the last of the sweets, his hand cups my cheek as his thumb brushes over my parted lips. My eyes unwillingly close. Two of his gloved fingers slide past my lips and over my tongue. I can’t stop myself from gently sucking his fingers. He groans softly as he pulls his hand away.
Without saying anything, he gently tugs me out of my chair before pushing me onto my knees before him. He unzips his trousers and quickly frees his rock-hard cock. I can feel his need, and I know I can make it better. I want to make it better. My lips wrap around him as my tongue glides across tight flesh. I take in as much of his thick arousal as I can, wanting his erection to claim and fill my mouth. He groans softly as I start sucking.
I detect a slight shudder from him as his hand settles encouragingly behind my neck. I’m not sure anyone has needed me as much as he needs me at this moment. And I like satisfying his want, his need. It’s a strange feeling I don’t entirely understand. He lets out a low growl as his fingers spear through my tightly bound hair. He climaxes quickly and silently. I promptly swallow the warm fluid and take my time licking him clean.
“Good,” he whispers, gently urging me to stop. Again, he says it in English. It’s as if the language is some taboo secret between us.
I’m a little dazed when he zips himself back up. His fingers tilt my chin up.
“Your lipstick is smeared.” He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket. He tenderly swabs my chin and cheek with the soft fabric. “There we go,” he declares, pocketing the handkerchief.
The lights in the auditorium start flashing. With a subtle gesture, my captor indicates we should move our chairs back to the front of the box. We move our seats, and I glance down at the audience below us. People are settling. No one is looking up at us. I don’t think anyone knows what we just did. I glance around. There are two boxes on the other side of the auditorium, but they’re both empty.
The lights dim again as the curtain rises. My captor takes my hand as the performance continues. Butterfly is waiting for her American husband to return to Japan, which everyone knows he won’t…well, I know he does technically return, but not to resume his life with Butterfly. The spinto soprano is breaking my heart as she sings of that One beautiful day. The audience applauds when she finishes the opera’s famous aria. Not breaking character, she keeps looking off in the distance, waiting for her American husband’s naval ship to return. I sense my captor leaning into me as the audience keeps applauding.
“Her mistake,” he whispers in English, “was in letting her American go.”
I turn to him, but he’s already refocused on the stage. My attention returns to the performance as the audience once again settles. For some reason, I can’t shake off my captor’s words. It’s as if there was some veiled promise in his statement, as if he’d never make that mistake. I watch the rest of the opera in a daze, shaken and confused by his words.
After the curtain goes down and the performers take their bows, my captor and I stand.
“Thank you for taking me out,” I whisper in English.
“No, thank you. I very much enjoyed tonight. When we get home, you’ll try on some of the lingerie I bought you. Yes?” He looks eager.
“Yes,” I whisper.
He opens the door.
As we exit the box, we pass a mirrored wall. With my arm wrapped around his, I don’t look anything like his prisoner. We look like a couple. I’m not sure I’ve ever looked so happy. Hell, I look radiant with joy. The image only lasts a moment, but it haunts me as we walk. A queasy feeling settles deep in my stomach as we descend the stairs.
I’m disoriented when we step outside. The valet takes one look at him and hurriedly rushes off to retrieve the car. The familiar black vehicle cruises up to the curb.
“Here you are, sir,” the valet announces, passing him the key. My captor hands him a piece of plastic.
“Add thirty percent for yourself.”
“Oh thank you, sir,” the valet chirps, swiping the card through a handheld reader. I can tell my captor is in good spirits. I was too until I saw my reflection.
I force myself to smile as my captor opens the door for me. I keep my smile frozen as I sit down. He pauses for a moment before closing the door but doesn’t say anything. He walks around the car and gets in. Without saying anything, he starts it and then drives down the street.
Tears pool in my eyes. Taking shallow breaths, I manage not to sob. Even though I don’t make a sound, the car suddenly slows before pulling over on the side of the road. He kills the engine. I hear a soft click. In my peripheral vision, I see him putting his seat back.
“Slip off your shoes and come here,” he orders simply.
Confused, I only study him.
“Slip off your shoes, climb over the console and straddle my lap,” he specifies.
Tears spill from my eyes as I slip off my shoes. Shifting around, I hike up my dress before climbing over the center console. Without looking at him, I gingerly sit spread thigh on his lap.
His gloved hands pull my wrists behind my back. He holds them there firmly with just one hand while his other tilts my chin up. I manage to avoid looking at him.
“Now why are you crying?”
“I…I’m a traitor,” I whisper.
“How are you a traitor?”
“I shouldn’t be out with you like this. No matter what my country did to me, I still made a promise. I—I took an oath, I promised to defend my country from all enemies,” I whisper. “I mean, look at me.”
“Yes, you’re wearing a gown I had made for you, a gown I told you I wanted you to wear. You’re wearing jewelry I purchased as well as makeup that I wanted you to apply. You were my escort tonight, and I wanted you to look a certain way. I couldn’t very well take you out wearing one of my dress shirts.”
I only close my eyes as tears spill down my cheeks. He hitches my chin up farther, and I reluctantly meet his hard gaze.
“American, do you remember the morning I tied you up and held a knife to your throat?”
I hesitate for a moment. “Yes.”
“I could have easily slit your throat that morning. You understand that, don’t you?”
Uncomfortable with the question, I look down.
“Look at me,” he orders coldly.
Shaken by his tone, I meet his gaze. He looks angry. “You have control over nothing, American. Your very life is in my hands.” His gloved thumb sweeps gently across my left cheek. “You’re not a traitor. Now stop crying.”
His facial expression softens as he pushes back my tears.
“Now,” he whispers. “Where is all this traitor talk coming from?”
“I saw our reflection in the mirror outside the box.”
“So?”
“I looked…happy.”
“So? That doesn’t change your status with me. There’s a reason you’re still wearing your locator. You’re not my wife or my girlfriend.”
“But prisoners don’t go to the opera,” I whisper quietly.
“No, they don’t. And you’re not exactly my prisoner.”
I only study him.
“American, you have been seized by the enemy and assessed as something valuable. Your country of origin is of significance and actually adds to your value. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Somehow, his words sound familiar, but I’m not sure what he’s saying.
I only shake my head slowly at him.
“You are my war prize.”
War prize?
I didn’t think of it because I’ve only heard of it happening with ships or planes. Sometimes, the Reich will show off some captured naval ship or American plane on television. Once, there was even an American satellite that was featured in a parade. But I’ve never heard of it happening with people. I suddenly understand now why he didn’t tell me this sooner. It’s a strange feeling because it means.
It means, well…
It means…
“I own you, American. Legally. Completely. Whether you want it or not, whether you like it or not.”
His strange and possessive tone actually makes me feel better, though I know logically it shouldn’t. Somehow, I feel he just told me something I needed to hear. It doesn’t make any sense, I know, but I needed to hear I was owned. It’s as if the word itself, own, struck some deep, resonant chord with me.
He’s staring intensely at me as if he’s reading my thoughts.
“You feel better now, don’t you? To know that you’re owned.”
Hesitantly, I only nod.
He smiles darkly at me, as if he understands something about me that I don’t quite understand.
Why does his explanation make me feel better? Why? Why? Why?
I guess something like panic crosses my face because he quickly adds, “Easy, American. All you need to know is I will always take care of you. I promise.”
My pulse slows. He knows how I feel about promises. I suppose he could just be saying that to gain my trust, but that’s not what I’m sensing.
“Now,” he says slowly, pulling his hand away. “Get back in your seat.”
Gingerly, I ease back into my seat before he restarts the car. The seat belt snakes around me.
“I’ve kept you cooped up for a while now. I hate to take you straight home. Would you like some ice cream?”
I haven’t had ice cream in ages. The very thought reminds me of the few happy times from my childhood. “Yes,” I whisper, smiling at him.
Nodding, he steers the car back into traffic before turning left down another road.
To the reader: Thank you for purchasing this book. Please be sure to check out the sequel, Agent of Darkness.
Gail Starbright, War Prize
