War Prize, page 9
part #1 of Captured by the SS Series
I gingerly slip out of bed and then tiptoe across the room. I stop at the open door. Again I hear the same female voice. The voice sounds familiar. Poking my head from the room, I risk a look down the dark hallway.
The door at the end of the hall is open. There are no lights on in the room, but I see my captor’s profile. His face is bathed in the light of a computer screen. He’s still dressed in his uniform, though he’s not wearing his hat, gloves or boots.
I shouldn’t spy on him, I know. It might provoke him if he catches me, and I’ve done more than enough to provoke him already today. My stomach grumbles unhappily.
I suddenly hear the voice again. The fingers of his left hand toggle between two keys. His other hand is curled against his chin and his eyes are closed. I can tell he’s deep in concentration, but I have no idea what he’s doing.
On soft feet, I creep through the dark hall toward the room, curious about the voice. I know I’ve heard that female voice before. About halfway between the bedroom and the office he’s working in, I hear the dialogue streaming from his laptop. I freeze as I immediately recognize the conversation. The female voice I heard earlier is mine.
It’s from the first night, when I told him about the C-60 and the details of my mission. I didn’t even know he’d recorded it, though I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. I quickly discover he’s not listening to the details I gave him. Instead, I think he’s listening to my English.
As his fingers toggle back and forth over what seem to be the same two keys, I hear one word of my dialogue over and over again. “Cooperate.” He keeps repeating it for some reason. Sometimes he stops it in mid-syllable before looping it over and over. The word rises and falls in different pitches and octaves. Sometimes, it comes out slow and elongated.
My voice echoes back again. “Cooperate.” Then it’s only, “Coo, coo, coo,” followed by, “Oo, oo, oo.” His fingers toggle back and forth as he keeps his eyes closed. The word comes together only briefly. “Cooperate.” Then it comes out elongated before he starts repeating it in sections again. “Coo, coo, oo, oo, per, per, per, ate, ate, ate.” The word turns into a chant. “Cooperate, cooperate, cooperate.”
I kneel on the floor, a bit fascinated by what he’s doing. I have the impression that breaking down pronunciations is something he’s accustomed to.
The conversation begins streaming uninterrupted again, except he keeps editing himself out of it. He types something, and the recording stops. Another voice starts streaming from his computer. I don’t recognize it. It’s a man speaking English, but I don’t know what it is. It sounds like a language tutorial, “Cooperate, intransitive verb, definition—”
He stops the recording before it gives the definition.
My voice comes back again. “Cooperate. Coo, op, er, er, er, er, er.”
I hear the language tutorial again. “Cooperate. Coo, op, er, er, er, er, er.”
My voice echoes back. “Cooperate, coo, op, er, er, er, er, er, er.”
I feel exhausted and overwhelmed just listening to the snippets I’ve heard so far. I have no idea how any of this can make sense to him, but then I’m not a linguist either.
After several minutes of partial syllables and half words, I hear something else streaming from his computer. It’s another one of our conversations, except it’s the one by the door, the one we had shortly after I tried to escape. I hear his voice first, “That was stupid, American! And where did you think you were going half-naked and with a locator around your ankle?”
I’m convinced he’s going to do the same thing to that section of dialogue, but instead, the conversation just streams uninterrupted. His fingers pull away from the keyboard, and I sense he’s not really studying it as he was studying my other words. I think he’s just listening to it for the sake of hearing it again. His body language and posture change. I have the impression listening to this dialogue is more for enjoyment or relaxation than for analysis.
The recording plays for several minutes. My stomach tightens when I hear us having sex. I hear myself climaxing. He looks intrigued. His body shifts as he turns slightly away from me. His head rolls back languidly. I bite my bottom lip when I realize he’s getting off from the recording. I consider scurrying back to the bedroom, but I don’t. Instead, I only watch him, feeling both nervous and fascinated. Did I do that? Is he really that intrigued with me? My voice filters to me again from the recording, “I…May I go to the bathroom—”
He swears quietly in German as his fingers slam against the keys.
Crouching silently, I feel a sudden panic when his head turns in my direction, as if he heard something. I don’t even breathe. He looks past me in the darkened hallway. After several nerve-racking minutes, his head turns back to the screen. He looks engrossed in his own thoughts. His fingers type lazily on the keyboard.
Another one of our conversations streams from his laptop’s speakers. It’s the one of us talking in the kitchen. I wince. That one still stings. In the recording, he starts about how I was brighter in school than the others.
Just listening to it stirs up painful feelings. Fresh tears fill my eyes. I hated that conversation the first time, and I don’t want to hear it again. Shaken by the recording, I breathe too deeply. His head snaps in my direction.
In an instant, he leaps up. He rushes to a light switch in the hall, just outside his office’s open door. Before I can scramble back to the bed, the lights in the hallway come on. He finds me crouching against the wall.
“American, what are you doing out of bed?”
“I…I heard a voice and…I got up to check.”
“How long have you been there?” He places his hands behind his back. His facial expression is stern.
“I heard you repeating the word ‘cooperate’ a lot.”
He’s silent for a moment. “That was several minutes ago. You heard that.”
I only nod.
“And you were in the same spot you’re in now? You were that close to me?”
Again, I only nod.
“And what else did you hear?”
I hesitate for a moment. “You repeated the conversation we had by the door.” I omit the part about him getting off on it.
He looks slightly annoyed. I don’t think he wanted me to see that.
“Having a spy in the house is proving to be interesting.”
I only stay where I am, wondering what he’ll do to me next.
“Come on, American. I want you back in bed.” He helps me up off the floor and leads me back to his bed. After pulling the covers over me, he slips under the blankets as well. He gathers me in his arms. I’m not sure why, but he’s still dressed. I press my face against his shoulder. The feel of his tunic is becoming familiar to me.
It doesn’t make any sense, I know, but a part of me feels I’m seeking his forgiveness about the pills.
“Why did you do that?” he demands.
“It seemed like the right choice at the time.”
“Why?” he presses.
“I…I felt guilty about what I did with you, and I guess I saw suicide as an honorable choice.”
He’s silent for a moment. “Honorable?” he mutters.
He says the word as if that’s the strangest thing he’s ever heard, and for some reason, the words of that damn TA come back to me, “Just keep your mouth shut and pretend to be the military drone you’re supposed to be.” I push the strange words away.
Inhaling deeply, he shifts me around and forces me to sit up with him. Through some gentle pulling and tugging, he forces me to straddle his thighs. He pushes my hands behind my back and holds my wrists together firmly with just one hand.
“Look at me.” His other hand forces my chin up.
Reluctantly, I meet his gaze.
“I know your personality type, American. You’re the type who will keep a promise.”
Actually, that is true about me, though I’m not sure how he knows that. In my line of work, a contact’s promise to assist me is the difference between life and death. I take promises seriously.
“I want you to promise me you won’t do that again.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why?”
“I made a promise to my country too.”
“Your country made you promise to commit suicide?”
“Well, no, not exactly, I just saw it as—”
“Honorable,” he finishes for me. “Where did you pick up ‘death before dishonor?’ I know they don’t teach that, American. Any other spy would have begged to suck my cock, but you ran upstairs and attempted suicide. And when I ask you why, you tell me you felt guilty and saw it as an honorable choice.” He sighs. “You keep surprising me, American.”
I don’t say anything. I avert my gaze, but he hitches my chin up, clearly wanting me to look at him. Hesitantly, I do.
“I’m sure you know the Reich’s rules regarding POWs, yes?” His tone is hard and cold.
I hesitate before answering, “Yes.”
He offers me a somewhat chilling smile. “I’ve treated you more than honorably, yes?”
I wince before answering, “Yes.”
Although the diplomats have certainly tried, there is technically no agreement between America and the Third Reich that outlines how prisoners can and cannot be treated. He didn’t have to feed me, but he did. He didn’t have to allow me to shower, but he did. And although he has gotten sex from me, he didn’t rape me. He even let me sleep off the Nironin in his own bed when he could have just left me on the floor. To say he’s treated me honorably is something of an understatement.
“I want your promise that you won’t do something like that again. I want it as payment for how well I’ve treated you.” I sense victory from him, as if he’s certain of how I’ll respond.
“You want to save me for my execution, don’t you?”
He’s silent for a moment. “At what point did I say I was going to have you executed?”
“You didn’t. But I know it’s going to happen. Like you said, I know the Reich’s rules for POWs.”
“Hmm, true, I suppose, five years ago. But the last public execution of an American spy was over four years ago. Why would we start up again? We even swapped spies only months ago. You have to know that.”
I do know what he’s talking about. A few months ago, the Third Reich swapped fourteen captured US spies for eleven German spies. It was the first spy swap in history. I think there were a few civilians involved too, but I don’t know the details about them. One of the captured American spies had been a prisoner for almost four years. I heard he was treated relatively well, but I was also told not to read anything into it.
I think one of the German spies was the son of a wealthy businessman. From what I heard, this mysterious businessman spent years petitioning the emperor for help. In short, I was told the swap had more to do with money and politics than civility or peace.
“But the swap didn’t change any policies or laws,” I argue.
“No, not yet. And you’re avoiding what I want from you. I want you to give me your word you won’t do anything to hurt yourself again. I want your promise as a gift for how honorably I’ve treated you.”
I swallow hard, knowing it’s a fair agreement. “I promise I won’t attempt suicide again,” I whisper. I’m not sure why, but I feel bad about what I did. I think I hurt him. I upset him. I can see it in his eyes.
“Good girl,” he murmurs. Rolling slightly, he releases me and allows me to lie back down. He holds me tight against his clothed body. I feel I need to change the subject.
“What were you doing just now with those recordings?”
“I was working. I was analyzing your English. You even speak a bit differently than other American spies. The tempo of your words is faster and you slightly enunciate your R’s and S’s.”
“Are you recording me right now?”
“No. I wanted to record your answers at the kitchen table, but I’m not documenting you now.”
“Where was the recorder?”
“In my pocket.”
Silence passes between us for several minutes. “Back at the checkpoint, did you really hear something in my voice that sounded American or were you just playing with me?”
He chuckles at my question. “At first, I wasn’t sure. I think the Irish threw me off because I wasn’t expecting it, and I’ve never had a subject do that. And when I gave you an opportunity to seduce me, you didn’t take it. So at first, I didn’t think you were an American spy.
“But it was your pulse that told me you were hiding something, so I kept pushing and asking you questions. I was impressed that you kept giving me answers. Many would have crumbled under such scrutiny. Eventually though, yes, I did hear what I was listening for.”
“Oh.”
“Of course, I also thought you were beautiful, so I was a bit distracted. They didn’t tell me what you looked like. They only told me your alias was Sarah Yoven. I think I would have heard it sooner had I not been so distracted.”
I swallow hard. The whole “beautiful” part kinda surprises me.
He shifts around, and I hear him yawn. He slides away and then sits on the edge of the bed. He has his back to me. My gaze lands on his handcuffs, which are in a black leather case clipped to his belt. I hear a buckle unfasten. He leans forward, slips off his belt and drapes it over the back of a nearby chair. Wordlessly, he unbuttons and shrugs off his tunic before tossing it on the chair as well. His black tie, white dress shirt, trousers and finally his t-shirt follow. With another yawn, he pulls off his socks and underwear.
He lets out a low groan that sounds like relief. He slips under the covers and takes me against his now nude body. I still have his unbuttoned shirt on, but since it’s open, we’re basically body to body. I’ve never felt him flesh to flesh like this. As he holds me against him, I realize how muscular and lean he is.
“Oh,” he groans, embracing me harder. “I like feeling you flesh to flesh.”
I can practically hear my seduction instructor now, “Tell him that you like it too. Tell him how huge his cock is, how good it felt inside you.”
“I,” I barely whisper.
I try to pull away from him, to climb out of bed, to run away again as I did before. He seems to anticipate my next move, though, and firmly holds me against him.
“It’s all right, American,” he whispers gently. “You’re tensing up again. I can feel it.” He doesn’t sound surprised. In fact, it’s almost as if he expected this, as if he knew I’d want to run. I try to wiggle away, but his strength is no match for mine.
“Shh,” he murmurs. He nuzzles the side of my neck. I stop struggling as his warm tongue laves the shell of my ear. As he works, he shifts me around, positioning me squarely beneath him. I’m trapped between his muscular, steel-like body and the mattress. Realizing he’s pinned me, I try to sit up, but he won’t allow it.
“I can’t do this,” I manage.
“I know,” he whispers. “I know. Shh. Don’t talk.”
His hand slips under my arm and slides down my ribs. His light touch is slightly ticklish, and I reluctantly let out a soft laugh. He doesn’t say anything, but I sense he likes my reaction.
He exhales on the side of my neck, making my flesh prickle in a way I’ve never experienced. I ball my hands into fists, wishing my body didn’t react so strongly to his touch. His firm lips plant petal-soft kisses all the way from my ear to my shoulder. Kissing turns to licking and then sucking as he focuses mainly on my neck, my ear, my shoulder. I’m lost in a blurry, fuzzy world.
Parted lips press against mine, blotting out every thought. His tongue glides into my mouth. Lust motivates my actions as my hand slides over his side and up his back. My fingers skate over firm flesh and hard muscles. Without breaking our kiss, his hand slips between my thighs. I tense when he touches me there. He only kisses me harder, not allowing me to speak. His fingers rake through my chestnut curls before delving between my folds. He caresses the slick, sensitive tissue lining each of my lips before smearing wetness over my nub. After circling my aching clit, he eases a finger into my sheath. With his tongue still filling my mouth, I groan slightly. He breaks our intense kiss and resumes his earlier ritual of kissing the side of my neck. His finger never leaves my passage. My head rolls languidly to the side.
“You are so fucking tight,” he whispers, working his fingers in and out of my sheath, smearing the hot wetness pooling between my thighs. His intense words flutter against my neck.
He pulls his hand from my center and instead firmly clasps the side of my hip. He shifts around a bit as he hovers over me. His arousal prods at my pussy as his lips press against mine. His tongue ruthlessly claims my mouth.
The blunt tip of his cock teasingly brushes my clit before slowly entering my sheath. He slides into me a little easier than he did before, but my passage still feels snug around his invading erection. He stops kissing me, seemingly unable to hold back a groan.
He doesn’t move at all. He merely leaves himself inserted as he nuzzles the other side of my neck. I turn my head, wanting him to kiss every square inch there as well. Again, as he did before, he patiently licks and kisses my ear, neck and shoulder. Sometimes, he gently sucks or nips at a bit of flesh, making me gasp each time he does it.
He tries to pull out, but the movement only tugs at my passage, creating some pain. I cry out softly. Much to my surprise, he stops.
“Sorry,” he whispers, holding himself perfectly still. With his thick cock still filling me, he only licks and kisses the side of my neck. After several minutes, he gingerly withdraws his cock before easing himself back in. I’m actually shocked by his patience and restraint. I didn’t even know men could control themselves like this. Steven kinda just took what he wanted however hard and fast he wanted it.
Eventually, he starts to move faster, fucking me in earnest. Similar to what happened downstairs, I climax quickly, but he doesn’t stop, which only serves to drag out and prolong my release. His parted lips hover mere millimeters from mine. My quick exhales ricochet off him and back against my lips.
