CapturedbytheSS, page 5
“No.”
“Have you ever fantasized about being with a woman?”
“No.”
I hear his pen moving across paper.
“Do you touch yourself for sexual gratification?”
Leave it to the Nazis to ask the weirdest questions. “Yes.”
“And what do you usually think about when you touch yourself?”
“I think about my ex-boyfriend, except he’s not touching me. He’s just watching me stroke myself.”
I hear his pen tapping the notebook. “So you think about touching yourself while you’re touching yourself except a former lover, who didn’t satisfy you, is watching.”
Hmm, he makes it sound weird. “Yes.”
“That doesn’t make any sense, American. Why would you fantasize about a man who didn’t satisfy you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you love him once?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Do you love him now?”
“No.”
“Then why do you fantasize about him?”
“I don’t know.”
The pen raps on the notebook. “How can you know so little about yourself?”
“I don’t know.”
He mutters something in German that I don’t quite catch. “Have you ever seen a pornographic film?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“I’m not sure. Twenty or so with Steven.”
“Were there scenes where the characters were screaming in ecstasy?”
“Yes.”
“Based on that, didn’t you feel your sex life was lacking?”
“No.”
“Why not?” he demands.
“Because they’re only movies. I never believed sex could really be like that.”
He’s silent for a moment. “Never believed? Are you a victim of incest or some early childhood trauma?”
“No.”
Obviously annoyed, he declares, “Then I don’t understand. Why is your sexual history so lacking?”
“I don’t know.” Gee, this isn’t the least bit mortifying. I think I’m beginning to look forward to my public execution.
“You don’t fit the profile. You are by far the most irritating subject I’ve ever questioned.”
Okay then.
“We start over, American. Perhaps I am not asking the correct questions.”
I hear him flipping through the pages of his notebook.
“How long were you with Steven? When did you first meet him?”
“About two years. I was eighteen when we first met.”
“During the two years you were with him, how often did you engage in intercourse?”
“Almost every night.”
“Did you ever have an orgasm with him?”
“No.”
“American, there are three hundred sixty-five days in a year, and you’re telling me you had sex with him almost every night. After about three hundred times of unsatisfying coitus, didn’t you suspect something amiss?”
“No.”
He taps his pen on the notebook for several seconds. “Was he a gifted conversationalist or an excellent listener?”
“Not really.”
“Did you feel some connection with him because he was your first lover?”
“No.”
“How would you describe the relationship then? And be specific.”
“Casual sex. We weren’t even exclusive. He dated other girls, but he said I was his favorite. So he always spent the night with me.”
He sighs at my response. “So why did you stay with him exclusively for two years if he never even made you come? And I want a detailed answer.”
“Because I found something satisfying in making him happy. I even got off on the memory of serving him whenever I was alone. Somehow, his needs were always more important than mine.”
Silence. I’m not even certain he’s still next to me. After a very long pause, I hear him say only, “Uh…”
Again, there’s only silence. He clears his throat.
“I need clarification on this. Please answer yes or no. Did you feel your purpose was to serve him?”
“Yes.”
“And you found true contentment in serving him?”
“Yes.”
“Did you find it arousing to serve him?”
“Yes.”
There’s another long stretch of silence.
“During the two years you were with him, did you have sexual needs and desires?”
“Yes.” Well duh, that’s a stupid question. I’m a flesh-and-blood woman, not a robot.
“Back then, would you touch yourself to relieve these desires?”
“Yes.” These are really strange questions.
“When precisely? After he left? After he fell asleep?”
I have no idea why he wants to know all this. “Sometimes after he fell asleep, sometimes after he left. Just whenever I had a few moments to myself.”
“What would you think about when you touched yourself back then? And don’t just repeat what you said before about ‘the memory of serving him’. Tell me exactly what you got off on.”
“The memory of being used by him, as if I were only a sex toy or an object to fuck.” Oh, why did I tell him that? I’m convinced he’s going to laugh at my response or say something cruel, but again there’s only an odd silence. When he does speak again, his tone is different. Softer. I think he’s intrigued about something.
“Did you ever try to talk to him about your wants and needs?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It just didn’t seem important.”
“Your own needs didn’t strike you as important?”
“No.”
“Why? Explain that.”
“Because his needs just seemed more important to me.” I feel a bit flustered.
“Why? Explain that,” he demands again.
The drug compels me to answer, even though I don’t really know what to say. “I just wanted to make him happy. When I was with him, I felt like…like making him happy.”
I didn’t quite say what I was thinking. I didn’t lie. I just chose to use a different phrase than what I was going to say.
“You tripped over your words. You were going to use a different phrase. Tell me what you were going to say. Finish that sentence, ‘When I was with him, I felt like…’ You felt like what? Tell me what you were going to say. You felt like what?”
“A slave.”
Silence.
In all honesty, I never completely understood what I felt for Steven. I never analyzed our relationship. It just kinda worked. I feel my slave comment was a bit odd. A part of me is convinced my captor is going to laugh at that answer, but again he doesn’t. Instead, I hear his pen moving across paper.
“If pleasing him was enough, then tell me why you left.”
“I didn’t. He ended it.”
There’s another long stretch of silence. I hear him stand up. His heavy footfalls walk from the room. Where the hell is he going? Are we finished? After several minutes, I hear him return. Paper rustles.
“I have more questions regarding your training and your odd behavior.”
His tone is harder and colder. Somehow, I think my answers surprised him or knocked him off guard a bit, though I have no idea why. I think he left the room to regroup.
“Do you have a teacher in the art of seduction?”
“Yes.”
“Did you understand back at the checkpoint I was giving you an opportunity to seduce me?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you try?”
“Because it seemed too obvious.”
He’s silent for a moment. “But…don’t they teach you to seize opportunities like that? Don’t they teach you that sex is a tool, a valuable resource?”
“Yes.”
“You’re telling me you chose to ignore part of your training?”
Why is that so weird? “Yes.”
“What about the Irish accent? Did they teach you to do that?”
“No.”
“Then why did you do it?”
“It seemed like a good idea. I know SS officers are linguists, and I thought I could hide anything that sounded American behind another accent.”
“They do not teach agents to improvise or go against training. Your training dictated that you should have tried to seduce me.”
It’s not a question or a request, so I don’t say anything.
“When I said last night that your eyes looked different, did you understand what I meant?”
“Yes.”
“Why do your eyes look so vulnerable?” he demands.
Vulnerable? I’ve never heard that description before. My superiors always said I was too curious for my own good, but I never heard vulnerable.
“I don’t know.” Something that sounds a lot like frustration or despair creeps into my voice.
“Your superiors don’t like that you’re different, do they?”
“No.” To say they don’t like it is putting it mildly. There’s been more than one occasion where one of my superiors literally got in my face and screamed at me, “Stop thinking and follow orders!”
I hear his pen whispering across paper.
“Why aren’t you like the others?”
“I don’t know.”
He lets out a frustrated sigh. “All right. We go back to your sex life now.”
I’m not sure, but I think he sounds eager. I have the impression he’s trying to hide his interest.
“Did your lover ever tie you up?”
“No.”
“Did your seduction instructor ever teach you about Domination and submission?”
What the hell is he talking about? “I don’t understand the question.”
“I take that as a no.”
His pen whispers across paper.
“Have you ever heard the term S&M or BDSM?”
Again, I have no clue what he’s talking about. “No.”
“I didn’t think you had.”
He didn’t ask a question, so I don’t say anything. I have the impression he’s enjoying these questions. Again I hear the pages of his notebook turning.
“We go back to the twenty or so pornographic films you watched with Steven. Tell me the nature of those films. Were the characters ever tied or restrained in any way?”
“No.”
“Give me more details, please. What were the films about?”
“They usually just had girls either making out or going down on each other.”
I have no idea what point he’s trying to make. I hear his pen whispering across paper. Honestly, why is this important?
“Tell me, did Steven ever touch you in a way you liked?”
“No.”
I hear him stand up and place the notebook down. “There are too many unanswered questions, American. I don’t know if you’re frigid or if your former lover was completely incompetent, but I fully intend to find out.”
I’m not sure what that means, but I don’t like it.
I feel him loosening the ropes around my wrists and ankles.
I try to fight, but it’s as if I’m under water. Ignoring my rather pathetic attempts, he grabs my wrist and pulls, essentially making me sit up on the bed. Holding my limp body, he slides behind me. He holds me firm in one arm.
Strong, gloved fingers rake through my hair. Much to my surprise, I like how it feels. To be honest, I liked when he did it last night when he confiscated the bobby pins. Only now there’s nothing to block the truth.
“Do you like how this feels?”
No! “Yes,” I hear myself whisper. Stupid, treacherous body.
He murmurs something approvingly. He keeps running his fingers through my hair as if he’s petting me. His body seems to sag a bit. I think he’s enjoying touching me…and much to my shock, I think I’m enjoying it too.
After several minutes, he gathers my hair and twists it several times before folding it up. I feel him leaning into me, but I’m not certain what he plans to do. He exhales on the exposed flesh behind my neck.
Much to my horror, I actually shudder from the sensation. If my limbs weren’t so heavy and numb, my reaction may have been even more dramatic.
“Ah, so you’re not frigid. Interesting.” His words flutter against the nape of my neck. My nipples even tingle as they harden against my satin dress.
A bit panic stricken, I try to pull away, but he won’t release me. “Don’t,” I protest. This is the first time I’ve realized I can speak voluntarily under the effect of the drug. I just can’t lie. “Please don’t.” My limbs are heavy and sluggish, making fighting impossible.
I’m sure my seduction teacher would be frowning if she were watching right now. According to her, I should really be whispering, “Please do.” But I’m a bit shocked at how much I like his touch. My body may like it, but my mind is racing in the other direction, No, he’s a Nazi. I’m not supposed to like his touch.
“Relax, American. I’m not going to rape you. I just want to see if your body reacts normally to stimulation. And so far, it does.”
“I… No. Don’t.” I struggle harder. Much to my relief, he leans away from me.
“You liked me touching you, didn’t you?”
Hell no! “Yes.” Damn it!
“You’re resisting because you’re afraid I’ll hurt you, aren’t you?”
Well, partially. “Yes,” I manage, fighting against the drug. There’s not a doubt in my mind that my captor will eventually hurt me, but that’s not quite why I was resisting him.
He doesn’t say anything, but he eases away and then gingerly lays me back down. He doesn’t tie me up.
“Are you hungry?”
“Yes.”
“In a few moments, the drug will wear off. I’ll allow you to eat, but we’re not finished yet, American. I have more questions for you.”
After several minutes, the darkness over me lifts and finally dissolves.
Relieved to be untied, I sit up. He’s nearby in a wooden chair, sitting sideways with his elbow propped on the chair’s back. I have no idea what he’s thinking, but he’s studying me as if I’m some cryptic riddle.
“Thank you for untying me,” I mutter, rubbing my wrists. Actually, I am truly grateful to be unrestrained…of course he’s the one who tied me down in the first place. “May I go to the bathroom?” I ask respectfully.
“Yes, of course.” He gestures toward another room, which I can tell is a bathroom. “If you want, you may take a shower. I will prepare breakfast.” He stands and then walks briskly to the nightstand, addressing me as he moves. “If you try to escape, I can guarantee you will regret it. The chain around your ankle is a locator.”
“I understand,” I whisper, watching him slip the empty syringe back in the case.
He quickly zips up the black case before tucking it and his notebook under his arm. With a subtle nod, he leaves the room.
A bit dizzy and lightheaded, I manage to stand and then stagger drunkenly to the bathroom. After hurriedly relieving my bladder, I take a moment to study my weary-looking reflection. Although I have very fair skin, I look even paler than usual, which I’m guessing might be a side effect from either the truth serum or the sedative he administered last night or possibly the combination of both drugs. But all in all, I’m not in bad shape, especially for a prisoner.
After studying my reflection, I cross the small bathroom. With a tired sigh, I sit on the tub’s edge. I hike my foot up, wanting to study the silver chain around my ankle. The small links of gleaming silver look delicate and fragile. I hook my finger around it and pull, trying to break it off, but I quickly discover its appearance is deceiving. I tug until I leave a deep, purple indent in my flesh, but the chain won’t give.
Sighing, I focus on the anklet’s sensor instead, which is sealed in a small, rectangular-shaped capsule. Flat and smooth on both sides, the capsule has no obvious seams or breaks. Running it between my fingers, I can’t find any way to open the sealed case. Approximately the size of a pill, the encased sensor looks like one solid piece of shiny metal.
I reluctantly abandon the anklet, not seeing any way to remove or deactivate it.
Not wanting to dawdle, I turn on the faucet. I quickly peel off my damp satin dress and underwear. I’ve sweated through every inch of both garments. With an appreciative sigh, I step into the shower.
The warm water pours over me like rain from heaven. I can still feel the potent drug in my system, and the water helps clear my head. I find some soap and shampoo in the shower. I make use of both products and quickly lather my hair and body before rinsing off. I turn off the shower, feeling renewed.
Wanting to dry off quickly, I wring out my shoulder-length chestnut hair before blotting my tresses with the towel. I reluctantly look at the blue satin dress, which I tossed on the floor. I don’t really want to put the sweaty garment back on, but I guess I have little choice. With a sigh, I sit on the tub’s edge and blot my dripping hair, frowning at the discarded dress.
The door suddenly opens. Startled, I cover myself with the towel.
“Good, you’re finished. Breakfast is ready. Here, put this on.”
He tosses a bundle of white fabric to me, and I catch it while clutching the towel. Without another word, he turns and leaves.
The smell of bacon suddenly wafts across my nostrils. Oh food.
After quickly pulling on the garment, which is a man’s dress shirt, I fiddle with the buttons and then roll up the sleeves. It’s long enough to cover me up. I’m actually grateful for the shirt. It’s clean, dry and soft. Realistically speaking, I probably only have a few hours of life left. And being comfortable is truly one of life’s simple joys, especially after a hot shower. Hell, there might even be a last meal in my immediate future.
Not wanting to piss off my captor, I tidy up the bathroom a bit and then hang up the towel. I fold my blue dress and underwear before setting them neatly on top of the toilet tank.
Emerging from the bathroom, I cautiously look around the room. I don’t see my captor anywhere. I feel better after the shower, and I’m eager about the possibility of food.
Just as I poke my head from the bedroom, I spot him leaning against the wall, apparently waiting for me.
He only looks me up and down, but he doesn’t say anything. I can tell he wants to ask me something, but he doesn’t.
