CapturedbytheSS, page 8
“My seduction teacher told me to disregard that old film.”
“Why did you think it was true then?” He kisses my forehead.
“I don’t know. I just thought that—”
“Shh, enough.” His hands run softly up and down my arms.
I’m silent for several minutes as he caresses me.
“May I touch you again?” I whisper.
“Yes.”
My fingers lightly stroke his erect cock. He shudders from my touch. My fingers lightly curl around him. He groans before pulling my hand away.
“I can’t take any more of your teasing.”
“I wasn’t trying to tease—”
His lips press against mine as his fingers spear through my hair. A bit roughly, he tilts my head back.
My arms wrap around him and I cling to the back of his uniform. I can’t even make myself admit that this is crazy anymore. I just want him to kiss me. I want him to hold me. The tip of his cock presses into my folds and brushes my clit.
His tongue slides past my lips, once again claiming my mouth. I want more than his tongue inside me. Scooting closer to him, I spread my thighs wider, wanting him to enter me. Obviously catching my meaning, he gently pushes the blunt tip of his arousal into my sheath. His tongue never once leaves my mouth but instead plunges even deeper and harder.
I cling tighter to his tunic as he pushes his cock farther inside me. His thick arousal fills and stretches my snug passage, causing just a twinge of pain. It’s been so long since I’ve been with anyone, I guess my body is a bit ill-prepared for penetration, a fact compounded by two things. For one, I’ve always been a little tight. And two, my captor is a bit bigger than my first and only lover. It’s a situation he could exploit. If he wanted to, he could hurt me, but he doesn’t.
Apparently sensing my state, he gingerly eases himself inside me bit by bit without thrusting or shoving. Patiently, he eventually inserts his entire length. He doesn’t move right away. He just stays perfectly still.
Never once breaking our kiss, he eases himself back a bit. The movement tugs at the tender flesh of my sheath, and I whimper in protest. He stops.
He breaks our kiss and presses his lips against my neck. After several minutes, I feel an increased slickness around his inserted cock. He glides out a bit before easing himself back in.
“Better?” he whispers against my ear.
“Yes.”
A bit harder, he partially withdraws and reinserts himself. The action jostles the table I’m sitting on. I cry out softly, shocked at how intense the experience is. His lips nuzzle against my ear as his thrusts grow harder and faster. A part of me is convinced that this is the final act of whatever strange play he’s orchestrating. I like his touch, yes, but I’m not kidding myself about who he is.
His hard thrusts coax another orgasm from me, even stronger and more intense than the first two he pulled from me upstairs. He doesn’t even stop or slow. I try to push him away, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of everything, but his hands capture mine and press them against the wall. I pull against him, trying to break his grip, but he keeps my wrists firmly pinned on either side of my head.
My release never finds an end. It only builds and builds as he ruthlessly pumps himself in and out of me. Every muscle in my body tightens and constricts painfully as he forces me to come again and again, over and over. A part of me feels I might even faint.
He reaches his own breaking point and much to my relief, he finally stops. I never even knew it was possible to climax over and over again like that. Neither one of us moves for several minutes. Keeping my hands pressed against the wall, he pants against my ear.
I’m soaking with sweat, and I think he is too. It’s hard to tell with the uniform. After several minutes, he leans back, pulling himself from me, and eyes me intensely. Again I have no idea what he’s thinking. He doesn’t release my wrists, but instead keeps me trapped against the wall.
He doesn’t say anything.
I can’t even talk. Feelings of shame and guilt suddenly crash down on me.
“Don’t do that,” he insists, nuzzling against my ear. “Don’t look that way.”
A bit overwhelmed with everything, I feel I need a few minutes alone. I can’t process this. I’m not supposed to like my enemy’s touch!
“I…may I go to the bathroom for a moment?”
He hesitates, obviously wanting to say no. “If you feel you must. Be mindful of the glass.”
He releases me and backs away, allowing me to slide off the table. The broken lamp and the shattered picture frame are near the table. Looking away from him, I walk around the glass and then scurry upstairs. He doesn’t follow me. I hurry to the smaller bedroom, the one he questioned me in. I know there’s a bathroom in there.
By the time I reach the bedroom, I’m shaking and nearly crying. After hurrying to the bathroom, I quickly close the door and cover my mouth to keep from making any noise. How could I do that with him? I should have said no. I should have fought him. I kneel on the bathroom floor as hot tears spill from my eyes. What the hell am I going to do?
If my seduction teacher were here right now, she’d probably slap the crap out of me before ordering me to march back downstairs and suck my captor’s cock. By now, it’s safe to assume my captor is attracted to me. The logical thing to do is to exploit the situation and use it to my advantage. That’s what any trained agent would do in this scenario.
Since I’ve already been interrogated, my only objective now is to either stay alive or, if my situation is unbearable, try to angle for a quick death. Since my captor is interested in me, I should barter my body for food and shelter. That’s the smartest thing I can do right now. But…I can’t. Because I never thought I’d like my enemy’s touch, and it scares the hell out of me.
I guess I figured this would never happen to me. Sex was always so hard when I was with Steven that I never even imagined that my enemy could make me come like that. Fresh tears pool in my eyes. There has to be another option. I can’t do this.
After several minutes of pointless sobbing, I force myself to stop and stand up. Trembling, I lean against the sink and rinse my face with some cool water. I just need to think. Looking in the mirror, I suddenly hate the person staring back at me. I’m half-naked and practically glowing from the intense pleasure I found in my captor’s arms. I don’t deserve to live.
In my despair, I suddenly find hope. I’ve been captured by the enemy. Suicide is a perfectly acceptable option. How could I have forgotten that? They even showed me films on how to do it. There was a time when field agents were given cyanide pills, but because Nazis tend to zealously search both vehicles and people, the practice was abandoned. The pills are essential contraband, a tipoff of clandestine motives. But I don’t need something as fancy as cyanide. A razor would work or a handful of pills. Ideally, suicide would have been a better choice before my interrogation, but that ship has kinda sailed.
Besides, sex and seduction have their limits. He’ll probably be bored with me by tomorrow and just kill me anyway. At least this way I have some control of how and when. I find a familiar comfort in remembering the films they showed me. There was even a slogan with those films—All it takes is a moment of courage.
“A moment of courage,” I whisper. “I can find a moment of courage.”
With the water still running, I quickly and silently rummage through the medicine cabinet. I spot an aspirin bottle and hurriedly open it. There are only three pills left inside. Damn it! Setting the bottle down, I immediately spot something else. I quickly retrieve it.
Reading the German words on the blue packaging, I quickly conclude it’s a sleep aid. The package is still sealed, and I gently pull the glued flap away, being careful not to make any noise. There are sixteen capsules encased on a plastic bubble sheet. Glancing at the closed door, I hurriedly start pushing the pills through the foil backing and collect them in my hand.
I have a feeling he won’t leave me alone for very long. He didn’t want to let me go in the first place.
I hear his footfalls coming. I hurriedly shove the pills in my mouth and then hide the empty packaging under my folded blue dress. I stoop down and fill my palm with water. Gulping the water, I quickly swallow the pills. My face is still near the running water when the door suddenly opens.
“American, what are you doing?”
After catching my breath, I answer. “Nothing. I was just thirsty.”
“Turn around.”
Swallowing hard, I turn and face him. I mop away the water from my chin.
He’s studying me intensely. “What did you just do?”
“Nothing.”
His eyes narrow at the medicine cabinet, and I instantly see what he sees…it’s cracked open. In my hurry to hide the packaging, I didn’t push hard enough on the mirrored door. His eyes sweep across the bathroom. I also carelessly left the near-empty bottle of aspirin on the sink, which I know he sees as well.
“Did you take something?”
“No. I was just looking for aspirin. I only found three, but I didn’t take them.” I even pick up the bottle and rattle it. He ignores me and instead looks around the room. Lifting up my blue folded dress, he finds the empty packaging. He quickly snatches both the bubble sheet and the blue box. He flips the bubble sheet over.
“American, what did you do?” He tosses aside the telling items.
“Nothing.” I try to back away from him, but his hand wraps around my wrist.
“What did you do?” It’s less a question and more of a demand.
“Nothing,” I whisper.
His face grows hard and angry. Still clutching my wrist, he brutally pulls me toward him. His fingers viciously tangle in my hair, pulling it, as he forces my head over the sink. Before I can even react, two of his gloved fingers invade my mouth and ram the back of my throat. I gag and momentarily retch before the contents of my stomach spill from me.
My breakfast is a watery pool of thin goo in the bottom of the sink. The blue capsules are mostly intact, though they’re glistening with moisture and they look softer. Because I just took them, the hard plastic capsules haven’t had much of a chance to dissolve, though I think a few may have split open.
The minute he sees the pills, he starts cursing in German. Still clutching my hair, he rams his fingers down my throat again. I gag but there’s nothing left to purge. Apparently determined to empty my stomach, he forces me to retch, producing only dry heaves, until tears cloud my vision. He finally releases me, and I sink to the floor, trembling and crying. I hear water running.
“Come here,” he snarls, picking me up off the floor.
“No,” I protest, sobbing. I try to fight, but he only ignores me. He cradles me tight against him and carries me from the room. He practically sprints down the hall. Before I know it, we’re back in his bedroom. He puts me down but deposits me on the floor instead of the bed. He straddles my stomach, keeping me pinned as he retrieves the all-too-familiar black case from a drawer near his bed.
He drops the case on the floor next to me and then hurriedly opens it. He pushes aside several sealed syringes before grabbing a small, square envelope. He quickly tears it open. I think it’s a pill. He forces my mouth open before pushing the pill to the back of my tongue. His hand seals over my mouth.
“Swallow it,” he snarls.
I already have, though I didn’t mean to. I’m not certain, but I think he just gave me Nironin. It’s a charcoal-based drug that prevents the body from absorbing any medications or toxins, either ingested or injected. Harmless itself, the drug is used in the treatment of overdosing and poisoning. If it is indeed Nironin, which I’m pretty sure it is, I’m going to pass out for the next several hours. It’s the drug’s single side effect.
After several minutes, the world turns blurry. And then there’s only darkness.
Chapter Three
Sleep falls from me as my eyes slowly open. I’m lying in the queen-sized bed and tucked securely under the heavy bedding. The room is dark. I can tell it’s late. I sit up in bed and my stomach aches from being made to purge and my mind is fuzzy from the Nironin. A sound filters through the hall. I hold my breath and listen. There, I hear it again. It’s a voice, a female voice. A second later, I hear my captor’s voice. Is someone else in the house? Curiosity compels me to move.
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 me.
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 a bit 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 another conversation 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 relistening 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 a bit 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 a bit 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 a bit 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?”
