CapturedbytheSS (16 page)

I think he has more questions for me.

“Why are you so different?” I have the impression he’s not
really asking me a question. I think he’s just thinking aloud. He turns and
eyes me darkly as he unwraps another syringe. “Why are you so sensual? Hmm?
I’ve never seen that trait in an American spy.” He drops the needle’s plastic
cap, letting it clatter to the floor. “I’ve seen vulgar, calculating,
manipulative, raunchy…but never sensual.”

I offer no resistance as he takes my hand and sterilizes my
wrist. A bit roughly, almost brutally, he injects the needle. I wince from the
hard jab. I don’t even try to fight the effect of the drug. The all-too-familiar
darkness lingers over me once again. I have no idea what he wants to ask me.
His fingers gently lift my closed eyelid. Similar to before, there’s only
darkness in my vision.

“Were you sent here to confuse me?”

Confuse
him
? “No.”

“Were you sent here to seduce me?”

Didn’t he already ask me that the other night? “No.”

“Are you a special agent or a member of an elite group?”

“No.”

“Why did you suck my cock?”

You told me to. “I
wanted
to.”

Silence.

“Did you enjoy it?”

I don’t want to answer that question. Can’t I have a few
secrets? “Yes.”

I hear him take a slow, uneven breath.

“Although your answers are certainly interesting, I’m no
closer to determining why you’re so unique.” I hear him flipping through the
pages of a notebook. “I know you were tested repeatedly from kindergarten to
the second grade and you were probably selected by the age of seven, but do you
remember having a surgical procedure done when you were a child?

“It would have taken place shortly
after
your parents
received payment. It would have been sometime in the third grade. You were
probably about eight, and it would have included several follow-up procedures.”

“No.”

I find his question odd.

“Think hard, American. It’s important. Do you remember one
or both of your parents repeatedly taking you to a place that looked like a
hospital?”

“Yes.”

“You do?”

He sounds surprised.

“Yes.”

“How old were you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did these trips to the hospital occur after your parents
came into wealth?”

“Yes.”

He murmurs something. I hear rustling. A pen scribbles
across paper.

“What is your most vivid memory of that hospital?”

“A nurse always gave me candy and told me I did well.”

“What else do you remember?” He sounds intrigued. “Tell me
everything.”

“The smell of alcohol and long, white halls and…toys, they
always had toys for me to play with in the waiting room.”

“Anything else?” he prods.

“I don’t think so.”

How does he even know about that hospital? I only have vague
memories of that mysterious place.

“Candy and toys,” he barely murmurs. He sounds angry about
something, but I don’t think he’s mad at me. “Did you usually leave the
hospital feeling sick?”

“Yes.”

“Was the sickness usually accompanied by a severe headache
or a migraine?”

How the hell does he know that? “Yes.”

“Did you ever experience any ocular hemorrhaging that the
nurses may have called bloody tears?”

“Yes.” That usually only occurred at the hospital, though it
happened once at school. I was in the cafeteria with hundreds of other
students. An older boy teased me and called it stigmata. A teacher calmly took
me to the school nurse, who let me lie down in her office for the afternoon. I
think the teachers punished the boy who teased me and warned the others not to
say anything because no one ever mentioned it again after that day.

I have no idea why he’s asking me about this. I was always
told it was nothing and not to worry about it. My mother was usually more
concerned about the blood staining my clothes. It was never a source of stress
or concern to anyone, so I never worried about it.

I hear the pen whispering across paper. The pages of his
notebook rustle slightly. “All right. I have no more questions for you today.
The drug will wear off in a moment.”

After several minutes, the darkness lifts and finally
dissolves. When I open my eyes, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Why were you asking me about that hospital?”

“It isn’t important.”

I want to ask more questions, but his tone is somewhat
final…and borderline threatening. I push back my questions.

He places everything neatly back in his bag before zipping
it up. Without a word to me, he takes it and his notebook and walks from the
room. I hear his footfalls going down the hall. He returns without the items.

“In case you’re wondering, we’re not finished yet.”

I watch him retrieve the sections of cut rope from the
nightstand as he sits on the bed. He takes my hand and
gently
brushes
his thumb over my wrist. He even plants a soft kiss where he stabbed me with
the needle. I think he regrets his rougher treatment earlier with the syringe.
He pulls my wrist to the wrought iron headboard before tying it firmly in
place. Shifting around a bit, he straddles me before repeating the same thing
to my other wrist.

As he works, my eyes drift over his uniform. He’s still
wearing his boots, which I find a bit odd since he’s in bed with me. His
sidearm is once again missing. I think he makes a point not to wear it around
me because I haven’t seen it on him since the night he arrested me.

But there’s something else today, something different on his
uniform. A sheathed dagger is clipped to his belt. The casing is black with
silver trim. I’ve never seen it before. The handle of the dagger has a silver
skull on the end, though it’s a little different from the skull pin on his hat.

After he finishes tying me down, he leans back a bit and
merely studies me. His gloved hands settle around my rib cage before sliding
down around my waist. As usual, I feel nervous and uncomfortable about being
tied down, which I think he likes. Swallowing hard, I will myself calm and
merely wait. His hands leave me before he pulls the dagger from the sheath. I
shift around a bit, feeling uncomfortable.

“Don’t move. I want you to stay very still,” he whispers.

My eyes meet his.

He presses the flat part of the blade against the side of my
neck.

I don’t even breathe. The blade is cool against my flesh. I
close my eyes, wondering what he’s going to do next. After several very
stressful seconds, my mind starts to function once again. Filleting me to death
would be awfully messy, and I don’t think he’d do it in his own bed.

I cautiously open my eyes. He’s not even looking at me. He’s
focused solely on the dagger. I can tell by his body language and facial
expression that murder isn’t his motive here. He moves the blade slightly and
just barely presses the tip under my chin. I swallow hard as my heart races.
Finally, he pulls the blade away, and I let out a heavy sigh of relief.

As if intensely cold, I start trembling. He re-sheaths the
dagger before settling over me. Warm lips nuzzle against my ear.

“There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

I don’t answer. I can’t. I’m not even sure if he wants me
to. He gently kisses my neck exactly where the blade was. Logically, I know I
should be quiet and just let him do what he wants, but I can’t help but ask,
“Why?”

“I have my reasons.”

I have the impression that what just happened was somehow
important to him, as if it were a ritual he had to do. With a sigh, he sinks
down against my body. I can feel his warm breath on my neck. His clean and
unique scent invades my nostrils. He doesn’t say or do anything. There’s only
the quiet sound of our breathing. My heart finally stops racing.

“I need to leave,” he mutters reluctantly against my ear.
“I’ll be late for work.”

A twinge of pain hits me. I know it sounds crazy, but I
don’t want him to leave. I should welcome the opportunity to be alone. After
all, he just tied me down and held a knife to my throat. But I honestly didn’t
detect anything malicious about the dagger, and if he leaves, I know I’ll
suffer again like I did yesterday. Already, my body is quivering with need and
fresh desire. There’s something about his touch, his breath, his scent, his
kiss that overrides every logical thought I have.

“No,” I protest quietly. “Stay.”

He groans and kisses my ear. Somehow, I think I just said
what he wanted me to say…what he
needed
me to say.

His firm lips press against mine. His tongue slips between
my lips, claiming my mouth. I tug involuntarily against my restraints as a
gloved hand cups my breast. Wetness pools between my thighs as he sucks on my
bottom lip.

Almost reluctantly, he backs away slightly, breaking our
kiss. He looks angry about something. He curses softly in German before
whispering, “I wasn’t planning on fucking you. You’re such a distraction.” He
reaches between us and unzips his trousers.

He dips down to kiss me again. His hat tumbles off his head
and falls next to me. Without breaking our kiss, he grabs it and tosses his hat
softly to the floor.

His swollen cock parts the sensitive flesh of my pussy. The
tip glides over my clit before gently pushing against the entrance of my
sheath. A soft cry escapes me as he pushes himself into my tight passage. I tug
at the ropes pinning my wrists to the headboard.

Although he’s fucked me several times already, my sheath
still feels tight and unprepared for his thick arousal. I wince slightly as his
erection stretches my slick channel. He thrusts himself a bit too hard, a
little too soon, and his thick organ pierces my center like a hot blade. A wave
of real pain hits me, and something that sounds a lot like a sob escapes me.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, nuzzling my ear. He doesn’t move
at all but instead stays perfectly still. “I didn’t intend to harm you.” He
plants soft kisses on my neck.

I try to hold on to the pain. I want to remember that he
hurt me. I want to hate him, but already his gentle kissing is making me forget
the injury. His tongue tenderly traces my ear as guilt creeps through me. All I
feel is shame. Tears spill down my temples, but I manage not to sob. He raises
his head and looks at me. His eyes meet mine. I see the concern on his face.

“Shh, don’t cry.” His hand cups the side of my face. “I
didn’t think I’d hurt you so severely. Do you want me to stop?” Nodding, he
begins to gingerly withdraw his partially inserted cock.

“No,” I barely whisper, not wanting him to pull himself from
me.

“No?” He furrows his eyebrows, clearly confused by my
answer.

Oh God, why can’t my captor be the twisted and pierced
monster I always imagined he’d be?

“Oh,” he whispers. His expression shifts from bafflement to
comprehension. “I should have known with you, American.”

Confused and embarrassed, I look away from him. Despite my
best efforts to compose myself, my lips involuntarily quiver.

“Shh, it’s all right,” he whispers, nuzzling my ear.

After nibbling my ear, he covers my face with petal-soft
kisses. My breath hitches as I cry quietly under him. His fingers ever so
lightly skim my rib cage, tickling me. I involuntarily laugh through my tears.

He resumes pushing his partially inserted arousal inside me,
but I can tell he’s taking care to go slow. As he kisses and nuzzles my neck
and ear, he starts whispering things in German. He tells me strangely sweet
things like how beautiful I am, how good my hair smells, how sweet my lips
taste. He makes an odd comment about how he finds my sense of morality
charming, but I’m not sure what he means by that.

Once he has his cock inserted, he gingerly pulls out a bit
before easing himself back in.

The buttons of his tunic press against my belly as he gently
works himself in and out of me. His expert movements force me to climax
quickly. His lips hover just above mine as I cry out helplessly beneath him.

He doesn’t stop or slow but instead draws out my release,
which I both love and hate. My muscles knot and cramp painfully as my release
threatens to splinter me apart. I won’t beg him to stop. He never does anyway,
so there’s no point. His head dips down and kisses my neck.

“Please,” I hear myself whisper, desperate for my release to
find an end.

He groans against my shoulder, but he doesn’t stop.

His body shudders over me as he finds his own release. I
squeeze my eyes shut as the last waves of my orgasm pass through me. His body
sags against mine. I don’t think he wants to keep pushing me as he did last
night with his thumb.

After several minutes, he wordlessly slips off me and steps
out of bed. I feel paralyzed and instead study the ceiling. How can he do this
to me? I’m not a virgin. Steven and I were together for years, and he never made
me feel like this. I hear my captor’s boots hitting the hardwood floor. His
heavy footfalls walk down the hall. I hear him talking in German. I think he’s
on the phone.

Loosely translated, I hear him say, “I’m sorry. I won’t be
able to make the meeting this morning. My prisoner requires my attention.
Please email me a transcript. Yes, thank you.”

I hear his footsteps coming back. I turn my head slightly,
watching him enter the bedroom. He slips off his uniform and boots. He doesn’t
say anything as he crawls back into bed. His gaze is somewhat hard and cold. He
slips over me, trapping me under him as he eyes me intensely. “I should punish
you for making me miss my meeting, you know.”

Punish? What the hell is he talking about? A bit nervously,
I look up at him.

“Relax, American. I know you don’t understand.”

He hovers over me and plants soft kisses on my flush face.
My wrists are still tied to the headboard, so I can’t embrace him.