CapturedbytheSS (11 page)

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?”

“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. Inhaling
deeply, he shifts me around a bit 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 eyes.

“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.”

In all honesty, 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 a bit, 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 soon 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 suddenly
realize how muscular and lean he is.

“Oh,” he groans, embracing me harder. “I like feeling you
flesh to flesh.”

I swallow hard, not wanting to admit that I like it too.
Somehow, being with him like this in the dark is even more overwhelming. Every
fact I was taught, every truth that I know, everything that I’ve ever believed
since kindergarten is based on one central truth…the Third Reich is my enemy.

Countless films and lessons swirl through my head. I start
trembling in his arms, feeling confused, foolish, embarrassed and above all
else, ashamed. I should be trying to seduce him as my sex instructor taught me,
but I feel grossly underprepared for playing the part of the sexual predator.

I suppose I should’ve followed orders and slept with more
strangers, even though the very thought used to give me a headache. Somehow, my
captor kinda makes me feel like a virgin again, which I guess I could’ve
prevented if I were a bit more experienced. Of course, this wouldn’t be so hard
if I didn’t like his touch so much. A part of me is tempted to start crying. I
feel so…lost.

“It’s all right, American,” he whispers gently as he wraps
his arms firmly around me. His embrace is warm and reassuring. “You’re tensing
up again. I can feel it. Just relax.”

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. Firm lips press against
mine. Fresh desire washes through me, blotting out every thought.

His tongue glides past my lips. 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, one of his hands glides between my
thighs. His fingers rake through my chestnut curls before gently delving
between my folds. He gently 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.