Captured by the SS

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Captured by the SS Gail Starbright By the twenty-first century, Germany has all but taken over the world. Only one nation remains untouched…America. Only spies slip in and out of enemy territory. Within this shadowy and dangerous world of cloak and dagger, Isabel Riley is an American spy deep in enemy territory. Isabel is detained at a German checkpoint by a black-uniformed SS officer. She’s arrested, taken into custody and interrogated. But she soon learns her enigmatic captor wants more than just her secrets. He enjoys tying her up or teasing her with the tails of his leather flogger. But floggers and video cameras are the least of her concerns. In the eyes of the Third Reich, ownership is real. And a lovely American spy is far too tempting of a war prize to pass up.

Ellora’s Cave Publishing

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Captured by the SS ISBN 9781419934926 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Captured by the SS Copyright © 2011 Gail Starbright Edited by Mary Moran Cover art by Syneca Electronic book publication July 2011 The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502. Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously. The publisher and author(s) acknowledge the trademark status and trademark ownership of all trademarks, service marks and word marks mentioned in this book. The publisher does not have any control over, and does not assume any responsibility for, author or third-party Web sites or their content.

CAPTURED BY THE SS Gail Starbright

Captured by the SS

Chapter One Berlin, 2008 It’s strange. I’ve been behind enemy lines more times than I can count, and yet I’m still not accustomed to seeing the flag of the Third Reich. It’s probably because back home in America, that particular flag is nowhere to be found, and quite frankly, I’d like to keep it that way. When this assignment came up, I didn’t hesitate to volunteer. Tearing my gaze from the brightly illuminated roadside flags, I turn and study my driver. He told me his name is Ian and that he’s honored to help me, but I don’t quite believe him…neither on his name or the part about helping me. He’s a contact arranged through my superiors, a German citizen supposedly sympathetic to the American cause. Essentially, his job is to drive me around and provide a few basic provisions until we’re out of Berlin and relatively safe in Hannover. I only wish I could trust him. I hate that I’m so suspicious of my contact. But in this day and age, it’s hard to trust anyone who’s not from the States. The vast empire of the Third Reich includes all countries, islands and continents except for the forty-eight, tightly guarded, continental states of America. Silence lingers between me and my driver. “I want to thank you again for assisting me,” I declare in German. He turns his head briefly toward me. “No, don’t thank me. It’s no trouble, really.” Strange answer. For about the millionth time, I silently wish I could work alone. Unfortunately, I need help behind enemy lines. It’s hard enough just to smuggle me into Germany, but I still need things like food, shelter and especially transportation. Believe me, if I could barter gold or gemstones in exchange for goods and services without revealing my American citizenship, I would. But the empire’s laws allow only electronic currency. Because my ID is fraudulent and not linked to a valid account, it’s impossible to load credits onto my card’s magnetic strip. Electronic currency is an anti-espionage tactic that was concocted by the Gestapo in the mid-nineties. Our agency has tried to work around it by offering merchants diamonds in exchange for food, lodging and transportation, but few citizens are willing to go against the Gestapo. So, I’m basically stuck behind enemy lines without a penny or a German credit to my name, which is why I so desperately need a contact…even though I don’t want one. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t mind working with another person. I’m not some antisocial diva or something. The problem is that the empire keeps raising the rewards for

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information that leads to the capture of US spies. In the beginning, payments were considerable, but lately, the empire’s rewards have quite literally entered the status of overnight wealth. I’ve heard stories of even the most trusted contacts suddenly turning against American agents. Inhaling deeply, I steady my nerves as we cruise under yet another metal archway. This is actually our fourteenth checkpoint tonight. Since Berlin is the capital of the empire, security is tight and traffic is funneled through several checkpoints. But we only have one more to get through and then it’s smooth sailing on to Hannover. From there, a second contact is going to help me get back to the States. “One more,” my driver mutters in German. Relief washes over me…I’m almost out of Berlin. And I’m not worried at all about my contact in Hannover. I’ve worked with him before. His alias is David. He and his synagogue have been very generous to our agency in the past, literally betraying the empire to help us, even though the Third Reich no longer persecutes the Jewish community. Officially, apologies as well as financial reparations were issued decades ago to Holocaust survivors and Jewish families, but I don’t think it was enough for some. I know I’ll feel better once I meet up with David. His reasons for helping me are personal. My driver cruises up to the flashing yellow lights of a lowered gate. Like most checkpoints, it’s heavily guarded. So far, I’ve already spotted four armed guards milling about. They’re all dressed in heavy olive-drab coats and gear. Behind the lowered gate and off to the side are marked spaces to search vehicles and baggage. Several red, white and black flags billow in intense columns of bright white light. I try not to stare too intensely at the swastikas. After all, my ID states I’m a native German citizen residing in Hannover. I’m supposed to be accustomed to seeing that flag. Forcing my gaze forward, I make my eyes settle on a sign mounted on the lowered gate. In German, it reads, All vehicles must stop. Be prepared to show identification. Persons and vehicles subject to search. For some reason, my driver seems more nervous than at the last checkpoints. His nervousness makes me a bit antsy. Inhaling deeply, I will myself calm. The one car in front of us finally cruises forward after being waved through. The gate we’re stopped behind opens swiftly before my driver rolls up slowly. Since it’s two in the morning, there’s hardly any traffic. During peak times, it can sometimes take hours to get through. At a snail’s pace, our car cruises up to the second lowered gate. As is expected, my driver barely mutters a greeting before handing the patrolman both of our ID cards. I don’t stare at the armed patrolman, but instead subtly watch him out the corner of my eye.

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He takes one look at our IDs before promptly turning around. Without a word to us, he walks into the building behind him. Hmm, interesting. Anything other than a quick glance and a wave through can be a problem. My driver clutches the steering wheel, and I mentally review our cover story. If asked, we agreed to explain that we were in downtown Berlin to see Madama Butterfly at the Hoheit opera house. We even have torn tickets and a program in the car to support our story. The program is lying on the car’s center console with the tickets tucked inside. A few seconds turn into several seconds. Before I know it, a full minute passes. And then another. Swallowing hard, I start sweating in my blue satin dress. I wore the dress and the high heels to support the opera story as well as a nice dark coat. My driver bought the outfit this morning at a consignment shop. After several nerve-racking minutes, the same patrolman steps back out and approaches the driver’s side door. In clipped German, he informs my contact, “I need you to pull the vehicle to your right, turn off the engine and then come back over here.” There’s nothing threatening or menacing in his order, and in all honesty, it’s fairly commonplace to be stopped and searched. I try to remain calm as my driver rolls to the right and pulls into a marked space that’s designated for vehicle searches. Four armed guards merely watch us, but luckily, no one seems overly eager or trigger-happy. Sidearms and rifles remain either holstered or slung over shoulders. I nonchalantly step out and close the door. Without looking around, I walk the short distance back to the building. My driver is next to me. Although the vehicle search itself doesn’t bother me, I don’t understand why the patrolman walked off with our IDs first and then came back. That strikes me as odd…as if he were told to be on the lookout for our names. My driver clears his throat and looks around. It’s cold tonight. I plunge my hands deep in my coat pockets, trying to warm up. Three additional armed guards emerge from the building. They walk past us, making a beeline for our car. They rapidly descend on the small four-door vehicle and start opening every door, latch and compartment. Several lights suddenly come on and illuminate the vehicle from all conceivable angles. Without being obvious about it, I scan the area and take in every single patrolman, including the ones searching the car, the ones milling about and the other two who are guarding us. Specifically, I’m looking at their uniforms. All of them are dressed in darkgreen coats and gear. I breathe a sigh of relief. They’re all regular military, enlisted men. If there was someone dressed in gray, then there might be cause for concern since only commanding officers dress in gray. The last thing I need is some overzealous officer looking too closely at my forged ID, though I’ve been told it’s good enough to fool even the most 7

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critical eye. I’ve actually witnessed my ID being passed under a handheld black light, and the guard has never once even batted an eye. Of course, if my ID is ever radioed in or checked on the computer, I’m screwed. But a quick visual inspection or a pass under a black light is usually common practice. In all the years I’ve been doing this, I’ve never once had a guard research my ID. I think they have to be really suspicious of someone to do that. “I need you both to step inside,” one of the patrolmen informs us curtly in German. He’s gesturing toward the building with a gloved hand. I’m not sure what’s up with this, but I definitely don’t like it. Trying to remain calm, I follow the guard inside. Two more soldiers are waiting. I find some small relief in that the two additional men inside are also dressed in standard olive-drab uniforms. One comes up to my driver. “This way,” he says, directing him down a hallway. The other guard steps up to me. “Step this way.” I’m directed in an opposite direction from where they’re taking my driver. I’m not sure why they’re separating us, but it makes me even more nervous. After leading me down a short hallway, the patrolman stops in front of a closed door. He pushes it open and gestures for me to follow. Since the door opens into the room, he has to step inside to hold it open. During several of my past assignments, checkpoint guards have strip-searched me before, but this seems different than a stripsearch. Holding my breath, I walk into a white-walled room. The patrolman points to the side, indicating he wants me to walk to my left. There’s even a red sign on the floor that says Stand here in German. I obediently walk to where he’s pointing as my gaze subtly sweeps the area. As a trained agent, I’m taught to take in every detail of my surroundings. Unfortunately, I can’t see the whole space. The open door is blocking my view of the other side. Almost immediately, I sense a third person is in the room with us and intentionally standing in the room’s blind spot. What the hell is going on? Without another word to me, the guard walks out, pulling the door closed behind him. The minute the door closes, I finally see who’s standing in the room with me, and it takes every ounce of control I have to remain calm. Unlike the other patrolmen who are all dressed in standard military gear, this man is wearing the very distinct black uniform of the SS. Oh dear. There are only a handful of SS officers in the entire empire, and there is absolutely no reason why one would be at a checkpoint at two o’clock in the morning…unless of course, he’s been tipped off that an American spy is behind enemy lines. The entire

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scenario reeks of treachery, and I have a sudden urge to find my contact and strangle him to death. “Hello,” he greets me in German. He takes several steps toward me. I force myself to smile. After all, I’m supposed to be a citizen of the empire. At least that’s what my ID says. I try not to stare at the swastika on his red armband. I can tell he’s eager for me to speak. My German is perfect, and I can easily fool any patrolman that I’m a native citizen. But unlike patrolmen, SS officers are specially trained to detect any foreign lilt or pronunciation. To be accepted in the SS, a candidate has to pass several grueling language exams, which consist of both written essays and oral interviews. I’ve heard it’s almost impossible to get through the testing process, which actually takes several years to complete. Consequently, there aren’t that many SS officers. Hell, I think their numbers are only in the low teens, which is why I’m really surprised to be staring at one right now. Because of his specialized training, he’ll know I’m American the minute I start speaking. And I don’t have a contingency plan for this scenario. It’s not that my superiors have never thought of this. It’s just that…we don’t have a success story to base anything on. For the last thirty years, the elite SS has been a roadblock for my agency. Our only advantage is their low numbers. Although I don’t have a good plan for this scenario, I have been trained on how to handle tense or high-stress interviews. I just need to stay calm and think quickly. To buy a little time, I offer him a polite curtsy. This is a situation where Nazi culture actually works to my advantage. Although the practice is a bit out of date, women are still technically discouraged from speaking. It’s considered more ladylike or proper to either smile or curtsy, especially for women from higher social classes. He only nods once at my action. I’m not sure what exactly he sees. The rim of his hat is shadowing his eyes, making it hard for me to get a bead on him. “Please, I’d like to speak to you. Tell me your name.” His tone and mannerisms don’t strike me as menacing. I sense uncertainty from him, as if he’s not sure what to make of me just yet. I can only guess the empire’s high rewards most likely send the SS on several pointless chases. He’s probably accustomed to false leads, which might be an advantage for me. But…I do have to speak now. Since I know my pronunciation won’t fool an SS officer, my best bet is to fake another accent while speaking German. If I’m lucky, I can convince him I’m from one of the territories of the Third Reich. It’s not a great plan, but it might work. I just have to muddy the pronunciation enough to convince him I’m not American. “My name is Sarah Yoven,” I reply in German. I’m careful to slip a slight Irish accent to my words. I’ve never actually practiced speaking German with an Irish accent.

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But I’ve always been good at improvising and thinking on my feet. Besides, I don’t have anything to lose at this point. He frowns at my greeting. I can tell he wasn’t expecting to hear the Irish. If my plan works, the worst scenario is that I’ll receive a citation because Nazi laws specify that only native citizens are allowed in Berlin. A native citizen is someone who was not only born in Germany but can also trace German ancestry to each parent and grandparent. With my Irish accent, I’m basically trying to say, Hi, I’m from a German territory, and I sneaked into Berlin illegally, which is a steep fine, yes. But it’s not a death sentence. Being positively identified as an American is a death sentence…and not a pretty one. If he hasn’t already figured it out, which he probably has, he’ll soon conclude my ID is fake since it states I’m a native citizen. Possession of forged identification can be a sticky charge, depending on how the document was used, but I’ll take my chances with it. He’s staring at me as if he already knows I’m American…or I could just be imagining it. Frowning, he turns and retrieves a simple wooden chair that’s against the wall. He places it dead center in the stark white room. “Please sit down.” He gestures toward it. Trying to feign confusion, I force myself to walk across the room and then sit down. My satin dress tugs against my sweaty skin as I seat myself. I’ve read SS officers make even native citizens nervous, so I’m hoping he doesn’t read too much into my body’s reactions. After I sit down, he nonchalantly pulls a second wooden chair beside me but turns it toward the opposite wall. He folds his eloquent frame into the seat. I angle my legs slightly away from him so we’re not touching each other. But he murmurs disapprovingly. “Please slide closer to me.” I reluctantly shift about, but I manage to avoid touching him. Again, he murmurs disapprovingly. “I’m sorry,” he declares. “I need you to be a bit closer.” I don’t think he’s going to be happy until I’m in his freakin’ lap. Trying to remain aloof, I shift about until our outer thighs are pressed together. He doesn’t say anything, but I can feel his heavy stare as I study the floor. Because of the way we’re sitting, I could easily place my hand on his thigh or even his crotch. And I have a sneaking suspicion that’s exactly why we’re sitting the way we are. He’s not making any sexual advances toward me, but I have the impression he’s silently inviting me to make a move on him. He leans back a bit in his chair. His body language seems to suggest, I know who you are, but if you fuck me, I might let you go.

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I’ve always been told that sex is a valuable tool in my arsenal, one of the few things I might be able to actually barter with. I even have a teacher in the art of seduction. I can practically hear my sex instructor whispering, “Put your hand on his thigh. He’s an SS officer, yes, but he’s still a man. If you’re nice to him, he might be nice to you.” Even though it goes against my training, I fold my hands together and rest them in my lap instead. To me, it makes more sense to remain aloof. Since I’m pretending to be a citizen of the Third Reich, I think I should act confused and slightly nervous, as if I have no idea why I’m being questioned by an SS officer. If I grab his thigh, then that seems too obvious that I’m trying to hide something. His body language changes slightly. He seems frustrated and annoyed, letting out a this-is-a-waste-of-time sigh. I may have just messed up. Maybe I should act a little nicer. “I apologize for the closeness,” he states evenly. “It’s a necessary step in questioning.” He sounds sincere. I think he really believes I’m a citizen, albeit a nonnative. Holy crap, there may be some hope here. I think I just failed one of his tests for spotting an American spy. Now if he buys my accent, I might actually get out of this. Of course, I guess I’m hitchhiking to Hannover, but I’ll figure out transportation later. “This won’t take very long,” he states, obviously irritated. I only smile feebly and nod once. He turns his head briefly away from me and mutters something about the Reich’s rewards. “What business did you have in Berlin?” he asks simply. He’s barely paying me any attention. I steady my nerves before answering. “We had tickets for Madama Butterfly at the Hoheit opera house.” Again, my German is slightly colored with an Irish accent. “I see.” He sounds mildly interested. “The Hoheit is a beautiful opera house.” His tone is conversational, relaxed. I think he really likes the Hoheit. Without rushing at all, he peels off his black leather gloves. He’s not even looking at me. Clutching the gloves in one hand, he slips off his hat. Almost angrily, he places his upturned hat on his lap before tossing his gloves inside. His blond hair is a little longer than I thought it would be. He appears to be in his mid-thirties. If he weren’t wearing an SS uniform, I suppose he could be considered attractive. Without the low-rim hat, I notice that his eyes are pale blue. He also looks tired…really tired. I have the impression he’s been waiting for quite a while, which might explain his sour mood. In all honesty, we are late. A broken water main closed a major street, and we were stuck in traffic for hours. I’m so behind schedule that my contact in Hannover is probably worried. “Your hand, please.” 11

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He’s reaching for my left hand. I will myself to stare back into his blue eyes as I offer him my left hand. His warm fingers press against my wrist, obviously locating my pulse. “You seem nervous,” he declares after several seconds. He doesn’t sound surprised. Steadying my nerves, I force myself to answer. “I’m being questioned by an SS officer. That’s not exactly a common event. Why wouldn’t I be nervous?” Much to my relief, everything comes out sounding right. I say the words perfectly, and I color the pronunciation with a subtle Irish accent. “Your ID states you are a native citizen, but you sound Irish. Surely you know that only native Germans are allowed in Berlin.” He looks and sounds bored, like a member of the US Secret Service busting a teenager for loitering. Catching a nonnative in Berlin is hardly a case severe enough to bring down the SS. I’m relieved he bought my accent. Maybe I really can get myself out of this. Recognizing the opportunity, I feign defeat. I also make myself look nervous, which doesn’t require too much effort. “I only wanted to see Madama Butterfly at the Hoheit opera house.” Again, my German is slightly tinged with an Irish accent. “I meant no disrespect, sir, and I’ll promptly pay the fine.” Though…I have no idea how I’m going to pay a fine, but that’s not important right now. I’m not certain, but he seems to furrow his eyebrows a bit. “Your fake ID is good. It’s one of the best I’ve ever seen. It seems like a lot of trouble just to see an opera.” His fingers never once leave my wrist. “Perhaps, but the Hoheit opera house is legendary,” I reply, which is actually the truth. It’s common knowledge that only the best of the best performers appear onstage at the Hoheit. “I know it was foolish to sneak into Berlin, but I wanted an experience I could remember forever.” “Where did you get that ID?” “I made it.” Fortunately, most citizens in the empire do have easy access to computers, scanners, printers and even sophisticated laminators. Lucky for me, the empire is actually currently struggling with fake IDs. From what I’ve read, quite a few nonnatives like to sneak into Berlin to catch a performance at the Hoheit. There’s also a museum and an art gallery in Berlin that’s home to some very rare and exquisite pieces. Personally, I think most nonnatives just like the thrill of sneaking in. It’s a citation if caught, yes, but it’s only a fine, albeit a steep one. There’s talk of switching to fingerprint technology, but it hasn’t been implemented yet. Many doubt it ever will be. The logistics of such a project are just too great, especially for such a minor offense. I think the empire relies more on rewards to bring them the spies. He’s silent for a long moment.

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A shadow of confusion crosses his face. But in an instant, it’s gone. His body language abruptly changes. Only seconds ago, he looked tired, bored and annoyed. But now…well, he’s more alert and eager. His eyes narrow slightly at me. I don’t like his new demeanor. His fingers dig into my flesh, and I will my heart to not race. I desperately try to picture a serene and peaceful beach, hoping the image will keep my pulse in check. “It’s very strange,” he declares. “When I said earlier that you sounded Irish, your pulse slowed slightly, as if you were relieved. It should have quickened, since it’s illegal for nonnative Germans to be in Berlin.” Again, my training kicks in, saving me from saying anything foolish…such as blurting out that I’m an American spy, for example. “I was only relieved that I now understand why I’m being questioned, that’s all.” “You think an SS officer would be at a checkpoint at two in the morning to track down an Irish woman who only wanted to see Madama Butterfly?” Unfortunately, I can’t think of a response to that question. “Your German is quite good. I’m impressed. And you fake an Irish accent very well. But there’s something else about your German. I can tell it’s not your first language.” Despite my best efforts to stay calm, my heart starts racing. His fingers press even harder into my wrist. A subtle smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Since Ireland became a German nation in 1952, a young woman like you should have grown up speaking the language, but I can tell you didn’t. I can tell you grew up speaking English.” I know I’m losing control of the situation, but I’m not without some pushback. English is still spoken in pockets of rural Ireland, which is precisely why I chose to use an Irish accent. The empire hasn’t completely eradicated the language. Trying not to panic, I scramble for a lie. “My family was very poor and lived in the country. I didn’t go to any imperial schools. I was homeschooled. My parents spoke English. I learned German later at the university.” His head tilts slightly. “You’re very clever. Whenever I think I have you cornered, you manage to tell me another lie.” “I’m not lying.” His fingers squeeze my wrist. “Your pulse tells me otherwise.” “I’m nervous. I’m a nonnative citizen from Ireland caught within Berlin city limits.” I pour as much conviction in that statement as possible. I want him to believe it. Oh God, please, just let him believe it. “I’m nervous about receiving a citation for breaking the law.” “No, you’re not from Ireland. Your pronunciation isn’t quite right, though it’s very close.”

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His conviction shatters any lingering confidence I have. SS officers are notorious for being expert linguists. I try to look annoyed, but I think my expression more closely resembles fear. I can feel my façade slipping. “There’s a distinct slant to your words that’s unique to America. You hide it well, but it’s slipped out more and more as we’ve talked. Whoever taught you German did a superb job, and your Irish accent was brilliant. You knew your pronunciation would never slide by an SS officer, so you tried to hide your true country of origin.” “I told you… I didn’t go to any imperial schools. I learned German later. I’m just a nonnative, that’s all.” My words are more of a plea, I know. Hell, I think I even forgot to muddy my statements with the Irish accent. I might as well have just said it in English because we’re way past deceit at this point. “No. You, my dear, are an American,” he declares in English. “I heard it in your words when we first started talking. And your pulse quickened and slowed in all the wrong places, which meant you were lying to me.” Though heavy with a German accent, his English is perfect. It surprises me that he knows English, though I guess it shouldn’t. He is a linguist after all. He’s probably even fluent in the phased-out languages as well. I know I’m losing this battle, but I absolutely refuse to give up. At this point, he’ll assume I’m working for American intelligence, which I am, but maybe I can convince him I’m just a foolish civilian. I have no idea why, but sometimes, civilians do really stupid things…such as sneak across borders and travel to known German territories. As a result, they usually get themselves in all kinds of trouble…like getting shipped in several bloody boxes to the US embassy in Canada. If he thinks I’m a tourist, he might just kill me instead of bothering with an interrogation. “I just wanted to see Germany,” I state in English. “I was only sightseeing.” His eyes narrow coldly at me. “You are far too clever under questioning to be a civilian. Now stop lying to me. You’re working for American intelligence.” Not certain what else to say, I glance away from him. I don’t like defeat. “I’ve never had an American spy use another accent like that. Choosing Irish was smart too since English is still spoken in parts of the country.” Again, he says it in English, but he sounds as if he’s talking more to himself than to me. “There’s something different about you.” He finally releases my wrist before retrieving his gloves and then slowly pulling them back on. A bit victoriously, he slips his hat back on as well. I study the floor and instead watch him out the corner of my eye. I don’t say anything. My careless words have already gotten me in enough trouble. I’m not sure why he thinks my Irish accent was smart…it didn’t work. “Come. Stand up,” he declares once he has his hat and gloves back on.

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Without any threat or flair, he stands up briskly and retrieves a set of handcuffs from his belt. Suddenly queasy, I don’t stand. Hell, I’m not even certain I can move. “I said ‘stand up’, American.” Inhaling deeply, I try to remember my training. I’ve been told that in the event of capture, I should try to cooperate and do nothing to provoke my keepers…aside from giving away information of course. And following an order to stand doesn’t betray US security. On wobbly legs, I manage to stand. “Good. Now we need to figure out exactly what to do with such a clever American spy.” As he talks, he deftly turns me around before cuffing my wrists behind my back. I take slow, measured breaths, willing myself to stay calm. A bit lightheaded, I barely register him patting me down. His gloved hands slip in each of my coat pockets before skimming briefly around my waist. The search doesn’t take very long. I think he knows already I’m not armed. Wordlessly, he turns me toward the door. With a swift hand gesture, he motions for me to walk. Willing my legs to move, I manage to take a step before slowly crossing the room. He follows closely behind me. I stop at the closed door, and he steps next to me before opening it. “Move,” he orders coldly, gesturing with a swift jerk of his head. I step out into the hall. As an agent, I’ve always known capture is a definite possibility. But somehow, I never thought this would happen. It’s a bit surreal. I feel I’m living out a reoccurring nightmare. His hand lands on my left shoulder. He coaxes me to turn right. We walk for several paces before he pushes me to the right again. I stop at a closed door. He steps next to me to unlock and then open it before roughly grabbing my arm. “Step forward, American,” he snaps, coaxing me to walk again. I will my numb body to cooperate. We’re outside. I’m not certain, but I think we’re on the other side of the checkpoint. I consider making a run for it, but a fast glance around me quickly makes me rethink that idea. I immediately spot three armed patrolmen watching us. Running at this point would be stupid. Besides, I can’t exactly haul ass in heels. A black car is parked near the building. He guides me toward the passenger side. His hand abandons my shoulder before he opens the door. “Get in,” he orders. Reluctantly, I climb in and sit down. He shuts the door. He doesn’t hurry in walking around the front to the driver’s side. After opening the other door, he quickly sits down and then starts the car. A seat belt snakes around me as the engine quietly comes to life. I’m not sure what kind of car I’m in, but I can tell it’s a high-performance vehicle, one of Germany’s finest autos. 15

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As we cruise down the road, I vaguely wonder where he’s taking me, but I don’t really want to know either. All I know for sure is that we’re leaving Berlin city limits, which is precisely what I wanted only a few short minutes ago…but I sure as hell didn’t want to leave as a prisoner in an SS officer’s car. There’s a lighted sign up ahead, Reichsautobahn, freeway of the Reich. I try to pay attention to directions and signs. We’re getting on the entrance ramp for East Freeway 21. After merging, he leans hard on the accelerator and quickly takes the left lane. He flashes his headlights at a slower-moving vehicle in front of us. The other car quickly moves over, giving him the lane. Like most open freeways in Germany, there’s no posted speed limit outside the city. And since his vehicle is capable of reaching top speeds, traffic quickly gives him the right of way. As we cruise, I desperately try to formulate either an escape plan or a quick suicide. If I weren’t handcuffed, I’d grab the steering wheel. I know how to pick a handcuff lock and I’m limber enough to slip my cuffed wrists under me, but I can’t do anything with him right next to me. Deciding it won’t hurt one way or the other, I attempt some conversation instead…at least for now. A better opportunity for escape or suicide may come later. “You were tipped off about me, weren’t you?” I ask in English. “That’s why you were at that checkpoint.” He looks surprised about something, and I think I know why. My training discourages idle chitchat with my captor. Even my seduction teacher told me that men don’t like a lot of talking. He’s probably not accustomed to prisoners asking him anything, but I don’t see the harm. After all, I’ve already been captured. I think the jig is up. In truth, I’m trying to keep my mind occupied. I don’t want to think about all the horrible things that are about to happen to me. After a long pause, he answers my question. “Yes, I was. Your driver is loyal to the empire.” I silently curse my double-crossing contact. “So why were you so late? I was told you would be there by eight at the latest. I’ve been waiting at that checkpoint for hours. I was actually about to leave.” I don’t want to answer his question, but I guess it doesn’t threaten US security. Besides, I’m a bit intrigued by an English-speaking Nazi, so I continue our conversation. “There was a broken water main. It closed a major road on the other side of Berlin. The detour and the traffic slowed us down.” He only nods at my explanation. I’m not sure why I want to know, but I can’t help but wonder about something. “How close to leaving were you?”

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He smiles at my question before offering me a somewhat baffled sideways glance. “I was in my car when the patrolman came running outside with your ID. We were only told your alias was Sarah Yoven. Had I left, though, it wouldn’t have mattered. The guards at that checkpoint would’ve detained you for me. I only stayed because I was anxious to find you.” Steadying my nerves, I decide to ask what I really want to know. “Where are you taking me?” “Ordinarily, American spies are taken to a facility in Berlin. But since you behaved so differently in the initial interview…and because you continue to act somewhat strangely, I want to spend more time questioning you, so I’m taking you to my residence. That way, I can spend as much time interrogating you as I like.” Oh, well, goodie. Lucky me. “And what exactly are you going to do to me?” Without batting an eye, he answers my question. “You will be made to cooperate of course.” His answer is very matter-of-fact, as if he’s commenting on the weather. There’s nothing malicious or threatening in his tone, which actually scares me more. In a sudden panic, I wonder how many valuable secrets I know…or if I even know any valuable secrets. My job is to memorize and obtain military details about the Nazis to give to my American superiors…it’s not the other way around. Hell, I don’t think I even know anything. It may not be pretty, but spies are expendable and intentionally kept in the dark about most US military affairs. There are a lot of things I don’t know. I don’t know how my superiors find and communicate with contacts in Germany. I don’t know anything about informants in the empire or how they communicate with my superiors. I really don’t know anything about anything. Questioning me may be pointless at best. We drive for about an hour or so before he exits the freeway and then turns onto another road. The vehicle’s speed decreases greatly, and we cruise at a slower clip until he turns down a gravel road. After what feels like an eternity, he stops in front of a white stone house. I don’t see any lights on inside nor do I see any buildings around. Unlike the checkpoint, there aren’t any armed guards either. I could slip my handcuffs under me, open the door and then run like hell. “Don’t move,” he orders, killing the engine. “If you run, I will shoot you in the leg.” Hmm, I think he sensed something from me. I reluctantly glance at his sidearm. Although I don’t say anything, I silently agree not to run. I don’t want to spend my last few days of life in unnecessary agony. After stepping out of the car, he pockets his keys and walks around to my side. He opens my door and gestures for me to get out. “Out, please.” I lean away from him, not wanting to cooperate. “Out, please,” he repeats. Instead of gesturing again, he tugs on my arm. 17

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“All right,” I growl, angrily stepping out. Again, he seems a bit surprised by my behavior. He didn’t ask me to reveal anything or give any information yet. He told me to get out of the car. I really shouldn’t be so disagreeable so early in the game. But I’m not at all happy about this, and I want him to know that. He pulls me toward the house. After unlocking and then opening the front door, he shoves me inside without releasing me. He takes a moment to relock the front door as he holds me firmly. I tug against him, but he only ignores me as he turns the deadbolt. Without a word to me, he effortlessly drags me upstairs. We stop in a dark room. He clicks on the light. A bit disoriented, I take in the sparsely furnished room. It looks like a rarely used guest bedroom. There’s only a twin-sized bed, a nightstand and a small lamp. I’m not sure why, but he unlocks one of my handcuffs. Giddiness washes through me as I pull my hands from behind my back. “Lie down on the bed, please.” I ball my freed hands into fists. “I’m not cooperating with you!” I can practically hear my instructors screaming at me that I’m doing precisely the wrong thing. Again, he didn’t ask for information. He told me to lie down. Wordlessly, he snatches my wrist and pulls me to the bed. I yank against him, fighting him, which I’m actually not supposed to do. Unfortunately, I quickly find out that I’m physically no match for him. Tugging against him, I practically sit down, trying to break free, but he only drags me across the floor to the bed. My other hand tries to grab something to stop my forward progress but only pointlessly skids across the hardwood floor. His handcuffs are still locked to my wrist, and they clatter against the floor as he pulls me. Falling back on pure, primal instincts, I kick his leg…hard. He only grunts and stumbles, but he doesn’t release me. He flashes me a vicious look that kinda makes me regret doing that. “I have had a very long night, American, and I have little patience left. If I were you, I would be nicer.” He brutally yanks me up to my feet. Taking hold of my wrist, he roughly twists my arm behind my back and bends me over the side of the bed. Pain spears through my arm and shoulder. Pressing my face against the bedding, I squeeze my eyes shut and stifle a sob. I can tell he’s capable of really hurting me. If he pulls much harder, he’ll break something or possibly dislocate my shoulder. Swallowing my pride, I fall back on my training, vaguely remembering I’m not supposed to provoke my captor. I will myself to go limp before speaking. “Please,” I whisper, turning my head to the side. “I’ll be good.” He stops twisting my arm and releases me. “Thank you, American. I did not want to have to hurt you over such a simple request. Now please take off your coat and lie down on your back.”

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Inhaling deeply, I stand and slowly slip off my coat. My captor takes it before tossing it on the other side of the small bed. Without looking at him, I sit down on the bed before obediently lying back. Firmly, but not roughly, he takes hold of both my wrists and pulls them toward the wrought iron headboard. Tilting my head back, I watch him loop the chain of my tethered handcuff over the headboard before securing the loose shackle to my other wrist. Apparently satisfied, he turns without looking at me and then wordlessly leaves the room. I hear his heavy footfalls going down the stairs. Fairly certain he’s downstairs, I grab the headboard with both hands and quickly pull myself up. Resting my head against my hands, I frantically dig for a bobby pin. I always try to have at least two tucked in my hair somewhere during an assignment. I actually know how to pick several types of locks with just a bobby pin, including handcuffs. To me, they’re a vital tool behind enemy lines. No one ever actually taught me how to pick a lock with a bobby pin. It’s a trick I taught myself. I told one of my instructors about it once, but he just rolled his eyes and told me, “A hairpin will pick only the simplest of locks. It won’t get you into a secure building.” Technically, my instructor is indeed correct. Whenever I break into a highly secured building, like the Echelon, I have a little toolkit I keep strapped to my thigh. It has sophisticated lock-picking tools, a Philips and flathead screwdriver, a small saw for stubborn locks and even a lock scrambler that can bypass both fingerprint scanners and ocular readers. I always have to toss it before leaving Berlin though. Something like that could be a problem at checkpoints. But I don’t need my toolkit for handcuffs. Holding my breath, I find a pin in my hair. After pulling it out, I deftly get to work on unlocking one of my cuffs. In a matter of seconds, I have one unlocked. I don’t have a lot of time, so I leave the other cuff on and let the restraint dangle from my wrist. Not making any noise, I hurriedly sit up while tucking the pin back in, and then slide out of bed. The minute my shoes hit the hardwood floor, there’s a distinct tap. Biting my bottom lip, I quickly bend over to pull off my shoes. I walk softly across the hardwood floor barefooted toward the open door. Peering through the door, I search for my captor. I don’t see or hear him. Being careful not to make any noise, I slip into the pitch-black hall and feel my way toward the stairs. Clutching my shoes in one hand, I silently make my way down the stairs. Leaning over the railing, I search for any sign of him. There’s no sound or movement. Of course it’s so dark I can’t see anything. I think there’s a living room spilling out to the side of the stairs. Taking a shallow breath, I tiptoe off the last step. My eyes have adjusted to the darkness, and I can see moonlight streaming in from several small windows in the

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foyer. Hurrying toward the door, I glance behind me, searching for him. There’s no sound or movement. A bit giddy, I fiddle with the locks. My mind is already planning my next move. I have no idea where I’m going to go or how I’m going to get there. Hannover is still my best bet. But I don’t know where David’s synagogue is, and by now, he’s probably not at our rendezvous point anymore. I’m basically stuck behind enemy lines with no ID, no transportation and no help. Of course, the ID is the really important thing. It’s hard to walk in any direction without a guard or a patrolman asking for identification. I have no idea how far I’m going to get, but at least I won’t be here. There’s a distinct click when I turn the deadbolt. Off to my right, I hear a soft sound and then a startled intake of air…followed by rushing footsteps. Crap. He’s in the living room. Damn it! Damn it! Damn it! I frantically try to get the door open, but he’s on me in an instant. His arms wrap firmly around me. “And where do you think you are going, American?” Amusement filters through his German-heavy English. I thought I’d leave. It’s been fun though. “Let me go!” I protest, pulling against him. In the struggle, I drop my shoes. “You said you would be good.” He chuckles softly into my hair. I lied! He drags me down a dark hallway. After stopping in another room, he turns on a light. We’re in the kitchen. My bare feet don’t even touch the floor as he holds me firm in just one arm. He marches to a drawer and then opens it. He pulls out a spool of thin, sand-colored rope. Leaving the rope on the counter, he walks across the kitchen. His arm around me constricts as he pulls open another drawer. Much to my concern, he retrieves a very long knife. Oh dear. I wrestle against him, trying to break free, but his grip is incredibly tight. After gathering the knife and the rope, he carries me back toward the stairs. A bit panicstricken about the items he’s holding, I desperately try to formulate another plan. The minute he steps on the stairs, I shove against the wall with my foot in an attempt to knock him off balance. “Stop it,” he orders, catching himself on the banister. “Do you want me to shoot you? Because I will if you refuse to behave.” Oh yeah, I kinda forgot about that threat. “All right,” I growl. “I’ll behave.” I stop fighting and let him carry me upstairs. He takes me back to the same room. “You are the most unusual American spy I have ever encountered,” he declares, setting me down. “Now sit down on the edge of the bed.” Grudgingly, I comply. He sets down the rope and the knife on the nightstand. He turns and zeroes in on my dangling handcuff. He only chuckles softly as he unlocks it. 20

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After slipping his handcuffs back on his belt, he merely studies me. I think he’s trying to determine how I picked the lock. His gloved fingers brush through my hair. I’m not sure why I notice, but his fingers feel strong and nimble. “Aha,” he murmurs, finding the pins. He gently pulls them out. “You continue to surprise me with your tricks.” He gestures at me with my bobby pins as he talks. My eyes unwillingly meet his. Pausing, he raises an eyebrow quizzically at me. He wordlessly pockets the bobby pins as his piercing eyes scrutinize me. Uncomfortable under his heavy stare, I pull my gaze away and instead look down at the floor. His gloved fingers glide under my chin and tilt my face up. I know he wants me to look at him, so I reluctantly cooperate. His eyes bore into mine as he bends over slightly. He leans in closer to me. “Your eyes are different. I thought it was just the lighting at the checkpoint.” I look away from him and instead study the wall. I try to pretend I don’t know what he’s talking about. In all honesty, I do. If I had to describe my comrades in only one word I would say unfazed. It’s as if nothing ever bothers them or taxes them. It’s an odd calmness that’s also reflected in their eyes. Don’t get me wrong, my fellow agents are smart, clever, funny…they’re ordinary people really, but just…unfazed. For example, if our superiors woke us up at three in the morning and told us to go on a five-mile jog in the pouring rain, which they sometimes did, my comrades literally didn’t care. They just got up, got dressed and did it. Meanwhile, it took every ounce of strength I had not to complain or mutter unhappily about it. I mean, seriously, who wants to go on a five-mile jog at three in the morning in the pouring rain! But stuff like that just never bothered the others. And if I tried to talk to them later about it with a casual, “Hey, that jog was kinda tough this morning, huh?” they usually just looked at me and asked, “What do you mean?” “Why are you so different?” my captor demands. I only study the wall, not wanting to meet his eyes. He hitches my chin up higher, obviously wanting me to look at him. Angrily, I do. He seems intrigued about something. “Answer me, fräulein. Why aren’t you like the others?” In modern German, fräulein basically means little girl and is more of a derogatory term now, though it once meant miss or young lady. It’s typically reserved for parents to scold young girls in private, but I’m more bothered by his question than the title he chose. I only shrug indifferently, as if I have no clue what he’s talking about. But in truth, his question just hit a nerve. He’s dragging out a truth I’ve tried hard to either ignore or deny. Since my first day in intelligence, I’ve always felt there was something odd about me, though I never knew what, and it was often a source of frustration and displeasure 21

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to my superiors. I was often told things such as, “You ask too many questions” or “Just follow orders”. It’s one reason why I volunteer for more assignments. I always feel I’m trying to prove something. His hand slips out from under my chin. “You are a curious case,” he mutters, standing up straight. “I was right to bring you here. I need more time to question you. I want more than a name and serial number.” He reaches beside him to the items he left on the nightstand. He picks up the rope and the knife. Much to my relief, he uses the knife to cut up sections of rope. I’m hoping that’s all he plans to do with it. “Lie back down, American. I doubt you can pick a knot.” I don’t want to, but I don’t feel I have much choice. Since he took my bobby pins, I wouldn’t be able to pick the handcuffs anyway, but I guess he’s not taking any chances. I obediently lie back the way I was. He retrieves my right wrist and pulls it over my head. He holds my right hand against the headboard and positions my arm with my wrist facing out. He then knots the rough, thin rope around my pinned limb, effectively immobilizing my arm. Clutching another section of cut rope, he leans over me and captures my other hand. He tethers my other wrist to the headboard. I don’t fight him at all. Walking toward the foot of the bed, he pulls a delicate silver chain from his pocket. It looks like a bracelet or a piece of jewelry. “Obviously, I should have put this on you earlier,” he mutters, wrapping the silver links around my left ankle. I know what the anklet is…at least, I think I do. I’m guessing it’s part of a tracking system, most likely a GPS locator. If I do manage to get away, he’ll be able to find me with it. My suspicions are confirmed when he pulls a small handheld device from his pocket. It’s about the size of a cell phone or a digital camera. I see the light from the device’s screen on his uniform and face. I think he’s checking to confirm my locator is working. Without a word to me, he pockets the device and then retrieves a longer section of rope. Wrapping the rope around both my ankles, he ties my feet together before knotting the rope to the footboard. “There. I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere now.” He straightens before looking me up and down. I’m not certain, but he seems to pause for a moment. I’m not sure what exactly he sees. Seemingly embarrassed, he shakes his head slightly and looks away. A muscle tightens in his jaw, as if he’s angry about something. Well hell, I don’t know what his freakin’ problem is. I’m pretty sure I’m the one having the bad day here! Genuine fear settles over me. I don’t like being tied down. It reminds me a little too much of certain pictures and rape films my instructors made me watch. I have no idea

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what he’s going to do to me, but I can take a pretty good guess. I’ve been trained on what to expect in the event of capture. He’ll most likely rape and torture me before dragging me off to my public execution. I don’t mind…seriously, I don’t. I knew what I got myself into when I agreed to work in intelligence. No one sugarcoated this profession. I was told point-blank what to expect in the event of capture, but that doesn’t stop me from being afraid. That annoying self-preservation instinct is just making this harder than necessary. With me securely tied down, he turns and simply walks away. His boots thud across the hardwood floor. Tilting my head, I search for where he went. I hear him moving about the house, but I’m not sure what he’s doing. I swallow hard as his heavy footfalls grow louder. When he walks back into the room, I notice he’s holding a black case that’s roughly the shape and size of a large book. I also see a notebook and a pen. Holding the items in one hand, he picks up the lamp and sets it on the floor. He places the items on the cleared nightstand. Looking at the table, he frowns. He slides the small table away from the bed and stands between it and me. I think he’s intentionally hiding whatever’s in the mysterious black case. With his back to me, he unzips the rectangular-shaped bag. Since he’s blocking my view, I have no idea what’s in the case. He turns slightly, and my eyes meet his. He offers me a somewhat chilling smile. “You think I’m going to torture and rape you, don’t you?” I’m not sure what he wants to hear, but he’s damn good at figuring out what I’m really thinking, so I go with the truth. “Yes,” I admit. Apparently fascinated by something, he walks around the nightstand so he can watch me as he works. I can see what he’s doing now since he’s no longer blocking my view. “I need information from you, American, and we learned decades ago that torture and rape are not reliable methods of interrogation.” I might feel better about that statement if he hadn’t just pulled a syringe with a needle from the case. I’m not sure what this guy’s definition of torture is, but to me, anything with needles definitely qualifies. I almost wish he was blocking my view again. I’m not sure I want to watch. Without looking at me, he pulls off the needle’s plastic cap. He sets the cap down on the nightstand, but it rolls off and falls, clattering noisily against the hardwood floor. He doesn’t pick it up. He pulls a small glass vial from the case before setting it down on the table. While holding the vial steady, he plunges the needle into it. After carefully inverting the bottle, he brings the inserted syringe closer to his face as he expertly draws the clear

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liquid. There’s no hesitation or uncertainty in his actions. I have the impression he’s done this many times. “What is that?” I ask, though I know he’s not going to tell me. He smiles as he looks at me. “You don’t get to ask the questions, American.” I’ve read the Nazis have spent billions on pharmaceutical research. There are rumors they have potent mind-weakening drugs, but I’m not sure if that’s what he’s going to give me or not. Since I’m helplessly tied down, I can’t do anything to stop him. His gloved fingers lightly trace a vein in my upturned wrist. The rope securing me to the bed is closer to my hand and doesn’t appear to be in his way. He looks focused. His index finger stops and presses into my flesh. I’m sensing he’s found whatever it is he’s looking for. He swabs my wrist with something cold and wet. I find it odd he’s sterilizing the injection site. I guess he wants to keep me healthy for my execution. The tip of the needle touches where his index finger was. I inadvertently tug against the restraints, but he’s holding my arm, preventing any thrashing. I squeeze my eyes shut, fearing the injection will most likely hurt. The needle feels like a sharp pinch, but fortunately there’s nothing really painful about it. When I feel the needle leave me, I open my eyes. Willing myself calm, I study the ceiling. As part of my training, I’ve actually had several so-called truth serums administered to me. If it’s something my system has been introduced to before, I might have some resistance to whatever this drug is. My experience with most truth serums is that they’re not very effective. As I study the ceiling, I suddenly feel a bit loopy and sleepy. I guess my system has never experienced this particular drug before or it wouldn’t be hitting me this hard and this fast. Reality slowly dissolves as my eyes unwillingly close. I hear my captor’s heavy footfalls leave the room. After several minutes, I hear him return. A chair scoots across the floor. I hear paper rustling. “Now,” he whispers, “you’re going to answer my questions.” I sense movement next to me, and I hear the chair being pulled up closer. Darkness lingers over me, but it doesn’t completely engulf me. My limbs feel heavy and unresponsive. I hear him ask the first question. “What is your name? Your real name, American.” I’m not saying anything! Kiss my ass! “Isabel Riley.” What the hell? I can’t believe I just told him that. I had every intention of revealing nothing. “Spell your first name, please.” No! “I-S-A-B-E-L.” Damn it! “Spell your last name.” Piss off! “R-I-L-E-Y.” Son of a— “Recite your military issued serial number.”

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I want to say no, I really do, but I feel as if a part of my mind has been switched off. “0-2-5-7-9-6-4.” Damn it! I’m completely helpless to censor my answers. This drug is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced in my training. I didn’t even know the Nazis had anything like this. “Good,” my questioner murmurs. I hear a pen whispering across paper. “Why did you come to Berlin?” Name and serial number I can almost live with, but I really don’t want to tell him the details of my mission. I try to stay silent, but I blurt out the truth. “I’m here to obtain details on a reported new spy plane that was recently built.” “Really? What plane?” The pen is a mad whisper across paper. “Sources reported that Germany had constructed a plane labeled the C-60, which would be capable of cruising undetected over US soil at extremely high altitudes.” “How do you know about the C-60?” “My superiors told me.” “How did they obtain information on the C-60?” “I don’t know.” He pauses for a moment. “Does your agency have informants in key positions within the empire?” “I think so.” “Who are these informants?” “I don’t know.” He lets out a frustrated sigh. I have the impression he’s asked that question to other spies and gotten the same answer. “All right. What did you learn about the C-60?” “The plane is real but initial tests have been disappointing. The plane is easily detectable on standard surveillance equipment.” That was actually the highlight of the information I found, the part I knew my superiors would like. As a matter of fact, I found a lot of information on the plane, including a glossy, printed manual. I have a suspicion it was used as part of a presentation. Since it was about the plane, I dutifully memorized all seventy-eight pages, including all photos and graphs. I also memorized the name and address of the printing house, which was stamped on the inside of the front cover. Since it’s about the plane and because he asked me what I learned, the drug compels me to start reciting the manual. I repeat the German words in German, alternating to English only to explain what I found. It feels weird for this information to pour from me like this, but I can’t stop it. Loosely translated, I say, “Manual located, title, The Spy Plane of the Future. Printed by Shultzer and Gaines, 641 E Rhonesburg Street, Berlin, Germany, 10115. Printed by

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permission.” The rest of the manual quickly follows as his pen frantically moves across paper. I know to some outside observer, it might seem a bit odd that I memorized such minute details such as the name and address of the printer. But one has to understand, it’s never been my job to determine what is and isn’t valuable information. My orders were to get into the Echelon, a secure military building in Berlin, locate all files on the C-60, memorize everything and then report to my superiors what I found. Besides, the name and address of the printing house could be important. In the future, our agents may slip into that facility in an attempt to locate valuable files and other pending print jobs by the German military. Well, we could have if I hadn’t been captured. So, there’s really no such thing as worthless information, as long as it’s accurate. The manual also contained a lot of technical details, such as the plane’s weight and wingspan as well as maximum air speed and fuel capacity. Much to my surprise, he doesn’t stop me. He just lets me talk. When I come to a graph or a picture, he tells me to describe it, which I do. His pen frantically moves across paper during the interrogation. I only wish I could’ve gotten this information back to my superiors before I was captured. It would have been nice if I could have sent an email or called my agency at some point, but the Gestapo is good at keeping a firewall up and even better at blocking signals and phone lines. The Gestapo is essentially a sister agency of the SS. Both departments handle cases of treason and espionage, but the Gestapo serves as the empire’s tech police where the SS handles apprehension and interrogation. Because of the Gestapo, it’s virtually impossible to contact the States from anywhere within the empire…well, maybe not impossible. I think my superiors may have a way to communicate with informants, but I think that’s one of those ultra-secrets I’m not allowed to know. Finally, I come to the end of the manual and stop talking. I’m actually a little hoarse from talking for so long. “How did you learn all this?” “Test results and plane specifications are on file at the Echelon, which is located in Berlin.” “I know that. I mean how did you get into that facility?” “The building has security weaknesses.” “Really?” He sounds eager. “And you’re going to tell me these weaknesses.” Somehow, I manage to break through the ether. Although it takes a great deal of effort, I force my mind to focus. But I don’t want him to know I’m a bit more lucid. This is my opportunity to give him bogus information.

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My instructors taught me that misinformation or disinformation can sometimes be better than silence, and it can also make legitimate information appear less reliable. It’s basically a philosophy that truth mixed with lies makes for shoddy information at best. Keeping my eyes closed, I try to think of a plausible-sounding story without giving away important details. But my mind is a bit foggy from the drug, and I’m having trouble thinking of a lie. “There’s a broken security camera on the building’s west side.” That’s actually an older piece of information. For months, our agents were able to slip in undetected because of that broken camera. I wish I could have thought of something better, but that was the best I could do under the circumstances. I know that camera has been fixed, but I’m hoping he doesn’t. “That camera was fixed,” he mutters. There’s something about his tone that concerns me. I hear his heavy footfalls approaching. A gloved finger raises my right eyelid, and I inadvertently look up at him. “You’re awake,” he declares. “You were trying to feed me disinformation.” He sounds impressed. “I’ve never even heard of a prisoner being able to do that with this drug, and we’ve been using it for years.” I only study him. He turns and retrieves the empty syringe before drawing more fluid from the bottle. “You are a willful subject,” he mutters. “I’m not telling you anything else,” I declare, willing my mind to stay focused. Although this particular drug is new to me, I do have some experience resisting the effects of potent narcotics. Standing over me, he only smiles as he pushes the needle into my wrist. “Yes, you will, American…although, I am impressed. Most prisoners respond quite well to just one dose.” Again I feel the heaviness on my eyelids. I force myself to stay focused. Unlike the first time, it doesn’t completely sideswipe me. I may be a bit odd to my instructors, but damn it, I’m good at what I do. Inhaling deeply, I refuse to let the drug knock me out. I won’t let this overtake me. I won’t tell him anything else. I won’t let him win! “I am not going to cooperate,” I insist angrily. He chuckles darkly as he sits down next to me. “Stubborn as you are, American, I think you will.” Despite my best efforts to fight the drug, I once again slip under the surface of darkness. Pulling against my restraints, I feel the back of my head sinking back down into the pillow. My limbs turn to mush before my eyes unwillingly close. I hear him slip closer to me. His fingers touch my right eyelid and cheek. I think he’s checking to see if I’m under by raising my eyelid. Oddly enough, I don’t see any

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light. There’s only darkness. I think my eyes are rolled up. It’s weird…it’s as if I’m unconscious but still aware. He actually repeats all of his previous questions, and I give the same answers I gave before, except he stops me before I repeat the manual again. Apparently satisfied, he picks up where we left off. “Now, American, tell me about these security weaknesses at the Echelon.” I want to say no, but whatever he’s injected me with makes it impossible for me to hold anything back or to lie. I rattle off details about the cameras’ blind spots, known times when patrolmen change shifts and certain air and maintenance ducts. I hate telling him these details. These security flaws are our lifeline for our intelligence department, though we always seem to find ways around their updates. His pen frantically whispers across paper. After about a million questions, he finally stops, mostly because I start answering everything with, “I don’t know.” “Hmm. You’ve certainly given me a great deal of information, American. Now I wish to know more about you. I need to create a thorough profile, especially since you tend to behave differently than other American spies.” It doesn’t surprise me that he wants to know more. The Nazis are notorious for being thorough and meticulous record-keepers. By the time he’s finished, he’ll probably know my shoe size and the names of my childhood pets. “What do you do when you’re not behind enemy lines?” “Study, train, work out.” “Are you married?” “No.” “Any children?” “No.” “A lover perhaps?” “No.” I don’t like these questions, but I’m not surprised he’s asking. “Hobbies?” “I study, train and work out.” He lets out a sigh. He almost sounds frustrated, as if I’m withholding something. Hell, I never said I was interesting. “When was your last sexual encounter? And who was it with?” Jeez, these guys really wanna know everything. “I was about twenty, I think. It was with Steven, my boyfriend at the time.” “And how old are you now?” “Twenty-four.”

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“American, how many lovers have you had?” “One.” “One!” I can tell he doesn’t believe me. I really hate these questions, though I guess it’s not exactly a threat to US security. “A female American spy is supposed to be promiscuous. One lover does not constitute promiscuity.” Well, excuse me! Honestly, what does this guy want from me? “You are not fitting the profile, American,” he mutters angrily. I hear his pen tapping his notepad. It’s not a question, so I don’t say anything. But I can tell he’s not happy about my answers. I’m not sure I understand why he thinks I’m supposed to be promiscuous. Is there a rumor that US girls are slutty? “Didn’t you like sex?” He sounds a bit exasperated. Yeah! “No.” No? Why the hell did I just say that? “No? Why didn’t you like it?” “It didn’t feel good. It hurt. I tried to like it, I really did, but I never could. I always faked it with my boyfriend. I faked it for years.” “Why didn’t you try another lover?” “Because it felt like such a chore. Sex was always so hard for me.” In all honesty, I kinda forgot about all this. Over the last few years, I just got used to my fingers. He and this drug are really starting to piss me off. Information is one thing, but this is personal. “Did you ever consider that you had an incompetent lover?” “No.” “Why not?” “I studied sex in school. He did everything that the books and films said to do.” “Like what? Tell me what he did.” Oh for heaven’s sake, do I have to draw a freakin’ picture here? “He would lie on top of me like in the films and he would push his erect cock into my cunt.” Hmm, a bit blunt but true. I guess this drug doesn’t allow any purple prose. “That was by far the briefest description of sex I’ve ever heard. Is that all he would do?” “Well, yes.” “How would he fuck you? You talked for hours about the plane, yet I get one sentence on how your lover would fuck you. Give me details.”

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I’m not certain what exactly he wants to know, but the drug compels me to answer. “He would take off his clothes, ask me to lie on my back, naked, and then he would lie on top of me while pushing his erect cock into my cunt.” “And how did he kiss you? I’m looking for passion here, American.” “I didn’t like it when he kissed me.” He only lets out a tired groan. “I’ve had a very long night, American. And your answers are starting to give me a headache.” I hear him put down the pen and the notepad. His footsteps come closer to me and then stop. I feel the distinct sharp pinch of the needle on my wrist. “Go to sleep, American. I have no more questions for you tonight.” Blissfully, the world dissolves.

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Chapter Two When I wake up, the room is brighter. The sun is up. I can tell it’s either late morning or maybe early afternoon. I’m hungry and I have to pee, but unfortunately, I’m still tied down. Vaguely, I wonder where my captor is. I don’t have to wonder long when he suddenly walks up beside me. He’s dressed once again in a crisp, black uniform. He’s also wearing his hat and gloves. I’m not surprised. What little I do know of the SS, I do know that appearances are paramount. He doesn’t look tired as he did last night. I also smell soap on him. I’m not sure why, but he doesn’t have his sidearm. Like he did last night, he has on a black Sam Browne belt, which is specifically designed to hold the weight of either a saber or a firearm. But both the holster and weapon are missing. I guess he figures I can’t go anywhere tied down. I hear his boots hitting the hardwood floor as he moves next to me. He doesn’t say anything as he retrieves another needle. I turn my head away before I feel the familiar sharp pinch on my wrist. Damn it, aren’t we done yet? I don’t even try to fight the effects of the drug this time. What else does this guy want to know? “Are you gay?” Well, good morning to you too. “No.” “Are you sure?” “Pretty sure.” “Pretty sure? Have you ever been with a woman?” “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?” 31

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“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.” 32

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“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.” 33

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“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. 34

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“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. 35

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“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.

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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

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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 wearylooking 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.

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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. “Come on, American.” He urges me to move while he takes a place behind me. As I move down the stairs, I take in the house and mentally note where pieces of furniture are. It’s a habit, really. I can’t walk into a room anymore without mentally checking off what’s in the space and where it is. The house looks different in the light of day. Running a quick reconnaissance of my surroundings, I move to the kitchen. There’s a single plate on the table with some bacon, eggs and toast on it. My stomach grumbles. There’s also coffee and juice. Damn, I wasn’t expecting to be treated so well. I quickly check my thoughts though. Just because there’s food out doesn’t mean he’ll allow me to eat. A bit hesitantly, I turn and look at him. “Sit,” my captor orders, pointing to the chair that’s closest to the food. I very cautiously sit down. Is he really going to let me eat? He nods approvingly as he walks to the other side of the table. “Eat,” he orders, taking the chair across from me. Almost immediately, I dig into the food before he changes his mind. He pours himself a cup of coffee. “Slow down, American. Don’t choke. I’m not going to take it away.” Willing myself calm, I force myself to eat slower. I even take a sip of apple juice. He nods at me. “So, how many lamps did you spot in the foyer?” I stop eating. Did he notice what I was doing? I’ve been trained to be subtle. “Yes, I noticed, American,” he replies. “I’m just curious how many details you obtained. How many lamps did you spot in the foyer?” 39

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“Three,” I answer honestly. I don’t see the point in lying to him. “Two on each side of the door and another against the wall.” “The color of the shades?” I swallow a bite of egg before answering. “The two by the door are the same with gold shades. The one by the wall has a black shade.” He nods at me. I take a bite of bacon and drink some juice. The food is actually quite good, and he was very generous with the portions. “So what about the living room? There was a book draped over the top of the sofa.” I nod as I take a bite of the toast. “Keats,” I reply. “Very good.” He sounds impressed. “I also have some writing paper and some pens on my desk near the window in the living room. The pens are in a black cup. How many pens are in that cup?” “Six,” I reply without hesitating. “Seven if you include the highlighter. Eight if you count the pencil.” “Excellent.” He looks a little surprised I knew that one. I only shrug a bit indifferently. It’s my job to remember details. I can’t exactly haul around photocopies. Oh yeah, a box of suspicious papers would go over really well at a checkpoint. Digital cameras and video equipment are also thoroughly screened, and the guards will take anything that looks suspicious. Hell, I once had a patrolman confiscate my shoes because he thought they sounded hollow. And another time, a patrolman broke my watch because he thought it looked like a hidden camera. And both times, they were wrong. “Do you like being a spy?” he asks. Again I only shrug. “My country needs me.” I can feel him studying me intensely as I take another bite of the scrambled eggs. “In school, you were one of the brighter students, weren’t you?” I’m not sure what he’s driving at. “I don’t know,” I mutter. “Do you remember taking a lot of exams in school, especially during the first few years?” I only shrug again and take a bite of toast. I vaguely remember taking a lot of tests when I was young, but no one ever told me what they were for or how well I did on them. I’m not sure why, but I don’t want to answer that question. “Were you often pulled out of class and made to watch pro-American and antiGerman films?” How the hell does he know that? “We all watched those films,” I counter carefully. “No, they made you watch more than your classmates, didn’t they?” Actually, he’s absolutely right, though I have no idea how he knows that. “How did you know that?” I ask.

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“Did they lock you in a room by yourself and make you watch those films alone? Did they make a point to isolate you from the others?” My breath actually hitches at that detail. “How…how did you know that?” He only takes a sip of coffee before continuing. “Your parents suddenly came into wealth when you were young, didn’t they? You may have moved into a bigger house, you may also remember your parents buying things like cars or jewelry, yes?” Again he’s right. I remember we moved from a cramped two-bedroom apartment in the city to a sprawling two-story house in the suburbs. Our new home had a backyard, an in-ground pool and a swing set. New cars and fancy electronics soon followed after the house. Even as a child, I knew there was something strange about how my parents had come into the money. And I vaguely knew it had something to do with me. I think my captor sees the answers to his questions on my face. “Your parents were awarded a grant based on your performance on initial exams. By accepting the money, they agreed to a government-approved curriculum for you.” “What are you telling me?” “You were selected when you were a child. You repeatedly tested high on several exams, probably hitting top scores in memorization, which made you an ideal candidate for intelligence. Your country has been training you since grade school.” I don’t like what he’s implying. “My country didn’t force me to do anything. America doesn’t have a draft anymore. I voluntarily signed up for the military when I was eighteen.” He only shrugs. “Believe what you want, American.” I quickly dismiss the entire conversation. No one forced me into this. No one tweaked my destiny or manipulated my free will. I’m not listening to a Nazi. I take another bite of bacon before sipping some juice. The food helps clear my head, but his strange words are leaving an odd knot in my stomach. “You were encouraged to take on many lovers, weren’t you? As a spy behind enemy lines, especially a lovely female spy like you, you could use your body to parley access to rooms and functions, flirt your way past guards and patrolmen, gain favor with contacts and American sympathizers. “Your superiors would want you to be a skilled and accomplished lover. It wouldn’t be wise to send a blushing virgin into enemy territory. Weren’t you encouraged to take on boyfriends and lovers when you were in school?” His words cut straight through me. Countless films about sex rush through my head. Again, I don’t say anything, but I suddenly understand why he thought earlier I should be promiscuous. When I joined intelligence, my seduction teacher taught me how to use my charms and my body to help aid me in my missions. A doctor even surgically implanted 41

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something in my uterus to prevent pregnancy and ward off venereal diseases. I was often told that sex was an available tool in my arsenal and that with the implant I wouldn’t have to worry about pregnancy or some unsavory disease. “Tell me, do your superiors know how inexperienced you are? You may not technically be a virgin, but you’re damn close. I know they wouldn’t like that if they knew. You’re expected to be something of a sexual predator really, with literally hundreds of past lovers, which was why your agency put an implant in your uterus. Do your superiors know you’re not the femme fatale you’re supposed to be?” I look away from him, refusing to answer that question. My sex life, or lack thereof, is none of his damn business! In all honesty, my superiors don’t know. Whenever I was back in the States, my seduction teacher used to tell me to hit the clubs. She said onenight stands were my homework. I constantly lied to her about my sexual escapades. Somehow, it was just easier to stay home and be by myself. If I wanted, my fingers could bring me gratification. “I’m assuming they don’t know,” he murmurs, taking a sip of coffee. I avoid looking at him and instead study my plate. I take a bite of toast. How does he know so much? How does he know about my training and about my implant? “Since I have so little to work with, I suppose all I can really talk about is your first and only lover, Steven. You told me you were eighteen when you met him, but I’m guessing you met him on your eighteenth birthday and it was at a party, wasn’t it? A very elaborate party your parents and teachers put together?” I don’t say anything. I just swallow a bite of egg. “Let’s see if I can guess your evening.” His confident tone suggests he’s not really guessing. “Steven was introduced to you by one of your teachers. He was attractive, in the military and considerably older than you, at least by a decade if not more, which you probably found intriguing. “Everyone at the party made sure you two spent the entire evening dancing together and in between songs, a parent or teacher would give you a glass of champagne and wish you a happy birthday. “And then, around midnight or so, whenever you started stumbling a bit from the champagne, you and Steven were ushered into the back of a limo before arriving at a five-star hotel. By then, I’m sure you were so inebriated you probably couldn’t walk without assistance. But it didn’t matter because Steven was right there to help you up to your suite. And unlike you, he knew exactly what was going on. Am I correct?” I refuse to willingly answer his question, but I think he already knows he’s right. I’m a bit annoyed with his attitude. To me, that evening was always very special. My parents even had a gown made just for that party. My parents and teachers called it my eighteenth dress, which I thought at the time was kinda odd because my older sister didn’t have an eighteenth gown nor did any of my classmates. The dress was made of several yards of white satin and tulle. Crystals and beads beautifully

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adorned the hem and bodice. That floor-length gown, along with the crystal tiara, made me feel like a princess. He’s making it sound as if there was something wrong with that party…though I wasn’t too crazy about what Steven and I did in our hotel suite. But every girl’s first time is a little unpleasant…at least, that’s what I’ve been told. “I’m sure your teachers just assumed he would be a skilled lover because he was older. I guess they don’t test for that.” “You are twisting this all around,” I declare, inexplicably fighting back tears. I’m not even sure why I’m so upset. He has the uncanny ability to push just the right buttons. “Am I?” “Yes.” “So there’s absolutely no truth in what I’m saying, American?” I can’t bring myself to answer. I think he understands what my silence means. “I’m a little surprised Steven continued a relationship with you after the party. You weren’t supposed to see him again after that night, though…a lovely submissive can be addictive.” A lovely submissive? “We go back to your early childhood now. Did you have brothers and sisters growing up or were you an only child?” That question actually stings. I’m the youngest of three children. The oldest is my brother Mark, and I also have an older sister named Victoria. Before I started school, we were all friends. My siblings used to let me tag along with them when they went to the mall. Sometimes, my brother would even give me piggyback rides. But something happened to us shortly after my parents came into the money. My siblings grew cold toward me, even cruel, and I never knew why. “I can tell by your expression that you did have siblings.” I feel I’m unwillingly revealing too much. I didn’t intend to tell him anything. “Your siblings weren’t chosen. I can see that in your eyes. You were the special one, the one your parents doted over. Very few are accepted in the program you were in. You most likely received gifts from teachers and other parents. Your siblings grew to hate you, jealous of the attention you received. I wouldn’t be surprised if one of them even attacked you.” Everything he’s saying is syncing up with events in my life. As a child, I was showered with small gifts on a near daily basis. Just as he said, they were gifts from teachers and other parents. It was always just little things, like a box of crayons or a sheet of stickers or a refrigerator magnet. It was never anything major, but the trinkets were just enough to label me as special and rub my siblings and classmates the wrong way.

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One night, I vaguely remember my father whispering to my brother, “Why couldn’t you score the same as Isabel did on those tests?” At the time, Mark was fourteen. I was seven. Later that same evening, my brother attacked me with a kitchen knife. I still have a long scar across my lower back from that night. My father pulled him off me and beat him nearly to death for it. My older sister Victoria only stood aside and watched as my mother scooped me up and rushed me to the hospital. The next day, when my mother brought me home, my older sister later cornered me in her room and told me, “You got what you deserved, you little bitch.” After that, things only got worse between me and them. I often slept in the hall outside my parents’ room to be closer to my only protectors. My captor doesn’t say anything. I think he knows he’s upsetting me. I don’t like thinking about all this. For some reason, I’m suddenly wondering what my life would have been like if I had only failed those stupid tests. Maybe my sister would have invited me to her wedding or maybe my brother would have introduced me to my niece. It’s only through my parents I know anything about their lives. Of course, to be fair, they know nothing about my life. As far as my family knows, I’m in the military, but no one knows exactly what I do. “Does it annoy you that your country decided your fate for you, American?” “I made my own choices,” I argue feebly. “No you didn’t, and you know it.” “Then they chose me because I was good, because they needed me.” I feel as if he’s backing me into a corner. I have the distinct impression he’s trying to break me down…and unfortunately, I think he’s succeeding. “So you’re saying their actions were justified? They had a right to decide your fate?” I hate to admit it, but he’s got me all turned around. It freaks me out that he knows all this. I’m not even sure what the right answer is. “I…I don’t know.” A subtle smile graces his lips. I have a bad feeling he has me exactly where he wants. I feel shaken and confused, which I think was his intention. All his questions are starting to gnaw away at me. I don’t want to believe him, but I can’t easily shake off his words. How the hell do you argue with the truth? Everything he said is accurate. Swallowing hard, I have a brief mental image of my second-grade teacher taking me to a small room and making me watch a film—no, making me watch several films. And then I remember a different teacher and another film and another. And for some reason, all those stupid films from school are all rushing to the surface and all I can hear is that damn narrator chanting, “Your country needs you.” Images of swastikas and burning bodies flicker through my head as that narrator keeps

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chanting, “Your country needs you.” Prisoners of toppled nations stare back at me from countless films. “America is the world’s last hope,” the narrator pleads. I have no idea why every film I’ve ever watched is rushing to the surface, but I can’t shut them out or shut them up. God, I used to hear that narrator in my sleep, “Your country needs you. Your country needs you.” Despite my best efforts to shake off his words, my body starts trembling as a bizarre tidal wave of conflicting emotions crash down on me. Much to my horror, I actually start sobbing. I cover my face with my hands, wishing I had the ability to turn invisible. I’ve never in my life felt so confused and so turned around. Oh for God’s sake, Isabel! Get it together! My captor doesn’t say anything. As I sob, I hear him stand. Trying to pull myself together, I cautiously watch him out the corner my eye. He slowly walks around the table before stopping next to me. He kneels down. I’m convinced he’s going to either strike or strangle me, but instead he pulls me gently toward him. I push him away, mostly out of instinct, but he only yanks me toward him, jerking me off the chair. Again, I’m reminded just how strong he is. Kneeling on the floor with him, I don’t even understand why I’m crying. Defeat colors my mood as I press my face against his shoulder. His nimble fingers rake through my hair, which is still damp from my shower. It doesn’t make any sense, I know, but somehow he’s making me believe that he’s on my side, that he understands something that I don’t. To be honest, I feel he’s the first person who’s ever really cared about me, though I know that’s utterly ridiculous. I desperately try to fall back on my training, but his words have somehow poisoned what I’ve been told. Hell, I’m not even sure which way is up. All I do know is that I feel warm and safe in his arms. I have no idea what he wants from me. I’ve already told him everything about my mission. Inhaling deeply, I force myself to stop crying. I try to push him away, but he won’t release me. The hand stroking my hair settles instead on my back. His hands feel strangely comforting. “What do you want from me?” I whisper. “You don’t get to ask the questions, American.” His words are a low murmur. He’s pressing his lips against my ear. I’m trembling against him. Gently, his tongue traces the shell of my ear. I feel paralyzed. I want to say no, but I can’t because…no one has ever touched me the way he’s touching me. And much to my shock, I like it. I think there’s some wounded part of me that even needs him and it scares the hell out of me. A bit of my sanity resurfaces. Again I try to push him away, but he won’t let me go. “Please…don’t,” I whisper. “You like how I touch you,” he murmurs. “I can tell.”

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I swallow hard. I sense he’s waiting for me to answer. “Yes,” I finally admit. There’s no point in lying to him. I haven’t been able to hide anything so far. “But…I don’t understand why you’re doing this or—” “Shh. No more talking.” In all honesty, I really don’t understand what’s happening. If he just wanted sex, then I would understand. I’m not ignorant. But I don’t get this. It’s as if he wants me to want him, and the weird thing is…I do, though I have no idea why. He pushes me back slightly. Uncertain what to do or what to feel, I shut my eyes. His lips graze mine before settling into a parted-lip kiss. In all my life, I’ve never liked kissing, especially any parted-lip or open-mouth kissing. I’ve always found it unappealing. But now, well, I find myself liking it. He gingerly sucks my bottom lip, tugging it, which coaxes soft whimpers from me. My hands helplessly clutch the sides of his tunic. He releases my bottom lip and reverts instead back into a parted-lip kiss. Much to my surprise, I actually want to reciprocate his actions. Hesitantly, I gently suck on his lower lip, mimicking what he did to me. I feel my actions are a bit awkward, but he groans approvingly, obviously pleased with my efforts. I’ve lost my mind, I know. Maybe it was something in the food. The guy has truth serum. Maybe he slipped an aphrodisiac in my eggs. But I know he hasn’t drugged me. I’d feel it if he had. His fingers spear through my damp hair. I sense he wants to take control, and I stop sucking his lip. He backs away slightly, breaking our kiss, and I tilt my head back in a way I don’t quite understand. I think I’m silently pleading with him to take control. Once again his parted lips press against mine, only harder. His tongue plunges past my lips, claiming my mouth. I’m not certain if he wants me to push back against him or not, so I tentatively meet his firm tongue with mine. As if sensing my uncertainty, he murmurs something affirmatively. A strange warmth settles deep in my belly. I’ve never had anyone make me feel this way before. After several minutes, his tongue slowly pulls from my mouth. I whimper in protest, not wanting him to stop. His firm lips remain parted, and his hand presses against my back. He’s obviously encouraging me to do something, but I’m not sure what. Quickly catching his want, I gingerly ease my tongue between his lips. Again he murmurs approvingly. I’m shocked at how much he can tell me in a soft sound or in a gentle press of his fingers. When I was in school, I was told to engage in sexual practices, which my eager boyfriend willingly provided, but no one ever explained stuff like this to me. I was always taught that the clit was the source of all pleasure and joy, but no matter how enthusiastically Steven pressed or flicked or ground against my clit, I could never find

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joy in the experience. I used to just scream “Oh yeah”, thinking that’s what I was supposed to do. I never dreamed that kissing alone could be like this…and certainly not from my enemy. A bit bolder, I plunge my tongue deeper in his mouth. I can tell he’s pleased. It’s a little harder for me to take the offensive like this. I like it better when his tongue fills my mouth. His fingers tap softly against my back, and I can tell he wants me to stop, which I do. He breaks our kiss but doesn’t back off. A bit loopy and confused, I open my eyes. “Come with me.” He takes my hand and pulls me to my feet. I offer no protest as he leads me from the kitchen and up the stairs. He leads me to a different room than the one he questioned me in. This room has a plush queen-sized bed with a snow-white comforter. The moment I walk into the bedroom, I stop. “Come here. I won’t hurt you.” Holding my hand, he tugs me forward, coaxing me to move. I reluctantly follow him to the bed. Without releasing me, he folds over the plush bedding, exposing the ivory sheets. He sweeps his hand toward the mattress, indicating exactly where he wants me. I swallow hard as my limbs turn to lead. I don’t move. I can’t. He tugs me toward him and then turns me slightly. Eyeing me darkly, he pushes me down on the bed. I don’t fight him as he slips my limp body under the blankets and sheets. A bit confused with everything, I only watch him slip off his boots and then his hat. He doesn’t take off his uniform, though, or even his gloves. He slides under the covers and gathers me in his arms. “Now try to relax again, like you did downstairs. You were doing well in the kitchen.” I have no idea why, but I actually like his gentle praising. He eases himself next to me before pressing his lips firmly against mine. We essentially pick up where we left off, but instead, I’m now lying on what feels like a cloud. We don’t take turns anymore as we did downstairs. He alternates between sucking my bottom lip and pushing his tongue in my mouth. I can tell he doesn’t want me to take control again, which I actually prefer. After several minutes, he shifts his position and hovers over me. I’m convinced he’s about to crush me under his full weight, which is what Steven usually did, but instead, he holds himself up on his elbows and only presses himself against me. Is this the way it’s supposed to be? I’d been taught about sexual positions in school as part of my education, and I’d been shown the missionary position. But the picture was always just the man on top with the woman on bottom. I didn’t know the man was supposed to hold himself up like this. As his firm tongue pushes against mine, nimble fingers begin to unbutton my shirt…well, his shirt. Fresh nervousness courses through me as he quickly parts the

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unbuttoned garment. He only kisses me harder, not giving me a chance to protest as a gloved hand cups one of my breasts. I suddenly feel even more vulnerable as I realize just how covered up he is while I’m completely exposed. His hand abandons my breast and glides across my stomach to my chestnut curls. The feel of his gloved hand against my flesh is strangely exciting and arousing. Nimble fingers just barely caress my curls and tease my folds. His hand slips from my mound and instead firmly clasps my hip. All too soon, he lifts up slightly, breaking our kiss. He sits up and then straddles me before taking hold of my arm. With some gentle pulling and coaxing, he rolls me over on my stomach. I press my face against the pillow and close my eyes, blotting out everything except the feel of his hands on my body. I only wish I didn’t still have the unbuttoned shirt on. He flattens his palms against my back and then firmly rubs my weary flesh. I sigh against the pillow. He shifts around a bit and presses his still-clothed body against mine. I can feel the buttons of his uniform on my back as his hand gently pushes aside my hair. He exhales on the nape of my neck, and I shudder from the sensation. Firm lips replace his warm breath. I’ve never had anyone kiss the back of my neck, but it’s by far one of the most pleasurable things I’ve ever experienced. Kissing turns into licking as a warm, wet tongue draws a line from the top of my spine to the edge of my hair. The wetness there chills me slightly, causing my nipples to harden against the mattress. He tugs at the collar of the unbuttoned shirt, exposing my shoulder. Warm lips caress my back and neck. His gloved hand slides under me, finding my mound. He puts his hand exactly where I want it to be, where I need it to be. Skilled fingers curl slightly into my center, massaging my clit. In all my life, I never knew someone could touch me like this. Shuddering beneath his clothed body, I know he’s capable of making me climax, which is something Steven was never able to make me do. This realization terrifies me. I shouldn’t be doing this! What the hell is wrong with me? “Please…don’t,” I whisper, trying to get up. The hand massaging my folds only strokes me harder. His body presses against mine, pinning me down. “Don’t talk.” In a sudden panic, I try to wriggle away. As if to placate me, his lips nuzzle against the back of my neck again. I stop struggling. He barely murmurs, “Good girl,” as my body surrenders to his touch. I can’t stop myself from writhing beneath him. His nimble fingers and warm lips are pushing me closer and closer to orgasm—a release I’m terrified of reaching. My very first orgasm with a man is going to be with, of all people, a freakin’ Nazi. Panic and confusion edges my breathing to near hyperventilation.

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“It’s all right,” he whispers. “Just relax and feel.” I manage to convince myself this is all just a dream—yes, I’m still tied to the bed, and I’m only dreaming. Or maybe I was never captured. Maybe I’m back home, warm and safe in my bed, and I’m just having a bizarre erotic dream brought on by too much stress. I inhale sharply as a spear of pure pleasure and ecstasy pierces my center. Taken over by lust and want, I slide my hand over his, pressing his gloved fingers deeper into my cleft. He lets me guide his fingers where I want them, where I need them. He doesn’t pull away or try to decide the pace. Through my guidance, his fingers smear hot wetness over my throbbing folds. It’s only when my orgasm lessens that his hand moves independently again. His fingers delve deeper into my cleft as a single digit claims my sheath. It feels strange for his gloved finger to enter me like this, but I want him to touch me there, I need his finger filling me. My passage feels snug around him. He groans against my ear. “You are so tight,” he mutters. There’s a dark eagerness in his tone. He eases his finger deeper into my sheath. His invading digit nears me toward another release. His thumb deftly rolls over and massages my aching clit, which only serves to push me over the edge. My muscles tighten and constrict painfully as wave after wave of pleasure and warmth crash down on me. I make a strangled cry against the pillow as my release reaches a near-painful zenith. His thumb keeps strumming my overly sensitive nub. Just when my orgasm starts to turn painful, he stops. He pulls his finger from my passage. My orgasm turns to a pleasant buzz between my thighs. His hand doesn’t leave me but instead remains cupped over my mound. A strange combination of fear and humiliation creeps over me. Have I lost my freakin’ mind? His hand pulls out from under me. He gently tugs my arm, compelling me to roll over. As I settle on my back, he presses himself against me. I feel something prodding at my center, but I’m not sure if it’s his arousal or not. I think it’s something in his pocket. Softly, he covers my heated face with kisses. After several minutes of simply kissing my face, he lifts himself up and studies me. “Now, American, we continue your education.” An urge to flee suddenly settles around me. “I have to get out of here,” I gasp. I abruptly push him over and then leap out of bed. Without looking back, I bolt from the room. I think he’s so surprised, he doesn’t even think to grab me. “American! Stop!” I dash across the hall and then sprint down the stairs. My parted shirt billows like a sail around me. My bare feet pound the stairs as I fly for the exit. I hear his footsteps thundering after me. I reach the door and desperately fiddle with the locks. I manage to unlock and partially open it. But he’s behind me. His open hand hammers flat against the door, slamming it closed. 49

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“No,” I protest. I try to bury my elbow in his gut, but an incredibly strong arm wraps around me, pinning my arms next to me. Pulling me away from the door, he drags me to a small table near the wall and then shoves me against it. A glass bulb pops as a lamp clatters to the floor. Not at all gently, he forces me to sit on the table with my back against the wall. His hands pin my wrists on either side of my head as he wedges himself between my thighs. In the struggle, a framed picture near my hand jostles free and hits the floor. I hear the glass shatter. We’re both panting from the chase. “That was stupid, American! And where did you think you were going half-naked and with a locator around your ankle?” “Please, just kill me,” I beg. “I’ve already told you everything.” “Do not tell me what to do! And my plans do not involve killing you.” “Plans? What the hell am I, a conquest?” He looks annoyed. “I don’t have to explain anything to you, American.” “Why are you doing this? What do you want from me?” “No. You answer my questions first, and then maybe I’ll answer yours.” I’m silent for a moment. I’m not sure if I’m intrigued or crazy. “Okay.” “No running away?” “No.” He slowly releases my wrists and backs up a bit. He stands up straight and tugs the hem of his rustled tunic, smoothing down the uniform. “Why did you run from me like that? I wasn’t hurting you.” “I…I didn’t like what you were doing to me.” A complete lie, I know. His blue eyes narrow. “I know you like my touch, American. I don’t need my needles to see that truth in you.” I look away from him. “Tell me the real reason.” “Will you answer my questions?” “Probably not. Now tell me why you ran or I’ll make you tell me.” “Because…this is…wrong.” He seems confused by my answer. “Wrong?” he mutters. His initial bafflement shifts to intrigue and then amusement. He smiles darkly and steps closer to me. I swallow hard and vaguely wonder how the hell I ended up here in this situation. “I can’t do this,” I admit. “Please, you know everything. I told you about my mission. Just kill me.” “No, I do not know everything,” he declares, leaning hard against me. His face is mere inches from mine. “As far as why I’m doing this, there is more about you I want to know.”

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Being this close to him, I can smell his clean, soapy scent again. His distinct scent reminds me of his warm breath on my neck, his hands on my body. I clutch the edge of the table to stop myself from embracing him. “What else do you want to know?” I whisper. He leans in closer. His breath caresses my ear. “What I want to know is my own business, American.” His lips slide across my neck and settle in the crook just above my shoulder. I tilt my head to the side, giving him better access. My hands release the table’s edge and settle instead around his waist. The surface of the table is too narrow for me to back away from him. With him wedged between my thighs, I can easily feel his arousal through the uniform. Images from gory rape films flash through my head. Fresh panic and confusion washes through me. Everything I was told in my training rushes to the surface in one horrific moment. I’m convinced he’s going to brutally rape me and slit my throat simply because that’s what I’ve been told. I’m a prisoner—of course he’s going to rape and kill me. My hands pull away from him and settle instead back on the table. What game is he playing? What is he trying to do? In my panic, I vaguely remember something from a film. It said some Nazis, particularly SS officers, have cock piercings. According to the film, razor-sharp studs can be slipped in those piercings before sex for no other reason than to tear up a woman while raping her. That was actually an older film. My seduction teacher even told me to disregard that particular piece of information. But for some reason, I’m convinced it’s true. In a panic, I try to shove him away. “What’s wrong?” I look away from him as I start trembling. “Tell me or I’ll get the needle.” “You’re…pierced,” I manage through trembling lips. He doesn’t say anything. I sense he’s confused. “Oh,” he finally whispers. “Are they still teaching that?” I don’t answer him. Without backing away, he unzips his black trousers. I squeeze my eyes shut and turn my head. “I’m not going to hurt you. Try to relax. I just want to show you my cock, that’s all.” I’m expecting his cock to be heavily pierced and tattooed like the pictures I’ve seen. “Open your eyes, American. Look at me.” I can’t. Without asking, he takes my hand. “Here, touch me.” He forces my hand to curl around tight, smooth skin. I inhale sharply, shocked at how his arousal feels in my hand. I hesitantly open my eyes and cautiously study him. His cock doesn’t look

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anything like those old pictures they showed me. He looks and feels like a man, not a monster. “I want you to talk to me now, American. It’s important. If you fight me on this, I will get my needles if necessary, but I’d rather not do that.” I can feel my heart racing. “I look different than you thought I would, don’t I?” Confusion bubbles through me. I can’t even talk. “I feel different, yes?” He keeps my hand curled around him. I don’t answer. I can’t. I want to say yes, but the word won’t come. “Say it. Answer my question. Does my cock feel different than you thought it would?” I exhale sharply and study his eyes. I only nod. “No, I need you to talk to me. We can do this with the needle if we have to.” I force myself to speak. “Yes.” “Good. Very good.” As if to reward me, he lets me pull my hand away. He seems to understand I’m struggling with this bizarre lesson. My eyes drift to his swollen member. The skin is stretched tight. Inexplicably, I want to touch him again. Convinced it couldn’t be any worse than trying to run away as I just did, I gently run my fingers over him without asking. He doesn’t say anything, and I keep running my fingers up and down the shaft. They are no piercings or sharp studs. Maybe some SS officers have that, but he doesn’t. All I see and feel is tight, smooth flesh. A single drop of fluid appears on the tip. I pull my hand away. “Did I hurt you?” I don’t know why I should care about that, but I do. “No. It felt good.” “I was told that most SS officers have piercings down there, and they would put in sharp studs…just to rape women and tear them up.” He grimaces at that. “A long time ago, back in the fifties, a few did that, yes. But that practice has been banned for decades. I’m actually a bit surprised they told you that old piece of information.” “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.”

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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.

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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.

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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 halfnaked 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.

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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 alltoo-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. 56

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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.

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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.” 58

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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.

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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.

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“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.”

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“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 62

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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 63

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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. He pulls his hand from my center and instead firmly clasps the side of my hip. He shifts around a bit, trapping me under him as he hovers over me. His arousal prods at my pussy as his tongue ruthlessly pushes against mine. 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. Once he’s inserted, he tries to pull out, but the movement only tugs at my passage, creating some pain. With his tongue still filling my mouth, I cry out softly. He doesn’t pull himself from me, but instead remains perfectly still. He breaks our kiss and instead nuzzles my ear. He murmurs something about how good my tight pussy feels. Damn it, why do I have to be so tight? He has to love that. After several minutes, he gingerly withdraws his cock before easing himself back in. I’m actually a bit 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. I’m oddly touched by my captor’s actions, which only serves to confuse me further. I run my hands up and down his muscular back. Abandoning my ear, he once again presses his lips against mine. His tongue claims my mouth as he slowly works his cock in and out of me. The steady pumping of his thick arousal spreads my hot juices and gently stretches my tight passage, allowing him to slowly quicken his pace. Gentle pushing turns into hard thrusting, finesse turns to need. Similar to what happened downstairs, I climax quickly, but he doesn’t stop fucking me, which only serves to drag out and prolong my release. His tongue slips from my mouth as I climax, but his parted lips hover mere millimeters from mine. My quick pants and sharp exhalations ricochet off him and back against my lips. More than anything, I’m ready for this to stop. Being made to come again and again is almost too much for me. Once again my muscles tighten and knot up painfully. I’m hoping he’s almost near his own release, but I sense he’s intentionally focusing on not coming. I think he likes doing this to me. “P-please,” I whisper. “Shh, this will stop when I decide.” I’m not certain, but I think he finds something unusual in how he can make me come again and again, as if I have some gift or talent. Personally, I think he’s the one with the talent because he can make my body do things I never thought it could. Hell, I could never even make myself do this with my own fingers, so I have no idea how he knows exactly what buttons to press. 64

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Eventually, he reaches his own breaking point, spilling his hot seed inside me, and thrusts hard against my clit with a final, brutal thrust. Tears blur my vision as I let out a strangled cry. I’m sensing he’s angry with himself though. I think he wanted to keep going. Panting, he sags against my body. I take slow, deep breaths, trying to process everything that’s happened in such a short amount of time. Again the questions haunt me. What the hell is he doing? What is this? A game? An experiment? In my confusion, I manage to tell myself this is all some strange game he’s playing. I don’t delude myself into thinking something that’s not true. He’s still my enemy, and I’m still an American spy in his custody. For all I know, my execution is tomorrow. Deciding not to dwell on the inevitable, I simply enjoy the feel of his warm body against mine. Pulling himself from me, he rolls over and scoops my spent body into his arms. “How can you do that?” he mutters. “Do what?” “The way you can come again and again like that. How can you do that?” “I don’t know. I thought it was some gift you had,” I barely whisper. I’m thoroughly spent and half-asleep. I wish I hadn’t said he had a gift, but I wasn’t really thinking. Silence. I sense his body growing rigid next to me. I think he’s angry about something. I force myself to wake up. Something’s not quite right. Panic washes through me. Did I do something wrong? Is he going to kill me now? He pulls away from me and clicks on a lamp. Blinking at the light, I watch him rise out of bed. I hear a drawer by the bed open and close. Before I can even react, he’s on top of me and straddling my hips. The familiar black bag opens on the bed next to me. I’m not sure what’s going on, but I don’t offer any resistance. He looks angry. I look away while he unwraps another syringe. Keeping my head turned, I close my eyes. I feel him swab my wrist with something cold and wet. The pinch of the needle soon follows. Similar to what it did before, the drug almost instantly overtakes me. I feel his fingers on my cheek and eyelid. I think he’s checking to see if I’m under. Once again there’s only darkness in my vision. “Are you trying to manipulate me?” he asks. Manipulate him? “No.” “Did you fake any of your orgasms with me?” “No.” “Were you trying to flatter me just now, especially when you said I had a gift for making you come like that?” “No.” He’s silent for a moment. “Are you trying to play me or seduce me in any way to gain some favor in my eyes?” “No.” Although that’s what I’m supposed to be doing. 65

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He pauses again. “Your orgasms were real?” “Yes.” “And you really believe I have some knowledge or skill to make you come like that?” “Yes.” Silence. “Why?” “Because Steven never did that to me, and I’ve never been able to do that to myself.” He chuckles softly at my statement. “Your former lover was incompetent and selfgratification can only go so far.” He slips off me. I hear the drawer next to the bed open and close. The mattress shifts as he slips into bed next to me. His arms take my limp body against his muscular form. “You like being in my bed, don’t you?” “Yes.” “You like the things I do to you?” “Yes.” I sense he already knows all this, and I don’t think my answers surprised him. I have the impression he likes asking questions and having his questions answered. I think he sees interrogation as some dark art. The drug forces me to answer, yes, but I remember from our first couple of sessions that a slight rewording can alter the response. I think he likes finding the right questions to ask. “Thank you, American,” he whispers, kissing my forehead. “I just had to know for sure.” I’m not certain what exactly that was all about. I quickly dismiss the entire thing. His body is like a warm boulder against me. Inhaling deeply, I take in his clean, masculine scent. I’m still under the influence of the drug, so my limbs don’t move the way I want them to. I’ve never felt so safe and so lost at the same time. I have no idea what this is or where it’s going. After several minutes, I will myself to sleep. There’s really nothing else I can do.

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Chapter Four When I wake up, it’s brighter in the room. I can tell it’s early. A soft noise jostles me fully awake. Lifting my head, I see my captor standing at the foot of the bed. He has his back to me. He’s wearing a long black leather coat. He turns slightly, and I realize he’s dressed in a fresh uniform only he’s added a coat this morning. I watch him secure a delicate silver chain to the footboard of the wrought iron bed with a small lock. He picks up a pair of metal sheers, cuts into the chain and then loops another lock through the last link. Without looking at me, he gently takes my foot before hooking the lock around my anklet, essentially tethering me to the bed. His gloved fingers feel oddly familiar against my flesh. “What are you doing?” I ask. He turns and looks at me. His eyes are shadowed by the low-rim hat. “I have matters to attend to in Berlin.” “You can leave me loose. I have the locator.” “Yes, but I don’t feel like chasing you across Germany, and I have a suspicion you’ll run if given the opportunity.” I can’t argue with that logic. I probably would. “The chain is long enough so you can reach the bathroom. I made you breakfast and left some fruit and nuts for lunch.” He gestures toward something, and I turn my head to see what he’s referring to. There a small table and chair set by the window that’s just big enough to seat two people. A covered plate is on the table, and I also see an apple. My stomach grumbles. There’s a stack of books next to the covered plate. “You’ll probably be hungry by the time I get home, but I’ll make dinner for you later.” I turn my attention back to him as he talks. After checking the strength of my leash, he looks satisfied. “It’ll be dark by the time I get home, so I left you some books to pass the time. I will see you later this evening, American.” He turns and then picks up a briefcase. With a polite nod, he leaves the room, closing the door behind him. Much to my disappointment, he takes the metal sheers with him. I don’t move from the bed. I’m a bit surprised this morning wasn’t the day of my execution. A part of me thought it would be. I hear him go down the stairs and then the front door opens and closes. I even faintly hear his car drive off. Silence. I jump when the central heating kicks on. As I pull the blankets and covers off, a sudden chill takes hold of me. I can tell it’s cold outside. It’s relatively warm in the house, but I’m only dressed in an unbuttoned shirt and I’m also barefoot. 67

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I immediately examine the chain leash tethering me to the bed. Similar to my locator, the silver chain is thin and light. It looks delicate, more like jewelry than an actual leash. I wrap the corner of the sheet around my palm and fingers, using it as a glove, before winding some of the leash around my hand. I pull the chain taut. Just because my execution wasn’t today doesn’t mean it won’t be tomorrow. My captor may have introduced me to passion, but that doesn’t mean I trust him. Bracing my feet against the footboard, I lean back and pull on the chain. I tug as hard as I can, hoping something somewhere will give. Since he’s gone, this is my best chance to get a head start. If I do escape, he’ll be able to track me with the locator, yes, but maybe I can stay ahead of him. I tug until my fingers and hands ache, but nothing will yield. Sighing, I examine both the lock on the locator and the one tethering me to the bed. They’re small, light and fragile-looking, each measuring less than one square inch, but I’m quickly learning that looks can be deceiving. I frown at each small silver lock. They’re both pick-proof locks. I can tell by the distinct V-shaped slot for the key. Even if I had a bobby pin or even real lock-picking tools, I wouldn’t be able to unlock either one. If I had my tool kit, I could use the saw. But I had to ditch that incriminating piece of evidence as soon as possible. I’ve only seen pick-proof, V-slotted locks at military facilities, and I’ve never seen one this small. I have no idea why he has such small, sophisticated locks just lying around his house. In retrospect, I suddenly realize how calm he was about securing my leash to the footboard, as if he’d done it before. Maybe I’m not the first American spy he’s taken to his bed. Logic dictates I’m probably not. Not wanting to miss anything, I stand and examine the bed I’m tethered to. I don’t see any way to take it apart…at least not without tools. I take a hold of the footboard and try to lift it, just to gauge the weight, but I can’t even budge it. Jeez, this bed weighs a ton! What the hell? I should be able to at least lift it. Baffled by the unusual heaviness, I kneel down, trying to determine the problem. Upon closer examination, I realize the bed itself is actually bolted to the floor. Hmm, so I’m not imagining it—he really has chained people to his bed before. Why else would the bed be bolted down? I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. The man is a Nazi after all, not a saint. But for some reason, I am surprised. I go back to yanking on my leash, not certain what else to do. After several minutes of pulling and tugging, I soon figure out that I’m not going anywhere. Exhausted from my pointless struggling, I sit on the floor, panting. I’m actually sweating a bit from my efforts, and I take a few moments to cool down and catch my breath. I look over at the table by the window. The covered plate reminds me I have breakfast waiting. Snow flurries dance across the foggy pane, and I shiver slightly. The sweat is now serving only to chill me. The central heating is running, but I’m suddenly

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cold. I guess I could go back to tugging against my leash for exercise and to warm up, but I’m hungry. I stand up and wrap my arms around myself, trying to warm up. I pull back the comforter on the bed before retrieving an ivory blanket. Using the blanket as a robe, I shuffle across the room to the table by the window. Wrapping the blanket tighter around me, I check out what he left me for breakfast. It’s some bacon and scrambled eggs along with a muffin smeared with butter. There’s also a glass of apple juice. I pull out one of the two chairs at the table before sitting down. I’m actually quite hungry, and I quickly dig into the food. I was forced to purge my breakfast yesterday, and I didn’t eat anything else. He also left me a banana, an apple, a candy bar and a jar of almonds. After finishing my breakfast, I quickly eat the banana. I scan through the books he left me as I eat. Not surprisingly, they’re all in German, which is actually what I used to read back home. I used to read German books to keep the language fresh in my head. Despite the blanket I’m wrapped up in, I’m still a little cold. Looking around, I wonder if I can find a pair of socks. If I could cover my bare feet, I think I could warm up. I shuffle across the room to a three-drawer dresser. After kneeling down, I open the bottom drawer. I find several pairs of men’s socks. Victoriously, I pull out a pair. “Score,” I whisper. I hurriedly slip them on. I already feel warmer. I rise up on my knees, so I can pull open the middle drawer. I find several white tshirts neatly rolled along with several pairs of underwear. Out of curiosity, I stand to check out the top drawer. There are several pairs of black leather gloves on one side. On the other side, there’s a felt-lined tray. The tray is filled with stickpins and cuff links. There are also some medals and a watch as well as several rings. I pick up and examine one of the rings. Like most men’s jewelry, it’s heavy and bulky. Almost all the pieces have either a swastika or the SS Sig Runes on it. Everything looks more like service awards to me. My jewelry box is also filled with similar rings, pendants and medals, except my pieces bear either a bald eagle or an American flag. A twinge of pain hits me as I remember that small wooden box in my modest military quarters. It’s not that I miss my jewelry box. It’s just that…I’ll probably never set foot on US soil again. Yes, there was one spy swap. But that doesn’t mean anything. By now, my family has probably been informed that I’ve either been captured or killed. My arrangements are most likely pending. I shake my head slightly as I swallow hard. There is absolutely nothing I can do, so there’s no point in torturing myself about this. I go back to looking through his jewelry instead. I find a gold ring that looks like a wedding band. It even has a date engraved inside, 7-7-2001. No name though. After putting the ring back, I close the drawer. My eyes sweep across the top of the dresser. There’s a small mirror, a brush, a hair dryer and some styling products. Out of curiosity, I shuffle toward the closet. My delicate chain leash lightly drags across the 69

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hardwood floor. I slide open the closet door and immediately find several black tunics and matching trousers hanging neatly inside. The uniforms are clean and meticulously pressed. They’re hanging with the red armband facing out. There are also some white and tan dress shirts, which are also crisply pressed, as well as several black ties. Three pairs of boots are lined up on the closet floor while four hats are perched on the top shelf. After rolling open the other side of the closet, I find a few civilian-type clothes along with two pairs of sneakers. Some of the more casual garments are stained with paint while others look like work-out clothes. There are books stacked up on the top shelf, but they’re too far back for me to see any titles. I retrieve one of the chairs by the table to stand on. Toward the back of the shelf are several language books, which are stacked up nearly to the ceiling. Most of the books are on the phased-out languages—Chinese, Spanish, Russian, Portuguese, French…just to name a few. I retrieve one of the language books, Russian, and eagerly flip it open. I find it interesting the world was once broken up in so many different nations and countries, each with their own language and culture, their own leaders, flags and anthems. As I flip through the pages, I stop from time to time and read something. I try to speak some of the words, but I have no idea how Russian is pronounced, so I’m just guessing. Shrugging, I put the book back. There are some books on Italian and Japanese as well, but they’re not technically phased-out languages. Although German is the primary language in the empire, both Italian and Japanese are approved second languages that are taught extensively in school. No one really speaks either language anymore, but Italian operas are popular in the empire as are kabuki theaters and geisha houses. Both Italian and Japanese are commonly taught and referred to as the languages of the arts. As a trained agent, I’m fluent in both Italian and Japanese, as any educated citizen of the empire would be, but I’ve certainly never had time to go to an opera or pop into a geisha house. There’s also a shoe box on the same shelf. Always the spy, I retrieve the mysterious box, eager to look inside. Much to my disappointment though, it’s only some black shoe polish along with a brush and several rags. There’s also a bottle of metal polish. Putting the shoe box back, I spot a black book lying flat on the shelf next to the high stack of language books. It’s back toward the wall and was hidden earlier behind the shoe box. I quickly retrieve it. Flipping it open briefly, I realize it’s a photo album. Oh, this could be interesting. I carefully step off the chair, not wanting to trip on my leash, and then walk to the table. I set the book down before settling into the other chair at the table. I flip open the album and quickly scan through the pictures. It’s a wedding album. I close it again and look at the cover. Like the wedding band, it’s also dated 7-7-2001. There’s a raised, gold emblem above the date. It’s an eagle with outstretched wings holding a wreathencircled swastika. I’ve seen the image before.

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I flip the book open and study the first picture. It’s the bride and groom. My captor is the groom. He doesn’t look that different back then than he does now. His black uniform is a little different in the picture though. Instead of a sidearm, he has a saber. He also has several pins and medals on his tunic and a red sash draped sideways across his chest. The uniform looks more ceremonial than functional. The woman he’s standing next to is pretty. Blonde, early twenties. Her white wedding dress is lacy. The pictures are very typical of any wedding. There are several pictures of the bride and groom, pictures of flowers and guests. Some of them even have several SS officers standing together. By the look of it, the ceremony was clearly a VIP event. Vaguely, I wonder what happened to my captor’s wife. There’s no trace of her in the closet, aside from this album. Flipping through the pages, I take in all the pictures, trying to figure out who my captor is. I come to the end of the book. Unfortunately, I don’t know much. All I know for sure is that my captor married a blonde woman on July 7, 2001. But I don’t know if he’s divorced, widowed, separated or still happily married. I flip through the pages again, convinced a wedding invitation has to be tucked in somewhere, but I don’t find one. I’d kinda like to know my captor’s name, but it doesn’t look as if I’m going to find out from this album. Frowning, I put the album back and then scoot the chair back under the table. Walking across the room, I look around. I decide to check out the nightstands by the bed next. After kneeling by one, I find two of the drawers are empty while the third only has a pencil in it. I walk around the bed to the other nightstand. Opening the top drawer, I expect to find his black bag, which I know was there the night before, but it’s not now. He must have moved it before he left. I open the other drawers and come up just as emptyhanded. Damn, who is this guy? Wanting to explore everything, I shuffle to the bathroom to look under the sink. I find some extra towels, a bottle of soap, body lotion, shampoo, some disposable razors, toilet paper and two brand-new toothbrushes. If I really wanted to, I could probably break the blade out of one of the disposable razors…but I gave him my word I wouldn’t hurt myself. Sighing, I stand up. I open the medicine cabinet. Unlike the other medicine cabinet in the guest bathroom, this one is empty. Either he never had any medications in here or he cleaned it out before he left. I’m assuming the latter. I guess he didn’t want to take any chances. He probably would have taken out the razors too if he’d thought of it. After emerging from the bathroom, I walk to the bed. I kneel down and look under it but find nothing. As a last resort, I run my hands between the mattresses, looking for anything tucked in between. Nothing.

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Wanting to test the limit of my chain, I walk toward the door. I have just enough slack to make it to the door but not to the hall. I shuffle back to the bed. Feeling a bit defeated, I sit down. I grudgingly resign to the fact that I’m going to be cooped up for the day. I decide to take a long bath. I retrieve one of the razors and draw the water. Soaking in the tub, I use the razor to shave my legs and underarms. I wash my hair and simply try to relax. After draining the water, I wrap myself in a towel. I open one of the new toothbrushes I found earlier under the sink and then take my time brushing my teeth. After tidying up a bit, I make use of the lotion under the sink and coat my face and body with a thin layer. I slip on the same dress shirt and socks before shuffling back to the table by the window. I nibble on some almonds and start looking at the books he left me. Most of them are biographies. One is about a playwright I’ve never heard of while another is about a playwright I have heard of. One is about a native German scientist named Aaron Sedon. I know who he was. He was in charge of a rogue nuclear fission program from 1938 to 1943. With almost no funding and little support from the Third Reich, he and his group essentially put together the rough blueprints for constructing a nuclear bomb. The book contains a lot of technical details I don’t understand, things like critical mass and this and that about plutonium, as well as complex formulas and crypticlooking drawings. There’s a picture of Aaron Sedon with Adolf Hitler on the back. The picture is dated July 19, 1944. I blink at the date. Jeez, this picture was taken the day before Hitler’s assassination. I set the book aside a bit indifferently. The language is too technical for me to read for enjoyment, though I could probably memorize it if I had to. I know many historians argue the Allies may have won in the mid-forties if Germany had never developed the bomb. But…I don’t know. I can’t even imagine a world without the Third Reich in it. If anyone did care about my opinion, I’d say Hitler’s successor, Klaus Marcel, was smarter than Hitler. I think all Hitler cared about was the Final Solution and the eradication of the Jews while Marcel had more of a vision of a truly united empire. I’ve read that many German officers saw Hitler’s assassination as a gift to the Reich. In my opinion, Marcel was smart enough to rally Italy and Japan under the German flag in 1944, as opposed to having three separate Axis powers. It was the first step to creating the empire…the first of many steps that led to the topple of nation after nation. Of course, I don’t think it took a lot of rallying after August 1, 1944. That was the day Germany shocked the world by dropping the first atomic bomb in history on Moscow. Not only did it push the Red Army back, but it scared the hell out of the Allies. After that, I don’t think any nation wanted to be on Germany’s bad side. Personally, I’m just grateful the major fighting ended in 1966 with a type of odd truce between America and the Third Reich. With both nations capable of nuclear retaliation, everything just settled into a cold war. The conflict became more about

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espionage than anything else. I know some people don’t like it, especially the older generation, but I’m grateful I grew up in a relatively peaceful world. I think the generation before mine is still kinda pissed off about losing Alaska and Hawaii in the summer of ’65. And the generation before my parents is even more pissed off. For the love of God, don’t ever ask my grandfather what he thinks about the Nazis. The answer will be very long and sprinkled with several obscenities. According to him, America should be blowing up every city, town and nation that belongs to the empire and damn the threat of Nazi retaliation…even if the Third Reich turns the Midwest into a smoldering nuclear crater. My grandfather was a fighter pilot back in the ’40s, and he thinks espionage is for pussies. He doesn’t say that to be mean to me. After all, he doesn’t know I’m a spy. He’s just from a different generation. But if you ask me, I think cloak and dagger is a helluva lot better than nuclear holocaust. I retrieve the book about the playwright I have heard of and start reading it from the beginning. I snack on the apple and the almonds as I read. After I finish the apple, I read several paragraphs aloud. It’s a habit, really. I used to do that back in the States to practice my German. Curious about the time, I glance at a clock. Much to my disappointment, it’s only a little after noon. This is going to be a long day. I decide a little exercise will help clear my head and pass the time. Starting with some stretching exercises, I slowly stretch my muscles before doing several lunges and kicks. As I go through my routine, I come to an exercise I usually do with the aid of a chair. Between my lunges and kicks, I’m now farther away from the table and two chairs by the window, but there’s another one by the bed. It has his discarded uniform from yesterday draped over it, except the belt is missing. The spy in me demands I rifle through the pockets, which I do, but I don’t find anything. Shrugging, I go back to my exercises. I place my hands on the chair’s back, bend over and then gracefully lift my leg. My face comes within inches of his tunic and t-shirt as I bend over. His distinct and clean scent invades my nostrils. Almost immediately, wetness pools between my thighs. I immediately straighten up, a bit surprised his scent is causing such an intense reaction from me. Not at all able to stop myself, I slowly pick up his t-shirt and take in his scent. The memory of his hands and warm breath on my flesh invade my thoughts. While clutching his t-shirt, my other hand brushes over the black tunic. Its texture is familiar. Feelings of shame immediately crash down on me, and I hurriedly put the tshirt back down where it was. Frozen in place, I can’t stop my other hand from stroking the tunic. Suddenly angry at my actions, I yank my hand away as if the uniform is on fire.

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Oh for God’s sake, I am not going to fondle the man’s uniform! I have some restraint. Embarrassed by my lapse in judgment, I walk to the bathroom and then rinse off my face with some cool water. It helps, and I march back to the table, determined to merely read the day away. I retrieve the thickest book he left me. I don’t even look at the uniform as I walk to the bed with the book. With a huff, I sit down on the plush mattress. Sitting cross-legged, I place the book in my lap and then glare at the words. I only read a few sentences before my treacherous eyes lift up. I stare at the uniform. For the first time in my life, I feel lonely. I’m accustomed to spending my time by myself, but I’ve rarely, if ever, felt lonely. But today, well, I miss him, and I hate myself for missing him. I look toward the window. It’s bright outside, albeit a little gray with some snow flurries. He said he’d be home after dark. Would it be so horrible to place his clothes next to me? I could tell him I got cold and used them for extra cover if he noticed they were disturbed. Of course, I’d put them back on the chair before he came home. I retrieve both the t-shirt and the tunic. The black tunic is heavier than I thought it would be. I think it’s made out of wool. Again, its texture is familiar. Swallowing hard, I position his clothes next to me on the mattress. I turn the uniform in a way that I can’t see the swastika on the red armband or the SS insignia on the lapel. This is already confusing enough. I’m torn over which garment I like better. The t-shirt is heavier with his distinct scent, but the tunic’s texture reminds me of holding him. I’m crazy, I know. It’s one thing when he seduces me, but to voluntarily cuddle up with his clothes is a bit weird. But the scent on his t-shirt and the feel of his uniform make me feel less lonely. Oddly enough, it’s a bit more relaxing to just enjoy his memory and his scent like this. I’m not as nervous as I am when I’m with him. I press my face against his clothes, remembering the feel of his hands on my body, his lips on my neck. A dull ache settles between my thighs. I want him to touch me. I need him to touch me. Closing my eyes, I envision him with me. My fingers rake through my curls, grazing the sensitive flesh of my slickening folds. I swallow hard as I remember his tongue on my ear. I roll over on my back, pulling my hand from my center and then gently strum over my rock-hard nipples. The moment my fingers graze the erect peaks, there’s a jolt between my thighs. In all my life, I’m not sure I’ve ever been more aroused than I am at this moment. I feel a certain freedom in my current solitude as if I’m exploring an aspect of my sexuality I never knew existed. His scent is inspiring me to try new things I’ve never done with my own fingers.

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I tenderly circle and then pinch each of my hardened nipples. The sensation hurts a little, but it also feels good. I only wish he were here to pinch and toy with my erect peaks. My hands slide down my stomach and stop at my thighs. My fingers gingerly part my folds, exposing my clit to the air. My nub is throbbing. Hot wetness slowly oozes from me as I keep teasing myself. Somehow, denying my body the pleasure of a quick and easy release is more satisfying. My sheath painfully clenches and releases, searching for something to fill it, aching for the warm cock that so recently claimed it the night before. I can’t even stop my fingers from slowly pushing into my slick passage. It’s not nearly as good as his thick arousal, but it helps. I pull my fingers from me, shocked at how hot and wet they are. I’m not sure why, but I feel compelled to push myself even further. I feel so wanton and lustful. I spread my thighs as wide as I can. My fingers smear my warm juices, coating the tender skin between my sheath and anus. Steven tried to have anal sex with me once, but it hurt like hell, so we never tried again. One of my slick fingers gently pushes against my anus while my other hand massages my drenched folds. In all my life, I’ve never explored myself so zealously. More wetness oozes from me as my fingers tenderly claim my passages. A twinge of guilt suddenly hits me. I almost feel I’m betraying him, as if my fingers are exploring territory that doesn’t really belong to me, though I know that’s utterly ridiculous. It’s my body, and I can touch it if I want. I’m not sure why, but a part of me disagrees. I push aside the odd thought. An incredibly intense orgasm rocks through me, but I don’t drag out my release the way he does. Instead, I stop when I’ve had enough. Groaning, I pull my fingers from me. My hands are coated with my drying juices, so I get up and quickly wash them in the bathroom sink. With an appreciative sigh, I crawl back into bed and cuddle up with his clothes. Sleepiness washes over me as I bury my face against his t-shirt.

***** Half-asleep, I take in the scent of his t-shirt beneath me. Erotic dreams linger as I sleepily stroke and clutch his tunic. The memory of his breath on my neck washes through me. Jeez, I can practically feel it. There, I can feel it again. New desire awakens in me. I groan softly against his clothes, wanting him, needing him. My sheath painfully clenches and releases, searching once again for something to fill it…searching for him. Still half-asleep, my fingers slide between my thighs. I cup my mound and apply just enough pressure to coax a quick and blissful release. I moan softly and breathe a sleepy sigh of relief.

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Inhaling deeply, I cuddle up happily with the garments and try to go back to sleep, but the hairs on the back of my neck prickle slightly. There’s a soft noise. Something’s not quite right. Before I completely wake up, I realize the breath I just felt on my neck wasn’t a memory. Oh God, he was watching me. Shaking away sleep, I discover the room is dark. Oh crap, it’s late! Startled, I sit up. He’s kneeling on the floor next to the bed. I have no idea how long he’s been there or what exactly he saw, but I know he saw enough. The light from the hall is spilling through the open door, illuminating both me and his uniform on the bed. Off to the side, he’s hidden in shadow. “How long have you been there?” I demand. Feelings of shame and embarrassment crash down on me. He doesn’t say anything. His silence scares me. After several minutes, he finally speaks. “Do that again.” “What?” “I just want to watch you.” Without another word and without turning on the lights, he walks around the bed to the other side. His form blocks the incoming light for only a moment. I hear him readjusting the chair by the bed before he sits down. I can just barely make out his silhouette in the dark room. Unlike him, I’m bathed in a rectangle of light that’s shining through the open door from the hall. “Go on,” he urges. “I…I can’t.” “Yes you can. Close your eyes and put your head back down.” “Please, I can’t.” “Do it, fräulein,” he orders. His words are cold and demanding. It’s almost a threat. Fear and nervousness pushes away my desire. Tears pool in my eyes as I look away from him. I hear him sigh. I think he’s angry with himself. “It’s all right, American,” he whispers a bit kinder. “You missed me today, didn’t you?” Struggling to breath, I reluctantly answer. “Yes.” “The scent on my uniform and the feel of it reminded you of me, didn’t it?” I shift around a bit, feeling exposed and uncomfortable. “Yes.” “You touched yourself for sexual gratification, and you thought of me, didn’t you?” I hesitate a moment. I know he already knows that, but once again I sense he likes asking questions and having his questions answered. I can tell he’s waiting for me to respond. “Yes,” I finally whisper. “Try to relax, American,” he gently instructs. “I won’t expect you to climax, but at least touch yourself for me. Show me what you did and how you did it.” That request doesn’t sound quite as impossible. I could at least show him, even if I can’t come from it. Of course, I’m not sure why I want to show him, but I do. And I 76

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think he only caught the tamer version of what I just did while half-asleep. I’m not sure I could repeat what I did earlier this afternoon…at least, not in front of him. Exhaling deeply, I turn my face away from him and from the light. Burying my face against the soft cloth of his t-shirt, I inhale the familiar scent I’ve breathed in all afternoon. My hand strokes over the tunic as my breathing slightly quickens. Much to my relief, he doesn’t say anything. I think he’s even taking shallow breaths to keep from disturbing me. The all-too-familiar combination of his scent and his clothes’ texture wrap me in blissful and familiar warmth, a feeling I’ve enjoyed and basked in all afternoon. Much to my surprise, my desire reawakens. I wait for him to say or do something, but he doesn’t. A strange giddiness washes over me. I’m suddenly thrilled by the idea of him watching me, though I have no idea why. Only moments ago, the idea of him watching frightened me. But now that he’s backed off a bit, I feel I might be able to actually climax. I roll on my side, wanting him to see what I’m doing, wanting him to see where I put my hand. My other arm is folded lazily over my eyes, blocking out the light. I can feel his eyes on me. I detect a slight hitch in his breathing, though I sense he’s trying to hide it from me. My fingers just barely graze over one of my nipples before slipping down between my thighs. I hear him take another sharp breath. When he exhales, it’s ragged and uneven. My fingernails rake through my curls, and I groan softly. Swallowing hard, I fold my fingers toward my clit. I gently stroke my aching nub, applying just enough pressure to find a quick and intense release. I cry out softly, and I hear him take another uneven breath. After several minutes, I merely wait for whatever he’s going to say or do next. I hear him approaching. “Come here,” he orders quietly. He kneels on the bed and then gently pulls me off the mattress and into the dark. Wordlessly, he pushes me to my knees on the floor. I know what he wants. I hear him unzip his trousers before his hand slips under my hair and firmly clasps the back of my neck. I don’t have any experience in oral sex. Steven used to tell me he liked the feel of my tight pussy, and he never asked me to do it. I feel a bit lost, but I’m willing to try. My seduction teacher actually gave me a lot of advice on this. The blunt tip of his erect cock prods at my lips. Closing my eyes, I open my mouth. He pulls me gently toward him. It feels a bit awkward and foreign for a man’s cock to stretch my lips, to have a thick arousal fill my mouth almost to the back of my throat. But it’s not overwhelming. As if sensing my inexperience, my captor offers me instruction. “Wrap your lips around me,” he whispers. “Suck me.” Sealing my lips around smooth skin, I gently suck him and pull back slightly on his erection. He groans in response, which I take as a sign of approval. But I think he 77

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prefers more of his cock inserted because he quickly adds, “Try to take a little more of me in your mouth—” He pulls me toward him again. “The way you had me before.” His hand is warm and supportive on the back of my neck. Slackening my lips, I take in more of his arousal, stopping just before the tip touches the back of my throat. My tongue naturally glides out flat on the underside of his organ. I’m a little surprised at just how easy this is coming for me. Again, he groans in response. Like him, I think I prefer more of his cock inserted. The idea of his arousal filling my mouth and claiming this virgin territory strangely arouses me. Balancing myself on my knees, I gently strum my hardened nipples. Since we’re in the shadows, I don’t think he knows what I’m doing, which I’m currently grateful for. It shocks me how lustful this man makes me. Hot liquid slowly oozes from me as I keep sucking and working his member. The dull ache in my pussy becomes too great for me to ignore. I slip my fingers into my dripping cleft and desperately stroke my clit. I can’t believe how much I missed him today. I’ve never ached for anyone or longed for someone, but I ached for him today. I suffered without him. I had to make do with only his scent on the uniform, and now, well, I’m so relieved and happy he’s here that I’d do anything to please him. “I want you to swallow when I come,” he rasps. I barely register the words as warm fluid spills in my mouth. I mindlessly swallow. His release is enough to push me over the edge. With his cock still in my mouth, I moan slightly as I quietly climax. He’s silent for a moment. Backing away, he pulls himself from me. “Were you touching yourself?” “Yes,” I whisper without thinking. He chuckles. “Naughty girl. I didn’t say you could do that.” A brief wave of panic hits me. Did I do something wrong? I guess he senses something amiss because he quickly adds, “It’s all right, American. I forgive you.” His fingers rake through my hair. “I know you’re untrained.” Untrained? Untrained at what? Before I can ask what he means by that, he gathers me up off the floor. He leads me back to the bed where he has me slip under the covers. He doesn’t follow me under the blankets. Instead, I hear him taking off his uniform. He walks away and then turns off the light in the hall. The room turns black. I hear him come back. With a sigh, he slips under the blankets with me. I bury my face against his bare, muscular chest. I’ve never felt such an overwhelming need to be near someone. His arms blissfully wrap around me. I know he recently climaxed, so sex may have to wait, but just lying next to him in the dark like this is kinda…nice. “I should leave you home alone more often,” he mutters. 78

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I only swallow hard at that statement. He makes it sound as if this is going to last longer than I initially thought. “And what else did you do today, American, other than curl up with my uniform?” “I went through your closet and all your drawers.” “I’m not surprised. Did my little spy find anything interesting?” “I found a wedding band in your drawer and a wedding album in the closet.” “Hmm, I didn’t know I had a wedding album in my closet.” After pausing for a moment, he adds, “Oh, I think I kept it because it had some nice pictures of my friends.” “Are you still married?” I ask. He chuckles at the question. “No,” he answers simply. “How long were you married?” He sighs. “A few years. It didn’t work out.” A bit bitterly, he adds, “She was only interested in being married to an SS officer. Apparently, it opens lots of social doors.” I find it strange he’s offering so much information. I think finding me with his uniform knocked him off guard. I’m tempted to ask another question, but I think he wants to keep talking. I’m not sure what exactly I sense from my captor. Despair? Anger, maybe? I’m hoping silence prods him to speak again. “It’s strange,” he mutters, “that you’re asking me about her. I haven’t thought about her in so long until this morning when I was securing your leash to the bed, and it reminded me how—” He stops suddenly. I have no idea what he’s trying to say. I sense his mood darkening even further. Unfortunately, I’m not learning anything about my captor. Nothing he’s saying is making any sense. Why would chaining me to his bed remind him of his ex-wife? He wouldn’t do the same thing to his wife before going to work. “What’s your name?” I ask cautiously, trying to learn something a bit more useful. I’m hoping he keeps talking to me. He only chuckles. I think my question snapped him out of whatever dark mood he was slipping into. “You’re very inquisitive tonight, American. But you don’t need to know my name.” Somehow, I knew he wouldn’t tell me. Since he won’t tell me his name, I try to think of more general questions to ask instead. “Will you answer a few more of my questions?” “Maybe. What do you want to know?” I don’t have a specific question but talking in the dark like this is nice. I’ve never just lay in bed in the dark and talked to someone. It’s very intimate. I scramble for a question and quickly come up with one. “What did you do today?” Again, he seems amused by my question. “My day was actually quite dull. Mostly meetings about budgets and financial reports. Nothing exciting. Most of my days are

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very mundane. I don’t usually get to interrogate lovely American spies.” After a brief pause, he adds, “Although I did have an appointment with your driver this morning.” A wave of anger crashes down on me. “And what did he want?” “To receive his reward of course. The empire does offer generous rewards for spies, you know.” I don’t say anything. “I actually keyed in the electronic transfer of funds myself. Usually, my secretary handles those details after I give the authorization, but with you, I wanted to handle the transaction personally.” His tone is strange. I have the impression that paying my driver’s reward was the highlight of his day. “I very much enjoyed paying your driver. It’s the empire’s money, of course, but I couldn’t help but feel I was purchasing you at the time.” His hand runs firmly down my back. His touch is strangely possessive. Silence. My breath hitches as he strokes me. “You like being with me. You like being in my custody.” They’re not questions and he hasn’t drugged me, but I still feel compelled to answer. “Yes.” But I don’t want to like it. Without saying anything, he rolls away from me and then turns on a lamp. I blink several times at the light. Wordlessly, he drapes his discarded t-shirt over the shade, dimming the light. I have no idea what he’s doing. He walks across the room and then leaves the bedroom. Lights in the hall flick on. I hear him moving around in another room. The lights in the hall once again go out, leaving only the dim light of the lamp with his t-shirt over it. When he returns, I can tell he’s holding something, but I don’t know what. I think he’s intentionally hiding whatever it is behind him. After climbing back into bed, he takes hold of my right wrist and pulls it up toward the headboard. I realize he’s holding cut sections of rope. I’m not sure, but I think they’re the same pieces of rope he restrained me with on the first night. “What are you doing?” I ask. A ripple of genuine concern washes through me as he ties my right wrist to the headboard. “I’m tying you up,” he declares simply. “Why?” “Because I want to, and I like how you look tied up. Now stop asking me questions, American.” After tugging my left wrist up, he knots the rope tightly to the headboard, pinning my limb. The rough rope digs into my flesh. I pull against the restraints, but I quickly find out he hasn’t left any wiggle room for escape. Somehow, being tied up on a bed like this freaks me out. It reminds me a little too much of certain films I had to watch.

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Squeezing my eyes shut, I can feel myself trembling beneath him. His body is like a warm blanket over mine. “It’s all right,” he murmurs against my ear. “You know I won’t hurt you.” For some reason, I do believe him. Aside from a little arm twisting and a few needle pricks, he’s yet to actually harm me, but I can’t easily shake off a lifetime of training. “Please,” I whisper. “I don’t like being tied up like this. I didn’t like it the first night either.” “It reminds you of what they told you would happen, doesn’t it?” Sometimes, I feel he’s seen the same damn films I have. “Yes,” I whisper. “There were a couple of really vicious rape films they made me watch where a woman was tied to a bed.” I’m not sure why I told him that. Maybe I shouldn’t have admitted those films freaked me out. He murmurs something. I have the impression he has indeed seen what I’m referring to. “For now, just believe that I won’t really harm you. It’s all right if you’re afraid. I just like seeing you tied up, that’s all. It makes you look so vulnerable. Besides, it pleases me to see you this way.” I squelch my protests and simply try to relax. I don’t want to provoke my captor, but oddly enough, a part of me also wants to please him. Shifting around a bit, he straddles my hips and merely studies me. I involuntarily tug against my restraints. A slow smile spreads across his face. Uncertain what to do or what to feel, I look away from him. With a sigh, he returns to his previous position over me. His lips brush against mine before turning into a familiar, parted-lip kiss. Almost immediately, his kiss makes my nervousness dissolve. If I weren’t tied up, I would embrace him. His tongue slides past my lips, claiming my mouth. Every thought evaporates. Backing away slightly, he breaks our kiss and shifts around a bit. His firm lips caress my left nipple. I reluctantly giggle from the light touch. If I weren’t tied up, I’d push him away. A bit firmer, his lips take my nipple in his mouth. A warm, wet tongue glides over the sensitive flesh of my areola. The tip of his tongue mercilessly teases my erect nipple. I gasp, a bit overwhelmed. I’ve never had anyone lick or suck my nipples. It feels weird, more tickly than arousing. I tug harder against my restraints. Another soft giggle escapes me. Blissfully, he stops. His knuckles rasp over my other nipple. I like his knuckles better. Shifting around, he hovers over me at arm’s length. His eyes settle on my tied wrists. I’m not sure what he sees. His cock prods at my slit. I tug against my restraints as his thick arousal stretches my snug passage. “You are so tight,” he mutters, slowly pushing his cock inside me. “You feel so good.” He sinks down and settles on his elbows, trapping me under him. His lips barely graze mine. 81

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He slowly inserts himself as I twist against my restraints. He tries to pull out a bit, but my passage is like a warm fist around him and his partial withdrawal hurts a little. I whimper in response. “Shh, it’s okay.” He gently kisses and laves my ear. “Just relax.” His tongue draws a line down my neck to my shoulder. The feel of his hard organ filling my passage excites and arouses me in a way that truly shocks me. How can I like this? Guilt filters through me as fresh tears sting my eyes. Although it takes a great deal of effort, I manage not to sob. I turn my face away, hoping he doesn’t notice my tears. His hand caresses my cheek. His nimble fingers take hold of my jaw and turn my face up. His thumb swabs the hot tears streaming down my temples. “It’s all right, American. I won’t keep you tied up very long. Don’t cry.” Relief washes over me. He doesn’t know why I’m crying. He thinks it’s because I’m tied up. His lips tenderly brush against mine. “Just relax.” His gentle words and soft kisses actually do make me feel better, and I manage to lose myself in the moment. I don’t quite understand it, but I feel I’m surrendering myself to him. And strangely enough, the idea excites me. Hot wetness gushes from me, coating his inserted cock. He groans softly. Again, he patiently pulls out a bit. His cock glides from me without tugging at my passage. He slowly pushes himself back in. “Oh,” I groan, twisting against the ropes. I writhe helplessly beneath him as he slowly fucks me. I’m not sure why I feel compelled to struggle a bit against my restraints, but the action seems to please him. His movements become more steady and rhythmic as his thick cock glides in and out of my passage. With each thrust, he grinds against my clit. His expert movements pull a quick climax from me, which is something he’s been able to do from the beginning. As usual, he doesn’t stop when I come. But instead, he continues to fuck me, turning my release into a near-painful and dragged-out ordeal where I’m forced to come over and over again. I look up at him, silently pleading him to let my release find an end. The expression on his face is focused and driven. His lips gently graze mine as he works. I have the impression he’s going to drag this out as long as possible. Quivering beneath him, I alternate between panting and whimpering. I tug against my restraints as hard as I can. The muscles in my stomach and legs tighten and cramp painfully. “Please,” I whisper. He groans deeply. I feel him reach his own breaking point, spilling his hot seed inside me as he shudders over me. With a final, brutal thrust, he finally stops. I cry out in relief as my prolonged orgasm finally reaches an end. I honestly think we’re finished as he pulls himself from me. But his thumb suddenly presses against my clit as he slips

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his hand between us. Sliding over my slick folds, his thumb rolls and pushes against my overly sensitive nub. I try to close my legs, not entirely certain I can handle much more, but he’s still positioned between my thighs. I yank and twist against my restraints, but the action only serves to excite him. His touch forces me to come again and again, over and over, until I’m literally sobbing and screaming in ecstasy. Resting my face against his shoulder, I feel only sleepy and thoroughly spent. I’m no longer restrained, but I have no memory of him untying me. “What happened?” I whisper. “You fainted.” I’m not sure what exactly I hear in his tone. Satisfaction, maybe. He sits up and retrieves something from the nightstand near him. With a low groan, he leans over me. He gently drags a cool, wet cloth over my tear-stained face. “I must say it’s quite satisfying to make you faint from ecstasy.” A ripple of genuine concern washes through me. I guess he senses something from me because he adds, “Don’t worry. I won’t push you so hard every time.” Every time? Just how long is this going to last? He kinda makes this sound longterm. I want to ask what he means by that, but I’m too exhausted and confused. He patiently swabs my face before passing the wet cloth over my folds and inner thighs. Drowsiness washes over me as he mops away our hot juices. I’m not uncomfortable, and I don’t mind the wetness still oozing from my cleft, but I sense he’s enjoying tending to me. He even scoots my limp body closer to him, so I’m not lying in the wet spot. Once he finishes, he sets the rag on the nightstand. “Come here,” he whispers, taking me against his broad chest. The cool, wet cloth chilled me a bit, and I cling to him, shivering. He holds me tighter, warming me, and I drift to sleep in his arms.

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Chapter Five Sleep falls slowly from me. Sighing, I roll over, searching for my captor. My hand slides across the mattress but finds no one. A bit reluctantly, I open my eyes. The sun is up, but I can tell it’s early. Sitting up, I spot my captor in the chair nearest the bed, the same chair he watched me in last night. I have no idea how long he’s been there. He’s dressed in a fresh uniform. The rim of his hat is shadowing his eyes, but I can tell he’s staring intensely at me. I’m tempted to say something, but I sense that speaking right now may not be a good idea. “Good morning,” he whispers. “Good morning.” Several minutes of silence passes. “I very much enjoyed last night,” he replies evenly. I have the impression he doesn’t want me to respond. After several minutes of simply watching me, he stands. He cocks his head as he approaches me, seemingly angry about something. I hear his boots hitting the hardwood floor. He stops by the bed, and I notice his black bag is unzipped. 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?” 84

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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.” 85

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“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

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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.”

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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.

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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.

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His hand slips between us as his tongue slides past my lips. Nimble fingers gently pinch one of my erect nipples, sending a jolt of white-hot pleasure straight to my clit. With his tongue filling my mouth, I moan softly. He groans in response. Shifting around a bit, he sits up and settles between my thighs. Lifting my leg slightly, he bends it at the knee before repeating the same thing to my other leg. He pushes my thighs far apart, exposing every inch of my mound to his prying eyes. Warm, nimble fingers gently part my lips, unveiling my clit. His piercing eyes stare intensely at my nub. I inadvertently tug at the ropes pinning my wrists to the headboard. His eyes lift only briefly before focusing once again on my pussy. His finger and thumb keep my lips parted as another nimble digit from his other hand slowly slips inside my sheath. His actions are slow and meticulous. His inserted finger curls slightly, touching an overly sensitive spot of raw nerves somewhere in my passage. I think he just found exactly what he was looking for. His fingertip gently massages the spot, causing me to squirm beneath him. His relentless strumming nears me closer and closer to orgasm. Just before I can find my release, he pulls his finger from me but keeps my lips parted. “No,” I whimper, protesting the withdrawal of his finger. He doesn’t do or say anything. He simply keeps my slick folds open, exposing my aching nub to the room’s warm air. “Please,” I whisper, squirming in his firm grip. With a sigh, he settles over me. His erect cock pushes briefly against my throbbing clit. The touch is enough to push me over the edge. I cry out softly as his thick arousal parts my overheated and slick flesh. The muscles of my passage spasm around his swollen organ as he slowly pushes himself inside me. I’m already climaxing and he’s just getting started. Just before the world goes dark, I hear my captor whisper something about keeping me forever, but I have no clue what he means by that. When I wake up, I can tell it’s still morning. I think I was only out for a little while, less than an hour I’m sure. He’s asleep next to me. I shift about on the mattress, and I suddenly realize my wrists are free. He must have untied me before he dozed off next to me. As I study his sleeping form, wondering why he took the time to untie me, my stomach grumbles unhappily. For some reason, I’m starving. I abruptly remember I didn’t have dinner last night. I vaguely remember him saying something about dinner just before he went to work yesterday morning, but I guess coming home and finding me with his uniform kinda distracted him. I can tell by his breathing he’s deep asleep, and the agent in me immediately sees the opportunity. The key to my leash might be in his uniform pocket. Granted, there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to go anywhere, but I’m not stupid either. American spies have something of a poor track record while in Nazi custody. 90

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But…even if I find the key to my leash, I can’t do a damn thing about the locator and he warned me I would regret an escape attempt, unless…I can find the tracking device I saw the first night. If he doesn’t have that, I don’t think he can hone in on me. Maybe I’ll get lucky and find both. I silently move out of bed and hurriedly make my way to his discarded uniforms piled on the chair—by my count, there should be three. There’s the one I cuddled with yesterday, the one he took off last night and the fresh one he had on this morning. Not wanting to make a sound, I carefully hold my leash, preventing it from dragging against the hardwood floor as I creep to the chair. Kneeling on the floor, I hurriedly rifle through his trousers first, listening for any changes in his breathing. I then carefully search each tunic before thoroughly exploring his dress shirts. I don’t find a damn thing except a crumpled receipt for what looks like lunch in one of the trouser pockets. Oddly enough, I’m actually relieved I can’t escape, which only serves to confuse the hell out of me. My stomach groans, and I smooth a hand over my belly. I need food. I abandon my quest for freedom and instead walk to the small table near the window. I think there are some almonds left. I know the candy bar is still there, but it’s a little early for chocolate. I find a covered plate with some bacon and scrambled eggs. I think he left it earlier. I guess his original plan was to go to work after his early morning interrogation. I sit down before quickly taking a bite of the eggs. They’re cold, but I eat them anyway. I even devour a strip of bacon. It’s not the best meal, but it makes my stomach happy. I gulp some of the apple juice before tearing into the second strip of bacon. Like yesterday, he also left some fruit and nuts for lunch. I eagerly eye an orange as I take another bite of cold bacon. “I’m sure that’s cold by now,” he mutters. Startled, I turn and look at him. He’s lying on his side, watching me. He steps out of bed, eyeing me with amusement. After retrieving a tan robe from his closet, he slips it on. “I forgot to feed you last night, didn’t I?” He walks out into the hall before quickly coming back. When he returns, he’s holding something. I know it’s the key to my leash. No wonder I couldn’t find it—he stowed it beyond my reach. He takes my hand and tugs me out of the chair. “Come on. I’ll get you something better.” After unlocking the chain from my anklet, he takes my hand again and leads me from his bedroom. He leaves the key on a table in the hall, just outside his bedroom, but I mentally abandon any future efforts to escape. I’m sure the tracking device for my locator is somewhere safe under lock and key. And Nazis don’t make hollow threats. If I try to escape, I know he’ll find me, and I know I will indeed regret it. 91

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Once we’re in the kitchen, he coaxes me near the stove and then picks me up as if I weigh nothing. He sets me down on the counter. It’s chilly in the house, and I pull my unbuttoned shirt tighter around me. I have the socks on from yesterday, but I’m still cold. “You’re cold,” he observes. “A little.” “It is a bit cold in here.” He turns on a gas burner that’s closest to me. Almost immediately, the heat from the stove warms me up. I place my hands over the burner. After turning on the stove, he walks away from me and stops in the hall. He fiddles with something on the wall. I hear the house’s central heating kick on. He returns to the kitchen. “Better?” “Yes. Thank you.” I continue to warm my hands over the stove as he retrieves three pans. He walks to the fridge and pulls out several items—eggs, cheese, butter, bacon, tomatoes, avocado, ham. Food. After setting everything on the counter, he turns on the coffeemaker. As he works on breakfast, he glances at me from time to time. I have no idea what he sees. It’s strange. I know him, but I don’t know him. He’s preparing an omelet with lots of cheese and sliced ham. He also adds some diced tomatoes and sliced avocados. As he works on the omelet, several strips of bacon sizzle in another pan that’s farthest from me. He only smiles at me as he warms two split muffins in a small pan. I can tell the food is almost ready, and my stomach grumbles. Retrieving a platter, he carefully places the omelet on the serving dish followed by the bacon. He pulls the split muffins from the pan before smearing butter on them. He places them on the plate as well. I’m not sure why he’s placing everything on one dish. Obviously satisfied with the platter, he places it on the table. After pouring a cup of coffee and setting it on the table, he retrieves a fork and a napkin. “Do you want coffee, juice or milk?” “Juice.” He nods as if he expected the answer. “Orange or apple?” “Apple.” He pulls a large plastic tumbler from a cabinet and pours some juice in it. I actually love apple juice. I used to drink gallons of it back in the States. He puts a straw in my tumbler. The weird thing is he keeps putting everything at one place on the table. The platter, his coffee, my juice, the fork and the napkin are all in front of one chair. “Come here,” he whispers, helping me off the counter. After leading me to the table, he pulls out the chair and sits down at a slight angle.

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He takes hold of me and gently guides me to sit sideways across his lap. He scoots the chair closer to the table and then lays the napkin in my lap. He uses the fork to cut into the omelet and spear a small piece. He lifts it to my mouth. I bite into warm egg and cheese. As I chew the food, he cuts off a piece for himself. It’s strange for me to not feed myself, but not overly stressful. He offers me a strip of bacon. I bite into it, breaking off a piece. He takes a bite from the same strip of bacon. I want a sip of juice, but I don’t want to provoke him. I look toward the blue tumbler. Obviously catching my want, he picks up the plastic tumbler. He holds it closer to me. I take several gulps of the juice through the straw before he sets it down. “When you want a drink, just touch the table’s edge with your fingers. Understand?” “Okay,” I whisper. His request seems a bit odd to me, but I don’t mind. My captor looks pleased and satisfied about this unusual setup. He cuts off a bigger piece of the omelet before offering it to me. I bite again into warm egg and cheese, but this bite also has some tomato, ham and avocado in it. I murmur softly, enjoying the taste. “Good?” “Yes. Very. Thank you.” “You’re welcome,” he replies with a swift, single nod of his head. His mannerisms are so abrupt and military that I can’t help but wonder how long he’s been in the service. I want to ask, but I don’t…ours is a strange relationship. And I’m not even sure where it’s going. At the moment, I’m hungry and I’m being fed. For now, that’s enough. He offers me a muffin, and I bite into warm, buttery bread. After I take some, he takes a bite as well. I tentatively touch the table’s edge with my fingers, silently asking for another sip of juice. He sees the act immediately and promptly picks up my tumbler. I take several gulps through the straw, nearly emptying the cup. He left the pitcher on the table, and I’m hoping I can have more. “More juice?” he asks. “Please.” He hesitates for a moment before retrieving the pitcher and filling my cup. “I like how you say ‘please’. It’s very sweet, especially when you’re begging me to stop making you come.” I only swallow hard at that. I’m not sure what to say.

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Without resuming our meal, he continues. “I have hundreds of recordings on my computer. I have several language tutorials and CDs. I’ve heard the word please hundreds of times in English, but the way you say it is so…sincere.” Again, I’m not sure what to say. I just let him talk. I feel he offers me information about himself in small snippets. There’s something guarded about him. He picks up the fork and cuts off another bite of the omelet. Without another word, he offers it to me. We continue our breakfast as if he didn’t say anything, with him offering me a bite of something before taking one himself. I find it oddly touching that he always offers me the first bite of something different. We polish off the last of the meal. I feel happy and sated, even a little full. He doesn’t stand up or rush to clear away the dishes. He just sits and sips his coffee. I’m not sure what to do, so I rest my head against his shoulder and merely wait. After several minutes, he gently pats my arm, coaxing me to stand, which I do. Standing near the table, I watch him clear away the dishes. Afterward, he wordlessly takes hold of me and then effortlessly lifts me up. He sets me down on the table. Pushing my shoulders back, he makes me lie flat on the table with my legs dangling over the edge. Tilting my head up, I watch him seat himself. He squares the chair directly between my knees. My unbuttoned shirt doesn’t cover me at all, and I feel uncomfortable and self-conscious lying exposed on the table. Embarrassed, I draw my legs together. His hands slip between my thighs, pushing them apart. Keeping my head up, I only watch him. His head dips down toward my stomach. A warm, wet tongue laves my navel, and I shudder from the strange sensation. His head dips lower as his tongue ruthlessly plunges between my folds. I gasp and try to wiggle away, but he only holds me in place as his tongue suddenly claims my sheath. I cry out softly as my hands reach for the table’s edge, which is just above my head. His tongue slowly and meticulously explores the length of my sheath, fucking me, which causes me to squirm and wiggle helplessly in his firm grip. After thoroughly exploring my passage, he slowly licks my clit and then gently sucks and nips my folds. As if wanting to explore every inch of me, his tongue circles my nub before gently caressing the sensitive tissue lining each of my lips. I whimper helplessly, both loving and hating the strange, rough sensation of his tongue. I have the impression he’s truly enjoying this. I squirm about on the table as his expert licking and sucking actually makes me come. After what feels like an eternity, he finally stops. He sits up straight and offers me a wicked smile. “You taste good, American. I wish I could spend more time tasting you, but I have business to attend to. Come, get up. This will have to continue when I have more time.” He helps me off the table before leading me back up the stairs. My clit is still warm and wet from his greedy mouth.

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He pulls me back to his bedroom before tethering the chain to my anklet. Apparently satisfied, he turns and walks into the bathroom. I hear water running. Since my chain doesn’t allow me to go too far, I sit on the bed and simply wait for whatever happens next. He emerges from the bathroom, recently showered and shaved. The familiar scent of his soap wafts across my nostrils. He glances at me from time to time as he slips on first a fresh t-shirt then a pair of underwear and finally his socks. I think I’m sulking. I don’t want him to leave. He chuckles softly as he dries and then styles his hair. “Now don’t pout, American. You already made me miss the morning meeting.” He walks to the closet before rolling it open. He pulls out a fresh tan dress shirt. Usually, he wears a white shirt. I’m not sure why he switched to tan today, though it’s probably nothing. A part of me thinks tan is considered more formal than white, but I’m not sure. After buttoning up the shirt, he slips on a pair of black trousers and then a black tie. He pulls a fresh tunic from the closet and takes his time with the buttons. When he has the tunic buttoned up, only part of his dress shirt and tie are visible. He turns again to the open closet before grabbing a hat and a pair of boots. “I won’t be as late today,” he announces as he finishes getting dressed. He retrieves a pair of gloves from the dresser before grabbing his belt from the back of the chair. “I have to file some important paperwork on you in Berlin. It won’t take long, but I want to get it done today.” Paperwork? Vaguely, I wonder if that paperwork is a death warrant. His tone is strange. I immediately sense there’s something very important about this mysterious paperwork. He almost seems nervous about it. I don’t say anything as he slips his belt on over his tunic and walks from the room. His boots thud across the floor. I hear him moving about in another part of the house. I think he’s in his office. When he returns to the bedroom, he has two books as well as a black duffle bag. I know the cloth bag isn’t his briefcase nor is it the case he uses during an interrogation. It’s something different, and I can’t help but be curious about its contents. He sets everything down on the table. “I’ll be back soon, so I think you can survive without cuddling with my uniform.” He picks up the older uniforms in the room. “I need to have them cleaned. Besides, I want you to carefully study the books I left you today, and I want you to examine the items in the bag. Your instructors only told you the basics about sex. The expectation was that your many lovers would teach you the rest. You’ve probably never seen some of the things in my books.” Instantly intrigued, I move toward the edge of the bed. My plan is to get up and retrieve the items. “No,” he orders. I stop. 95

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“Wait until I’m gone to look at everything.” “Okay,” I whisper. With a subtle nod, he turns to leave. His older uniforms are draped over his arm. “I will return shortly, American.” He closes the bedroom door. I hear him descend the stairs before the front door opens and closes. His car starts, and then the engine revs briefly. I hear the vehicle pull away from the house. Silence. I was going to take a shower, but now, well, he’s left me a freakin’ mystery. I hop off the bed and then hurriedly retrieve the books and the black bag. I tote them back to the bed. After returning to my previous cross-legged position on the down comforter, I flip open one of the books. I inhale sharply when I see a picture of a nude woman tied to a bed. What the hell? A bit confused, I close the book and search for a title. It doesn’t have one. I lay the book out flat and start reading it from the beginning. There are German words typed on the first page. Loosely translated, it reads, How to give and receive discipline. Discipline? I flip to the second page. It’s a picture of a different nude woman on all fours. There’s a man wielding a belt over her, obviously intent on striking her upturned ass with it. There are German words at the bottom. The words seem strange to me, and I have to reread them to understand the meaning, When an open palm is not sufficient, a belt or a hairbrush can make a useful tool. I blink several times at the strange picture. My captor is right. I’ve never seen anything quite like this before. As part of my training, my instructors showed me graphic rape films where women were usually tied to something, but they were gory and violent. This is…different. I flip to the previous picture, the nude woman tied to the bed. It’s nothing like the rape films my instructors showed me. It kinda reminds me of what he likes to do, the way he ties my wrists to the headboard. My seduction teacher never told me about any of this, and I never saw stuff like this in school. The images are strange, but oddly enough, there’s something arousing about them. I slowly turn the pages of the book and carefully take in the pictures of bound women. Reading through the brief captions, I catch certain words over and over again…punishment, discipline, Domination, submission. What the hell is he trying to tell me? When I come to the end of the book, I’m both nervous and aroused. I feel I’m in uncharted waters. Setting the first book aside, I decide to go through the mysterious black bag next. After unzipping it, I cautiously peer inside before reaching in. I pull out what looks like a long black stick. It’s a riding crop, but I have the impression it was never meant for striking horses. The firm handle is wrapped in leather, which feels supple in my grip.

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After setting the crop aside, I pull out a simple strip of black cloth that looks like a scarf. Uncertain of its purpose, I set it aside as well. A strange feeling of curiosity and nervousness settles around me. Looking in the bag, I realize there’s only one item left. I pull out something by several leather tails. Studying it, I realize I’m holding it wrong. The handle is dangling like a pendulum. I take the handle in my hand and then swish the leather tails to and fro. I have no idea what it is or what its purpose could possibly be. Everything in the bag looks new. I also smell leather. Shrugging, I set the mysterious item aside. The only thing left to look at is the second book. After placing the book in front of me, I realize it’s very similar to the first one. Both books are simple black volumes with no title or author. As I slowly turn each page of the second book, I spot a picture of a man wielding the mysterious tool I just pulled out of the bag. He’s hitting a bound woman’s bare shoulders with it. My eyes linger on the picture. By the time I finish going through everything, I feel strangely aroused, confused and nervous. What is he trying to tell me? Is this just his weird way of telling me he’s going to beat me when he gets home? In all honesty, that doesn’t sound like him. But it does sound like something a Nazi would do. Maybe he’s just playing some weird game with me. A bit confused about everything, I can’t help but jump when I hear his car pull up. I stand from the bed. If I wasn’t tethered to the footboard, I might bolt. The minute the front door opens, I desperately look for some place to hide. His heavy footfalls hit the first few steps, and I drop to the floor. Like a frightened animal, I scurry under the bed. His familiar footsteps climb up the stairs, and I hold my breath. I hear him enter the room. I see his boots from under the bed. “American?” I hear the chain being picked up and then I feel a tug on my ankle. He kneels down before peering under the bed. “American, what are you doing?” “Are you going to hit me?” He frowns at me. “No. It wasn’t my intention to frighten you with the books. Now come out from under there.” I know he can pull me out if he wants. Hiding under the bed wasn’t too bright, but it was more of a gut response. A bit reluctantly, I crawl out from my poor hiding spot. He’s standing nearby. Uncertain what to do, I sit on the floor. He settles into a chair. “You looked at everything I left you, didn’t you?” “Yes.”

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Gail Starbright

“It frightened you?” I’m not sure how to answer that question. I shake my head at him. “No,” he orders. “Talk to me. I don’t like gestures in questioning. They’re too vague. Did it frighten you?” “Not at first. In the beginning, I thought the pictures were…arousing.” He doesn’t say anything. I’m not sure why, but I want to keep talking to him. “At first, I felt nervous and curious and…also…aroused.” “So why did you hide under the bed?” “I wondered if you were playing a game with me, like you were threatening to beat me when you came back.” “I wasn’t threatening you.” I study his face. I want to ask him something, but I don’t. Instead, I look away, feeling a bit embarrassed. “You want to know something?” I’m tempted to nod, but I remember what he said about gestures. “Those items in the bag are meant to strike flesh, aren’t they?” He smiles at me. “Yes, they are.” “I don’t understand. You said you weren’t trying to threaten me, but you want to hit me with those things? That would hurt, wouldn’t it?” He tilts his head, seemingly amused by my questions. “I simply miss wielding a flogger or a crop. One can easily use each tool without inflicting any significant harm or injury. As far as how you feel about erotic pain, well, we’ve yet to explore your limits, American.” My breath hitches at his odd words. Something about how he said yet concerns me. “A flogger? Is that what the other item in the bag is, the one with the tails?” He smiles darkly at me. “Yes.” I shift around a bit. “Those tools in the bag look new.” “They are. I bought them recently for you.” “But you said you miss wielding those items.” “Ah, very good.” He nods at me. “You listen well. I actually threw out a lot of things after the divorce. I gave up looking for what I wanted a long time ago.” Confusion washes through me. What does he want? He stands, and I simply watch him, wondering what he’s going to do next. He walks to the bed before retrieving the mysterious tool I couldn’t identify earlier, the one with the leather tails. The flogger. “Stand up,” he orders simply, approaching me.

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He holds the tool much more confidently than I did, as if he knows exactly how to use it. Somehow, he looks different to me holding the flogger…more intimidating, I think. Swallowing hard, I reluctantly stand. He takes a hold of my arm, just above my elbow, and pulls me closer to him. He presses the flogger against my shoulders. I can feel the leather tails through the shirt I’m still wearing. “I’m going to strike you with it just once across your shoulders, so you know what it feels like. It won’t be very hard.” I don’t think he’s asking. It’s more like he’s warning me. Before I can even process what he’s just told me, I feel a sharp slap across my shoulders. I jump and yelp, more from surprise than anything else, but it didn’t really hurt. My eyes meet his. He looks intrigued by something. His breathing seems a bit quickened and uneven. His grip tightens. The tails of the flogger slap my shoulders again, only harder than the first time. I jump and then pull against him. I’m not sure what to make of all this. He’s not hurting me, but the experience is somehow…overwhelming. He strikes me a third time and then a fourth. Each sharp smack warms the flesh on my back and shoulders. His gloved fingers tighten around my captured limb as he strikes me a fifth time. I sink to my knees, trembling, though I’m not afraid or cold. He doesn’t let me go but instead holds my arm awkwardly above my head. He still has his hat on, so his eyes are somewhat shadowed. But I can tell his gaze is hard. He’s giving me a strange you-better-behave look that thrills me in a bizarre and foreign way. Finally, he releases me, but he seems to do it only reluctantly. I have the impression he wanted to strike me again. “Thank you,” he mutters. I don’t even move. I can’t. He settles on the bed’s edge. Several minutes of silence passes. “We will do this again in the near future, yes?” I reluctantly look at him, feeling even more confused and embarrassed. “Yes,” I whisper, still kneeling on the floor. He seems pleased by something. “Come. Stand up.” He sets the flogger next to him on the bed. Swallowing hard, I stand. He takes my hand and then pulls me between his knees. “Take off the shirt,” he orders, plucking at the sleeve. “I keep getting so distracted by your charms, I never think to completely strip you.” My shirt is already unbuttoned, so I slip it off. He takes it and then tosses it aside. His eyes slowly look me up and down. “Turn around,” he orders, leaning back a bit on the bed.

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Steadying my nerves, I turn and face the wall. His gloved finger traces the scar across my lower back. I wince, wishing he hadn’t seen it. But I knew this was going to come up eventually. “What is this?” he asks. I’m not sure why, but I don’t want to tell him. “Answer me, American,” he demands. I know there’s no point in withholding anything, but I still don’t want to tell him. “It happened a long time ago.” I shrug a bit indifferently, hoping the answer will be good enough. “I didn’t ask when it happened. I asked what it was. Now answer my question or I’ll get my needles.” So much for shrugging it off. I turn my head to talk to him. “One evening, I overheard my father saying something to my brother about how he didn’t score as well as I did on those stupid tests. Later that same evening, my brother attacked me with a kitchen knife. The other lacerations healed, but that one was the deepest, so it left a scar.” I turn my head back around and stare at the wall. He doesn’t respond at all. I clearly remember him saying at the kitchen table that he wouldn’t be surprised to learn that one of my siblings attacked me, so I guess he isn’t surprised. I don’t know why he won’t say anything though. His hands settle around my waist. His lips press against the scar, kissing it. It feels strange for someone to kiss that old injury. His breath flutters across my skin. “I’m sorry that happened.” I’m oddly touched by that statement. When it happened back then, my father was furious, my brother was unremorseful, my sister was glad and my mother only asked the doctor if there was any permanent damage. But no one was ever sorry. “Thank you,” I whisper. Somehow, that’s all I ever wanted to hear about that. I feel him shifting on the bed. Turning, I watch him retrieve the wide strip of black cloth. “I think you can handle this without hiding under the bed.” He stands, obviously intent on doing something. “Close your eyes.” A bit mystified, I close my eyes. He wraps the cloth around my eyes and ties it behind my head. “Come on.” He leads me by my hand only a few feet before pushing me gently against something. I feel cold metal pressing against my belly. His bed has a black, wrought iron headboard with a similar-looking footboard. I know he’s pressing me against the footboard. “Bend,” he orders, pushing against my shoulders. A bit awkwardly, I comply and press my face against the comforter. His gloved hands settle around my hips and lift me slightly. “Scoot forward,” he whispers. I wiggle forward. When he has me the way he wants, my feet aren’t touching the floor anymore and I’m bent over with my ass tilted up. The metal footboard is pressed against my pubic 100

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bone. It’s odd to be in this position but not overly stressful. I hear a distinct clicking noise. I heard it the first night when he arrested me. Handcuffs. Without a word to me, he gathers my wrists before pressing them against my lower back. He secures the handcuffs to first one wrist and then the other. With my hands cuffed and him trapping me against the bed, I’m basically stuck for now. I feel him move slightly and then something drags across my shoulders. My pulse quickens when I realize what the loose strips moving across my back are. It’s the tails of the flogger. “Oh,” I whisper nervously. I’m not sure what he intends to do. “Shh. Don’t talk.” He doesn’t strike me with the flogger. Instead, he only drags the tails slowly over my back, seemingly teasing me. “Don’t move,” he orders. His tone is hard. I don’t even breathe too deeply. He splays the leather tails across my shoulders and then gently sets the tool down, resting the handle on the short length of chain between my cuffed wrists. He steps away from me. “Stay exactly as you are. I’ve positioned the flogger in a certain way and if you move, I’ll know. I won’t be happy if the tails are in a different position when I come back.” His tone is cold and hard. I hear him leave the room. I don’t want to do anything foolish to provoke him, so I take shallow breaths to keep from disturbing the flogger. I hear his heavy footfalls going down the hall, but I have no idea what he’s doing. After several minutes, I hear him approaching. He doesn’t say anything when he walks back into the room. There’s movement followed by the sound of something being dragged across the floor. I sense him nearing me. “You didn’t move. Very good.” He doesn’t take the flogger away. I feel him set something down on the bed close to my right hip. His hands touch me again, only I realize he’s taken his gloves off. His hands leave me again as I hear another sound I can’t quite identify. I feel a bit lost here. What’s going on? What is he doing? It’s so frustrating being blindfolded. He bends over me, covering my back with his clothed body, though he still won’t pull the flogger away. The tails shift a bit as he presses himself against my back, and a wave of panic courses through me. I guess he senses my concern because he whispers softly into my hair, “Relax. It doesn’t count if I move the flogger. I would take it away, but I like how it looks splayed across your back.” His hand pushes aside my hair. Warm lips press against the nape of my neck. I sigh. I love it when he kisses the back of my neck, and I think he knows that. “You’re tense. I can feel it. I was too stern with you. Relax for me.” His warm lips caress the back of my neck, and I shudder. 101

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“You like that,” he barely murmurs. His words flutter across my flesh. It’s not a question, so I don’t respond. He spends several minutes kissing the nape of my neck before pressing his firm lips against my shoulder. Wetness pools between my thighs. I’ve never had anyone spend so much time patiently giving me so much pleasure. He nuzzles my ear. “Tell me, did your incompetent lover ever attempt anal sex with you?” I hesitate for a moment. “Once,” I finally admit. “He hurt you, didn’t he?” “Very much.” He kisses the back of my neck again. “I’ll try not to hurt you, but if I do, tell me, and I’ll stop. Understand?” “Yes,” I whisper, though there’s a part of me that thinks, No, I don’t understand. Why does he care whether or not he hurts me? That’s not what I was taught. That’s not what I was told. But it’s actually quite typical of what he would say. I quickly push everything from my mind. I hear another soft click, like a bottle top, and then his fingers glide between my cheeks. I inhale sharply as I realize his fingers are smearing wetness over my clenched entrance. “Oh,” I whisper. “It’s all right,” he coos, placing a hand on my lower back. I’m a little nervous about him touching me there. I well remember my selfexploration yesterday, but that was different. Those were my fingers, not his. I have no idea how fast he’s going to go or how hard. “Please don’t go too fast,” I whisper. “Shh, try to relax. Speak only if I hurt you.” He grabs the handle of the flogger and rearranges the tails over my back. I take it as a silent warning to be quiet. Swallowing hard, I press my lips together, willing myself to stay silent. A wet finger presses against my clenched anus, obviously seeking entrance. I try to relax. The tip of his finger manages to breach my entrance, and he murmurs something approvingly. Firmly, but not roughly, he pushes his finger farther inside me. It feels strange for him to penetrate me like this. He withdraws his finger before firmly pushing two wet fingers against my entrance. The additional finger causes a twinge of pain as he enters me, and I whimper slightly. He stops and instead reinserts just one finger. I’m not sure why but his gentle pushing and withdrawing is actually arousing me. Again, he penetrates me with two fingers. His additional digit stretches my passage, creating some pain, but I refuse to make any noise because the pleasure of it far outweighs the slight pain. Instead, I only gulp. Obviously sensing something amiss, he slows and then holds his fingers perfectly still, giving me a chance to recover. After a brief pause, he gently pulls and reinserts his 102

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fingers. The slow and steady rhythm only serves to worsen my arousal. I inadvertently tug against my handcuffs, wishing I could stroke myself. His two fingers gently stretch my passage before he slowly wiggles in a third. I whimper as a spear of real pain hits me. “Shh, it’s all right,” he whispers. His other hand reassuringly rubs my lower back, coaxing me to stay relaxed. After giving me a chance to recover, he slowly works his three lubed fingers farther inside me. He doesn’t rush or hurry. His movements are slow and careful. His fingers fill my tight passage, making my clit throb painfully for attention. After several minutes of stretching and pushing and pulling, he withdraws his fingers completely. I’m actually quivering with need. A cloth towel just barely touches me. I think he’s cleaning the lube off his fingers. I hear him unzipping his trousers. There’s another soft click. I’m fairly certain it’s a bottle of lube. His body presses against my back once again. His lips return to the nape of my neck. For some reason, he’s still dressed though I’m not certain why. Sighing, I turn my head in the other direction. He murmurs something disapprovingly. “No. Turn your head the other way.” I’m not sure why he wants me to look in a certain direction, but I comply. I know the closet has two mirrored doors. Maybe he’s watching me in one. “Good,” he murmurs. “Very good, American.” The blunt tip of his erect and well-lubed cock prods at my carefully prepared entrance. Despite his meticulous preparation, his swollen arousal seems unable to breach me. Pushing a little harder, he manages to insert the head of his cock. A whimper escapes me. “Shh, it’s all right.” His lips press against my ear as his cock slowly slips inside me. He takes his time as he slowly inserts the entire length of his arousal. I can tell he wants to go faster, but he doesn’t. When he finally has his thick erection seated, he lets out a heavy sigh against my ear. He pulls back a bit before slowly reinserting himself. A soft cry escapes me. “Are you all right?” he whispers. “Yes,” I manage. His slow movements become steady and rhythmic as he works his thick organ in and out of me. I can’t help but whimper and pant helplessly as he fucks me. The sounds I make seem to excite him further, and his breathing starts to mirror mine. My lips quiver a bit as fresh guilt washes over me, but I press my face against the comforter, hiding my tears from him. I’m actually grateful he’s not facing me. The feel of his thick cock slowly pumping in and out of my ass thrills and excites me, which also renews my guilt and shame. A soft sob escapes me as he works.

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“Shh. It’s all right,” he whispers against my ear. “The empire paid a great deal for you, and now that you’re my official property, I fully intend to make you pay back that debt over and over again.” Official property? I’m suddenly wondering what important business he had in Berlin this morning and exactly what kind of papers he filed about me. He makes it sound as if he claimed me. I can’t think about what he’s implying, I can’t process how good this feels. For now, I just enjoy the feel of his breath on my ear, his hands on my body. I will away the familiar guilt and shame, convincing myself this is all an elaborate act before my execution. His erect cock slowly works in and out of me as he wedges his hand under me. It takes a little finesse from him to get his hand over my mound since my center is pressed against the metal footboard, but he manages. I shudder when he cups my dripping cleft. He groans. “You’re soaked.” He strokes my drenched folds, forcing me to climax. I cry out helplessly as his fingers ruthlessly continue to strum my aching clit, making me come again and again, over and over. His body shudders when he finds his own release. With a low groan, he slowly pulls himself from me. I feel spent and sleepy. Pressing my face against the mattress, I drift to sleep. “Are you awake, American?” I inhale sharply, shaking away sleep. I can tell I wasn’t asleep very long. I murmur something affirmatively. Moving around a bit, I realize he unlocked my handcuffs and he’s lying next to me. But I’m still blindfolded. I feel the synthetic slickness of the applied lube everywhere. It’s between my cheeks, on my thighs. I think some even smeared on my back. My hand moves across his bare chest as he pulls me against him. He’s naked now. “Come here,” he whispers, pulling me out of bed. He takes off the blindfold and then unlocks my leash. He’s leading me toward the bathroom. I guess he feels the same goopy wetness too because he’s stepping in the shower. He has me stand in front of him as he turns the faucet on. The warm water hits me first. I sigh, welcoming the blissful downpour. After I’m thoroughly drenched, he tugs me to the side. He pours liquid soap in his palm before washing my arm. As his soapy hands move over my body, my eyes meet his. I’m not sure what he’s thinking. He carefully and meticulously washes every inch of my body, going so far as to kneel down and wash my feet. But he carefully avoids both my pussy and ass. Once he finishes with the rest of my body, he takes his time pouring more soap in his palm. He rubs his hands together, lathering the soap as he eyes me darkly. He takes

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me in a loose embrace. Working in tandem, his soapy hands gingerly massage my curls while also lathering the cleft of my ass. Quivering with renewed desire, I lean against him for support, burying my face against his rock-hard pec. His soapy fingers gingerly stroke my clit and anus while I mindlessly kiss his chest. As he works, he expertly strums my clit, nearing me closer and closer to orgasm. Panting against him, I squeeze my eyes shut and cry out softly as he forces me to come. As usual, he drags out my release until I’m whispering “Please” helplessly against his chest like a chant. But he doesn’t stop. I vaguely hear him mutter, “No, you take it.” It’s an order that oddly excites me. He pushes me past the point where I can stand on my own…and even then he still won’t stop stroking me. Holding me against him, he makes me come until he decides when to stop. I’m barely conscious when he finally pulls his hand from my mound. My body sags boneless in his firm embrace. When he finally releases me, I sink down in the tub. I’m a little surprised he didn’t push me past consciousness. He knows how to do it. Seemingly unfazed, my captor grabs the handheld showerhead before kneeling down next to me. I’m sitting on my heels. He carefully rinses my hair, face and body. With some gentle pulling and pushing, he gets me on my hands and knees. The steady stream of water massages my shoulders and back before slipping between my cheeks. Slipping the showerhead under me, he forces the pulsating water to assault my mound. “No,” I protest. I cup my hand over his, trying to push the showerhead away, but I can’t even budge his firm grip. “Please. I can’t take any more.” I try to wiggle away, but all I manage to do is rise up on my knees. “Shh, yes you can,” he whispers, wrapping his other arm around me. The pulsating water pounds my pussy and clit. I make a strangled cry as yet another orgasm tears through me. My captor finally pulls the showerhead away, but he doesn’t let me go. He only holds me firmly against his broad chest as he gently kisses my temple. With a groan, he finally stands. Kneeling, I watch him shampoo his hair. I’m wondering if he’ll want me to wash him the way he did me. He grabs the soap and then lathers his own body. I guess he doesn’t want me to wash him. I’m actually a little disappointed. He raises an eyebrow at me as he quickly washes himself off. I stand up and then lean against the tiled wall, studying him. I think I’m either pouting or sulking. As if catching my thoughts, he gently takes my hand before pouring some soap in my palm. A smile graces his lips as he wraps my fingers around his flaccid cock. I step closer to him and press my face against his shoulder. He urges my soapy fingers to move. I feel him growing hard again in my hand. I take my time lathering his arousal. After several minutes, he pulls my hand away before rinsing himself off.

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He turns his back to the water and then pushes me back down to my knees. His hand slides behind my neck as I take his erect cock between my lips. I feel a bit more certain of my skills this time. His fingers tangle in my wet hair. Sealing my lips around him, I close my eyes and suck. He moves back and forth gently, and I quickly catch his want. Slackening my lips, I rock slightly, letting his cock slide across my lips at a steady and rhythmic pace. I can tell he likes what I’m doing. He climaxes quickly, and I dutifully swallow. With a low groan, he pulls away before turning off the shower. I’m still kneeling in the tub. “Don’t move. Stay on your knees.” I’m not sure why he wants me to stay on my knees, but it’s not an unreasonable or vicious request. I sit still and merely watch him. He slides open the curtain before stepping out of the tub. He retrieves a towel. “Stand up,” he orders. I obey, and he wraps the towel around me. He takes his time drying me off. Once he’s finished, he retrieves a second towel from under the sink for himself. “Are you hungry?” he asks. I nod as I wrap the towel like a robe around me. “Yes.” He gets a fresh dress shirt for me and then wraps a tan robe around himself. He even gives me a fresh pair of his socks. Lunch is a simple meal of turkey sandwiches and sliced cucumbers. As with our breakfast, he feeds me while I’m draped across his lap. I’m tempted to ask what he meant earlier when he said I was his official property, but I don’t. After lunch, he sits at the table and drinks his tea as he reads through some papers. I rest my head against his shoulder and merely wait for whatever is going to happen next. I really don’t understand this sway he seems to have over me. I feel so open to his whims and wants. He finishes his tea but doesn’t rush to stand up. He’s reading what looks like a budget report. For some reason, I become enamored with his neck and ear. I can’t even stop myself from nuzzling against him. My lips press against his neck, just below his ear. “American, what are you doing?” I immediately stop and pull away, feeling a bit embarrassed. “I didn’t say stop.” He puts down the papers he was reading. Hesitantly, I nuzzle against him again and plant soft kisses up and down his neck. My tongue lightly caresses his flesh. He lets out a ragged breath as his head turns slightly. This is the first time I’ve realized I seem to have some sway over him as well. He backs off slightly, obviously wanting me to stop, which I do. He shifts me around and urges me to stand. After rising out of the chair, he takes my hand and then leads me back upstairs to the bedroom. He takes a moment to change

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the sheets and make the bed. I only stand off the side and watch. After he makes the bed, he walks to the bathroom. I hear water running. He returns with a damp cloth, which he leaves on one of the nightstands—the one closest to his side. Folding the bedding over, he gestures for me to get into bed, which I do. The fresh sheets smell like lavender, and I can’t stop myself from snuggling under the newly made covers. He gently pulls my foot out from under the bedding before relocking the leash to my anklet. Disappointment crashes down on me. “Are you leaving?” I ask, watching him lock the chain to my locator. “No.” “Why are you putting the leash on?” “Because I like the idea of you being chained to my bed.” After he has me tethered to the footboard, he doesn’t follow me under the blankets and sheets. Instead, he pulls the small table that’s by the window over to the foot of the bed. “What are you doing?” He only smiles at me before walking out of the bedroom. I hear him in his office. He walks back into the bedroom with a thin flat-screen plasma television. After placing the television on the table and plugging it in, he draws the heavy curtains closed. The screen is blue. A bit baffled, I watch him walk to the closet. He rolls it open and then pulls something off the floor. I spot a tripod folded up. Almost immediately, I remember all the strange noises I heard when he had me initially bent over the foot of the bed. And I especially remember his specific instructions about turning my head a certain way. Oh crap. I think he recorded us while I was blindfolded and then hid everything in the closet afterward. “What did you do?” I ask, watching him retrieve a video camera from the closet floor. “I wanted a recording of you. I only have audio so far, but I wanted video as well.” “You videoed me?” “Don’t panic. It’s just for us…well, more for me.” He plugs the camera into the television and retrieves a remote. With a sigh, he pulls off his robe and slips under the covers. “Come here,” he insists, gathering me in his arms. I want to protest, but I don’t. He seems so excited and eager. Did recording me really make him this happy? He clicks on the camera with the remote. The screen flickers. I see myself bent over the foot of the bed. A bit overwhelmed, I close my eyes and press my face against his chest.

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“No, don’t hide, American.” His fingers curl under my jaw. He tilts my face toward the screen. “Watch yourself. You’re lovely. Besides, we’re the only ones here.” Turning my head slightly, I reluctantly watch the screen. Splayed across my back, the tails of the flogger look even more intimidating than I remember. Without looking at the camera, he steps into the frame. On the recording, he’s dressed in his uniform while I’m naked, handcuffed, blindfolded and bent over the foot of the bed. I know I’m his prisoner, yes, but somehow, the image on the screen is driving home that point…which I think may be his intention. I want to look away again, but he groans softly at the image. His hand takes mine and wraps it around his erect cock. “Such a lovely prisoner,” he mutters, kissing my forehead. My pulse quickens at his strange words. It’s as if my captor somehow understands my buried fantasies, my most personal and darkest desires. I can’t explain it, but it’s as if I want to be a prisoner. I quickly push aside the strange thought. Maybe my superiors and instructors are right. Maybe I’m just weird. A soft sound from the video demands my attention. I remember making that soft whimper. It was the moment when his finger first breached my passage. I swallow hard as I watch him work me over. He never once looks at the video camera. On the recording, he’s focused solely on me. My body remembers what I’m watching and wetness pools between my thighs. The audio is basically him whispering “Shh” and “It’s all right”. In all honesty, I’m more focused on him right now. I can tell he likes watching this. I hear him whispering on the video, “The empire paid a great deal for you, and now that you’re my official property, I fully intend to make you pay back that debt over and over again.” “What does that mean?” I whisper against his chest. “Don’t talk, American.” I can tell he’s deeply engrossed in the video. I say nothing. He keeps my hand curled around his cock, but he doesn’t stroke himself. I think he’s trying to wait. Before the video ends, he rolls me slightly and pins me under him. His hands brutally hold my wrists against the mattress. A bit overwhelmed with his rougher treatment, I cry out softly, convinced he’s about to shove his cock inside me. I tense up, fearing he’s about to hurt me. But he doesn’t fuck me. Instead, his firm lips nuzzle against my neck. “My American,” he whispers. “My sweet American.” He’s called me American since the first day, but this is the first time he’s called me my American. He starts whispering things in German as he gingerly eases his thick arousal inside me. Loosely translated, he whispers, “My innocent prisoner” and “My captured spy”. I’m not sure what to make of all this. He’s more possessive than usual. I want to ask what’s going on, but his expert touch drives away my questions.

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His erection stretches my tight channel, and I wince slightly as his rock-hard organ gradually impales me. I think he’s working as slowly and gently as he did when he penetrated me anally, which I think tries my captor’s patience. He tenderly nuzzles my forehead. His soft kisses tug at my buried guilt. Fresh tears pool in my eyes as he fucks me, and I will myself to not sob. He looks at me briefly, but he doesn’t say anything or ask what’s wrong. I think he knows what I’m feeling. I look away from him. But his hand gently cups my cheek, turning my face back toward his. I reluctantly meet his gaze. He plants petal-soft kisses over my face as he slowly works. His sweet kisses only serve to confuse and embarrass me as ancient films from school bubble to the surface. “Know your enemy. Defend your country,” the narrator chants in my head. A sob escapes me. I hold my breath, trying to stop my crying. “Shh, I know, American. I know. It’s all right. Don’t hold your breath. You can cry.” I hate that my captor always sees me like this, but at the same time, I’ve never in my life allowed myself to feel so vulnerable. In my pre-captured days, I couldn’t afford to let my defenses down. I’ve spent every moment of my adult life on edge and on guard. But with my captor, I feel…open and relaxed. And oddly enough, he doesn’t just tolerate or put up with my emotional meltdowns—I think he welcomes them, perhaps even gets off from them. He manages to pull an incredibly intense orgasm from me, and I helplessly sob and cry out beneath him. As I climax, I vaguely register voices and sounds coming from the television. We both ignore the noises. He drags out my release and forces me to come until I’m begging for him to stop and on the brink of unconsciousness. With a low groan, he finally finds his own release and spills his hot seed inside me. Exhausted and spent, I close my eyes. Reality slowly comes back to me. He’s panting against my ear. There’s another voice. It’s a man speaking German, lecturing about love and honor. A bit confused, I open my eyes and tilt my head up. The video is still running, only it’s not us. The answer hits me almost immediately because I recognize the images from his wedding album. He recorded us over a video of his wedding. Groaning, he leans over and retrieves the remote. He clicks the camera off before placing the remote back down. “You recorded over your wedding?” I whisper. My breath slightly hitches. I’m not sobbing anymore, but I’m still a bit weepy. He doesn’t answer me but instead retrieves the wet cloth he left earlier on the night stand. He hovers over me, trapping me under him as he gingerly drags the soft cloth over my tear-stained face. “I nearly threw it away years ago. I only kept it to remind myself not to make the same mistake twice.” I’m not sure what happened between him and her, but I think she cut him deep. Once he finishes mopping away my tears, he swabs my folds and inner thighs, wiping away our hot juices. He sets the cloth aside and takes me in his arms. I’m exhausted, spent and emotionally drained but also…happy. 109

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“You called me your official property,” I whisper against his chest. “Yes, I did.” “Why? What does that mean?” He chuckles at my questions, but he doesn’t answer me. “Please,” I sit up and study him. “Talk to me. Tell me what’s going on. Tell me what I am to you… Tell me who you are.” He gently pulls me against his chest, returning me to my previous position against him. His fingers brush through my hair. I’m already drowsy and thoroughly spent. His soft petting is lulling me to sleep, and I think he knows that. “You are a captured American spy in the custody of the SS,” he whispers gently. “Now go to sleep.” I stubbornly try to stay awake, determined to get a straight answer, but his fingers keep brushing through my hair. Despite my best efforts, I drift to sleep. I reluctantly open my eyes. It’s dark in the room, and I can tell I’ve been out for a while. I think it’s the middle of the night. My face is pressed against his chest. I want to go back to sleep, but I can’t. I have to pee. More than anything, I’d like to get out of bed and go to the bathroom. But I’m kinda trapped in his warm embrace. I can tell by his breathing that he’s deep asleep. If I move, I might wake him. Ignoring my bladder, I try to go back to sleep, but I can’t. I have to get up. I gingerly ease myself out from under his arm. Just as I try to slip out of bed though, he grabs me. “Where are you going?” he grumbles in German. I can tell he’s not completely awake. “I just have to pee,” I explain. “I’m still chained to the bed, remember?” With a sigh, he releases me. I’m not sure where he thinks I’m going. He locked my leash to my anklet. I creep through the darkness to the bathroom and then quickly relieve my bladder. I don’t make a lot of noise nor turn on any lights, so I’m convinced he’s probably dozed back off. He sounded sleepy when he grabbed me. As gently as I can, I ease back into bed. I’m a bit surprised when he gathers me against him and returns me to my previous position against his chest. I thought for sure he’d be asleep. “Missed you,” he mumbles in German. I can tell he’s drowsy, so I don’t say anything. He only sighs deeply. His slow breathing indicates he’s already drifted back to sleep. Nothing in my training prepared me for this scenario. I was always taught that I’d be executed if I were ever captured, even my seduction teacher warned me that sex would only get me so far. So why am I still alive? And what did he mean about me being his official property? I mull these questions over. Logically, I know I’m not in any position to ask him anything, and if I did, he wouldn’t answer me anyway. Deciding not to think about it, I force myself to sleep. 110

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Chapter Six A warm kiss on my forehead wakes me up. Willing myself completely awake, I open my eyes. “Good morning,” he whispers. My hand moves to embrace him, but I quickly realize he’s not under the covers with me. He’s lying on top of the blankets and sheets. He’s dressed in a fresh uniform, and he also has his leather coat on as well. “I have a few errands I need to run this morning, but it won’t take very long. I’ll be back by lunchtime, and we can finish celebrating.” Celebrating? “There’s one more thing. I don’t want you to touch yourself anymore when I leave. Your body belongs to me now, and I only want you to find pleasure in my arms. Do you understand?” “No,” I whisper, although there’s a part of me that does understand. He chuckles at my answer. “Just obey me.” He kisses my forehead again. “I’ll be back soon. Now eat your breakfast before it gets cold.” He stands and collects his briefcase, which is on the bed and just below my feet. I find it strangely sweet how he always tells me goodbye before he leaves for the day. With a polite nod, he leaves the room, closing the door behind him. I hear him going down the stairs before the front door opens and closes. I’m not hungry, but I don’t want to turn down food. Looking around, I realize he’s returned the table to its previous position by the window. There are also at least two dozen red roses in a crystal vase on the table. “Oh,” I whisper, climbing out of bed. I survey the flowers. I don’t see a note anywhere. My breakfast is laid out next to the roses. Waffles and bacon along with some syrup and butter. There’s also a pitcher of apple juice. My stomach grumbles. I actually love waffles, though I haven’t had them in ages. I’m suddenly hungry, and I sit down. I eagerly dig into the food. He didn’t leave any books for me today, though the strange books from yesterday are still on the table. Since syrup and waffles can sometimes be a bit messy, I don’t touch the books while I’m eating. I don’t want to spoil the pages with sticky fingers. I simply stare at the closed volumes while I eat. After finishing my meal, I take a quick shower. I also brush my teeth before slipping the same button-down dress shirt and the socks back on. After retrieving the two books, I shuffle back to the bed and then sit down.

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Sitting cross-legged on the bed, I spread one of the books in front of me. Since I know what’s in the books, I’m a bit more prepared to take in the information. I flip through the pages and carefully read every word and sentence, though there aren’t many words. It’s mostly pictures. Sighing, I study the strange pictures again. As I flip through the pages, I hear his car pull up. I’m actually eager he’s back. I want to talk to him. I need answers. Nothing in my training prepared me for anything like this. I hear his footsteps on the stairs before the bedroom door opens. He finds me sitting on the bed. “What did you mean about me being your official property?” He only chuckles as he slips off his leather coat, but he doesn’t answer me. “What do you want from me?” I press. He tilts his head as if he’s baffled by the question. “No more questions, American.” He places his hands together behind his back. His facial expression is stern. Anger filters through me. “But…tell me why—” “Shh, don’t analyze it.” He approaches me, and I look up at him. His gloved hand gently cups the side of my face. His firm but gentle touch oddly calms me. “I like you this way.” I’m not sure what he means by that, but I don’t ask. His tone is strange, and I don’t want to ask a lot of questions right now. His thumb tenderly sweeps across my cheek. “You like being with me, yes?” I hesitate a moment before whispering, “Yes.” “Have I taken care of you? Fed you?” His eyes slightly narrow beneath the rim of his hat. I’m tempted to nod, but I know he doesn’t like gestures in questioning. “Yes,” I whisper again. His thumb softly moves across my lips. “You like the feel of my body against yours.” My breath slightly hitches at the statement. It’s not a question, so I don’t respond. He pulls his hand away and kneels down. His nimble fingers unbutton my shirt. “You like how my cock feels in your cunt.” I look away from him briefly, not wanting him to see the agreement in my eyes. He gingerly eases the shirt over my shoulders, and I shudder. Apparently wanting to remove every stitch of clothing, he even pulls my socks off. “I want to make another video,” he declares, standing back up. “I’ve been planning it all morning. I set everything up earlier while you were sleeping. You will follow my instructions and do what I tell you.” I only study him, wondering why his tone is arousing me. He offers me a slight smile as if he’s reading my thoughts.

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Nodding, he unlocks my leash from the anklet before taking my hand. He leads me out of the bedroom and down the hall toward his office. Even though I’m naked, I’m not cold or even chilly. I think he bumped the heat up a bit. We walk into his office. I’ve never actually been in this room before. I only saw part of it the night I spied on him. His laptop is closed. There are several binders and folders lined on two shelves above his desk. I stop in midstep when I see what’s on the other side of the room. A crimson curtain or sheet is pinned up on the wall while another red sheet is draped on the floor. A video camera is mounted on a tripod while a gooseneck lamp is clipped on a nearby chair. Unlike yesterday, I know he’s going to record me this time. And the thought causes me to hesitate. Still holding my hand, he tugs me forward. “Come on, American. I’ll reward you later for the scene.” I hesitantly follow him. He smiles at me as he leads me to the red backdrop. “It’s been my experience that rewards work better than harsh punishments.” I’m not sure what he means by rewards and punishments, but the former sounds better than the latter. So I let him position me in front of the camera. “Get down on your knees,” he orders, pushing me down. I settle on my knees and sit on my heels as I simply watch him. He fiddles with the camera and then clicks on the light. Briskly, he turns and retrieves something from a table. It’s the crop I examined yesterday. I wince. What is he going to do? “Open your mouth,” he whispers. Confused, I obey. He slips the crop tenderly between my lips and rests it on my teeth. “Bite down gently and simply hold it in your mouth.” A bit lost, I do what he says. “Good,” he whispers. He turns and walks to the same small table behind the camera. He picks up the black blindfold we used yesterday. He steps behind me and then kneels down. “Close your eyes.” I squeeze my eyes shut. He brings the blindfold up over my closed eyes and ties it behind my head. I hear the distinct click of his handcuffs before he nimbly cuffs my wrists together behind my back. “Tilt your head up a little.” His fingers gently guide my head where he wants it. “Good.” I hear him stand. I think he’s moving behind the camera. 113

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“Now don’t move, not even a little. The camera is rolling, so I’ll know later if you moved. Just stay as you are, and I’ll be back in a moment.” He walks away. I swallow hard as I bite down on the crop. I well remember what he said about the camera rolling, so I try to stay as still as possible. I don’t hear anything. I don’t think he’s even in the same room anymore. Confusion and uncertainty colors my mood, but I merely will myself calm and stay where I am. Several seconds pass. I hear him approaching again. I know he’s in the room again, but he won’t say anything. It’s strange to be blindfolded like this. I think he’s standing near his desk, but he won’t speak. I think he’s just looking at me. Finally, I hear him moving. He stops several feet in front of me. I think he’s fiddling with the camera. “Good,” he murmurs. “Very good.” There’s a soft beeping sound. “You didn’t move. You obey very well.” The camera beeps again. I know it sounds crazy, but I like it when he praises me. I sense he’s coming closer. The crop moves slightly. He doesn’t say anything, but I catch his want. I let the crop go as he pulls it from my lips. I hear a chair being moved. I think he just sat down a few feet in front of me. The flat part of the crop traces my face and then my neck. Slowly, it moves over my shoulder before slipping down between my breasts. I swallow hard, feeling confused and uncertain. I vaguely wonder what I should do. I lower my head, feeling a bit foolish. The crop presses under my chin, forcing my head back up. The crop merely touches me, but he doesn’t hit me with it. I well remember what he said about how he missed wielding a crop or a flogger. I’m sensing he’s enjoying this. After several minutes, the crop leaves me. “Don’t move,” he orders again. The crop presses against my inner thigh before I feel a sharp slap in the same spot. I yelp, but it didn’t really hurt. “Widen your stance,” he orders. His wicked tool softly slaps against my inner thigh again. His tone is hard and cold. I spread my knees wider, opening my stance. His tone doesn’t frighten me but instead excites me. The flat part of the crop flattens against my folds. He gives my pussy one quick, sharp slap. I gasp and nearly topple over from the intense jolt. Again he didn’t hurt me, and the mild sting is inexplicably…pleasurable. “Again?” he murmurs darkly. I can’t even stop myself from whispering, “Yes.” He blesses my pussy with another blissful slap. Hot liquid trickles from my cleft. He grinds the smooth part of the crop’s hard tip against my overheated folds, effectively massaging my clit as well. His wicked tool smears my warm juices,

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thoroughly drenching my curls. I quiver helplessly as my captor takes a deep and uneven breath. He smacks my folds again, even harder than before. “Do you know how much you cost the empire?” His tone is harder and colder than I’ve ever heard it. And oddly enough, the slight threat in his voice is thrilling to me. “No,” I barely whisper. “American spies don’t come cheap and your little cunt is going to pay for your reward.” He smacks my folds even harder with the crop. My folds are burning. He gently wedges the thinner sticklike part of the crop between my folds and grinds it against my clit. The action edges me closer and closer to orgasm. He abruptly pulls the tool away. “No, you’re not coming yet.” He smacks my pussy again. It’s agony to be so close to orgasm and then disallowed to come. He administers three more hard smacks with the crop. I yelp and whimper with each sharp smack. I hear him stand up and move about. I sense him kneeling in front of me. His gloved hand cups my tortured pussy. As he cups my mound, he gently kisses my forehead. “I wasn’t too rough, was I?” I’m touched by the question. I almost sense he’s pausing what we’re doing to ensure I’m all right. “No, you weren’t too rough. I…I liked it.” “We continue?” “I…” I’m not sure what I want. He chuckles softly. “You’re a novice,” he declares. With one hand still over my mound, his other hand gently cups the side of my face. “We slow down.” Relief washes over me. I didn’t even realize that was the answer I was looking for. He tenderly strokes my cheek with his thumb as his other hand presses into my folds. He expertly massages my center. I moan softly as he pushes me closer and closer to orgasm. I only hope he lets me come this time. “Come, American. Come right now.” His words flutter across my forehead. His order pushes me over the edge. I lean forward slightly as ecstasy washes through me. I cry out as he expertly rubs my throbbing clit. He doesn’t drag out my release but instead stops just before my orgasm turns painful. I hear him take another uneven and ragged breath as he stands. With my hands still cuffed behind me, I shift around a bit and sit on the floor while squeezing my thighs together. My orgasm is now a pleasant buzz. Several minutes of silence pass. Since I’m still blindfolded, I have no idea what he’s doing. I think he’s just standing nearby, watching me. “That was beautiful,” he murmurs. “You respond very well to verbal commands.” I hear him walking away from me. Since I’m robbed of my sight, sounds thunder in my world. The central heating kicks on. Something drags across the floor. I’m not certain, but I think he just moved the camera to my left. He’s approaching me. 115

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“Get back on your knees the way you were. You’re not finished yet,” he declares. I hear him unzip his trousers. I shift around a bit and return to my previous kneeling position. His warm fingers settle behind my neck. I know he’s holding the crop in his other hand because I feel the flat part of it pressing against my back. It’s warm and wet from my juices. He murmurs something approvingly as he trails it over my shoulders. The tip of his arousal brushes against my lips. Catching his want, I gingerly open my mouth. “Just relax,” he whispers, slipping his cock between my lips. “You know what I like.” I seal my lips around him and gently suck his swollen arousal. He groans as the crop traces my shoulder and arm. My tongue flattens across the underside of his erection. His body shudders. The flat part of the crop presses harder into my back. He groans again. Sucking his cock excites and arouses me, causing my nipples and clit to throb painfully for attention. I’m tempted to stroke myself as I work, but I remember he got cross with me the last time I did that. I ball my hands into fists to keep from stroking myself. I know he’s close. Warm fluid spills in my mouth as his fingers squeeze the back of my neck, and I eagerly swallow. I can’t explain it, but my captor is becoming more and more important to me. It’s as if he fills some necessary role in my head. I vaguely know he understands something about me sexually that I don’t, but I can’t articulate or define precisely what it is. I gleaned from his books that our relationship has something to do with Domination and submission but in all honesty, I’m a bit mystified about all this. With a sigh, he backs away slightly. I hear him walk away from me. I think he just turned off the camera. “Stay where you are,” he orders. I hear him leaving the room. Being blindfolded is so frustrating. What is he doing now? Why did he leave? After several minutes, he returns and then approaches me. He kneels behind me and unlocks my handcuffs. The blindfold comes off seconds later. “You can stand up now.” Not entirely sure what’s going on, I stand. A bit disorientated, I look around. The camera is gone. My captor looks pleased. “Come on.” He takes my hand and leads me down the hall back to his bedroom. He’s taken off his uniform and is now wearing his tan robe. The bedroom is dark. The heavy curtains are closed, blotting out the midday light. The table that’s usually by the window is once again at the foot of the bed. The flat-screen plasma television is perched on top of the table again. The screen is blue, and the camera is already hooked up. I guess he wants me to watch what we just did. Nervousness courses through me. 116

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He tethers the leash to my anklet before tucking me under the covers. As he slips the blankets over me, he mutters something about how I’m back where I belong. He walks away and then turns off the lights. There’s only the faint blue glow of the television in the dark room. After climbing into bed next me, he gathers me in his arms. He aims the small remote at the television, and the screen instantly changes to an image of me. I’m naked, blindfolded and kneeling on the red sheet with the crop in my mouth. I’m not sure why, but I turn my head and bury my face against his chest again like I did the first time we did this. “No, I want you to watch, American,” he insists. His fingers turn my face toward the screen. Swallowing hard, I turn my head and reluctantly look at the television. He takes my hand and wraps it around his rock-hard cock. I don’t say a word. I think he’s memorizing every detail on the screen. He doesn’t move a millimeter while the video plays nor does he say anything, though he replays the part where I suck his cock and he mutters, “Perfect.” The image flickers at the end of the scene. He clicks the camera off, but I see a few frames of his wedding reception before the screen turns blue. Obviously, he continued our video escapade on the same disk he used before. I’m convinced he’s about to roll over and fuck me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he rolls toward the nightstand next to him. He retrieves something. It’s a small bottle. Holding the bottle in one hand, he pulls off the blankets and sheets before pushing them toward the foot of the bed. “Roll over on your belly,” he whispers. In an instant, I understand what he wants. I’m not quite as nervous as the first time we had anal sex, though I’m a bit rattled from watching the video. Inhaling deeply, I turn on my belly before burying my face against the pillow. I close my eyes. I hear him flick open the bottle as he kneels next to me. I try to brace myself for whatever he’s about to do. Warm, oily fingers glide across my shoulders and start kneading my tight muscles. “Oh,” I whisper in surprise. He doesn’t say anything. His strong, nimble fingers skate across my flesh. I feel him locate knots in my shoulders, and he patiently presses and rolls his fingers over them. It feels good, but it almost hurts a little. Each time his fingers pass over the knots, I wince. “Hmm, this is going to take some time. I don’t think I’ll be able to work all this out tonight, but I’ll make it better.” I wasn’t expecting a massage. “Thank you,” I mutter, turning my head. “Shh, don’t talk.” I close my eyes and let his fingers work my knotted muscles.

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His hands slowly slip down my back and then settle on each of my ass cheeks. His oily fingers plunge into my cleft and glide over my anus. His massage helped me relax a bit, and I think he senses it. “Turn on your side a little and bend your knee.” I shift around as he gently guides me into the position he wants. When he has me situated, I’m basically on my stomach but tilted a bit to my side. My bent knee is angling my ass up and slightly parting my cheeks. One of his strong, well-lubed fingers slips between my cheeks and presses gently against my anus. A soft whimper escapes me as his finger pushes slowly inside me. His lips nuzzle my ear as he works. He murmurs something reassuring as he eases a second finger inside me. My breath hitches. I think he’s using a different lubricant than he used the first time. This one feels lighter and less goopy. As it did the first time, his gentle toying is arousing me. The images from the video haunt me as he slowly stretches my anus. Fresh feelings of shame and guilt filter through me. His tongue caresses my ear as his fingers delve deeper. Inhaling deeply, I close my eyes and pretend this is all just a dream, as I did the first time he took me to his bed because…there’s a part of me that can’t accept any of this. More than anything, I wish I could see my captor as just a man, but I can’t. As much as I’ve tried, I can’t forget he’s a Nazi and a member of the SS. And I think that may be the point of the videos and why he wears his uniform in them. He doesn’t want me to forget. The guilt and shame turn to confusion as I start trembling next to him. He presses his chest against my back as he nuzzles my ear. “I know you don’t want to like this, American,” he whispers. The fingers impaling my ass delve deeper, and I whimper as a spear of slight pain hits me. “Shh, it’s all right.” He nuzzles against me and gently kisses the back of my neck. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so confused and vulnerable while feeling so safe and protected at the same time. But oddly enough, it’s not a bad feeling. It’s actually strangely arousing. His expert touch pushes away all thought and reason, leaving only desire and want. Panting in need, I cup my mound, desperate for release. “Mm-mm,” he murmurs disapprovingly. “Your body belongs to me now, not you. Pull your hand away or I’ll have to punish you.” Punish? A bit nervous about a possible punishment, I slip my hand away and clutch the pillow. “Good girl,” he murmurs. His fingers gently pump in and out of my ass. I quiver in need as he slowly works. He pulls his fingers from me and then slides out of bed. He tugs me gently toward him. When he has me the way he wants, I’m bent over the side of the bed with my feet 118

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on the floor. I press my face into the mattress as his arousal prods at my anus. His breath flutters across my neck as his cock pushes into my tight but carefully prepared passage. His erection stretches my entrance, causing just a hint of pain. Groaning, he slowly inserts the entire length of his thick arousal. With his cock impaling me, his muscular body is like warm steel against my cheeks. His hand cups my dripping pussy as he gently works himself in and out of me. His skilled fingers glide into my slit and tenderly stroke my clit. I make a strangled cry as his nimble fingers force me to climax. As he expertly draws out my orgasm, all I can do is involuntarily whimper and gasp. My fingers clutch the mattress’s bottom sheet. I think he learns more about my body every time he fucks me because he seems to get better and better at getting me to climax quicker and come longer and longer. My sexual noises apparently excite him because he tends to exhale when I do, as if he’s riding the same high I am. I squeeze my eyes shut as he forces me to come again and again. The world dissolves as he reduces me to a sobbing, panting mass of sweaty flesh, where all I can do is beg him to stop. When I wake up, I’m back in bed and lying on my back. I’m only partially awake, and I can’t even open my eyes. I’m already drifting back to sleep. He’s pulling the blankets and sheets over me, tucking me in. He’s not in bed with me. I try to say something, but I can’t. I hear him moving about the room and then I hear water running. I think he’s taking a shower. I try to force myself to wake up, just to talk to him, but I unwillingly drift to sleep. Although a part of me wants to deny it, deep down, I know I am indeed his official property.

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Chapter Seven In all my life, I don’t think I’ve ever had steak, shrimp and lobster tail all in one meal. But that’s exactly the decadent dinner my captor and I shared tonight, along with some steamed vegetables and buttered bread. He said it was part of my reward for the video we made yesterday as well as the first one we made the other day. As usual, he draped me across his lap and fed me. Right now, I’m still there with my head against his shoulder. He’s drinking some hot tea and reading a report. He just got home from work a little while ago, and he’s still wearing his uniform, though his hat and gloves are on the table. The food was from a restaurant I’ve never heard of and the empty takeout containers from our meal are still on the counter. I can’t help but smile again at our extravagant meal. I’m full and I dare say…happy. It’s strange. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt this happy. Here, now, in the warmth of his house and in the safety of his lap, I feel complete. But my blissful state is shattered by a brief, mental picture. For some reason, I see my mother sobbing. Fresh grief and guilt crash down on me. By now, everyone back home probably thinks I’m dead. And yet here I am, lounging in my enemy’s lap after the most extravagant meal I’ve ever had. Tears blur my vision. As if sensing something amiss, my captor sets down his papers and looks at me. “What’s wrong?” I don’t say anything. “Tell me,” he demands. “I was just thinking about my mother,” I whisper. “She probably thinks I’m either dead or being tortured.” He’s silent for a moment. “Would you like to call her?” My eyes meet his. “Are…are you serious?” “Quite serious. I have to call the Gestapo to unblock the line, but it only takes a phone call.” He looks at a clock. “Let’s see, it’s nine now, so it’s three in the afternoon on the East Coast. Would anyone be home around this time?” “My mother is usually home during the day. If not, I could leave a message on the machine.” He nods. “I have terms for this arrangement. First of all, I will stay in the room with you. Second, do not discuss any military or security issues. And third, do not tell them anything about me or where you are. You will only say you are safe if they ask, which they probably won’t. Understood?”

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“Yes. Of course.” It’s more than a fair agreement. I’m not sure why he said they wouldn’t ask where I am. “As far as time, you can talk for as long as you want. But I have a feeling you’ll be looking for an excuse to end the call. If you need to, simply say that you can’t stay on the line for very long.” “I don’t understand.” “Just in case,” he shrugs. He shifts me in his lap. When my feet touch the floor, he nudges me to stand, which I do. He retrieves a pencil and a notebook before handing them to me. “Write down the phone number, including the area code.” Eagerly, I comply. He takes the notebook and examines the number. “Stay here for a moment.” He picks up the cordless phone from the charger on the counter before walking into the adjacent room, which I can tell is for formal dining. As he closes the door, I hear him say in German, “Yes, I need to place a call to America.” I can’t hear anything after he closes the door. I’m assuming he’s giving a password or a code clearance, which is why he probably stepped into the next room. I don’t even try to eavesdrop. I don’t want to do anything to lose this. My heart nearly leaps out of my chest. Family! Home! America! I’m going to get to talk to my mother! My palms start sweating as I try to formulate the right words. After several tense minutes, my captor opens the door and hands me the phone. “Here, someone answered. I think it’s your mother.” With trembling hands, I take the phone. “Mom?” “Isabel?” God, is that my name? I haven’t been called Isabel in ages. “Yeah, how are you, Mom? Are you okay?” I manage to sit down. “Yes! I’m great. Your dad and I were invited to the White House. We’re going tonight!” “What?” “After you were captured, you became a national hero. The press loves you. You’re in all the papers and on every news channel—you’ve always been so pretty. They even showed your childhood induction picture, you know, the one above the fireplace. You remember that picture, don’t you, dear?” “Uh…yeah. I remember that picture above the fireplace.” I know what she’s talking about. It was taken when I was seven years old. It’s a picture of me sitting sideways with an American flag draped like a cape over my shoulders. I remember at the time that the photographer fussed over the perfect placement of the flag. He wanted the two gold stars, remembrances of Alaska and Hawaii in just the right place, but he also wanted as many of the other forty-eight stars around the two gold ones in the picture as well. It took forever to get right, especially for a seven-year121

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old, and he actually snapped what felt like a thousand pictures before finally getting the shot he wanted. My parents were always very proud of that picture, but I never knew why, and I never heard it called an “induction picture” or…maybe I did, but I never understood what that meant. “Your dad and I are so proud of you, Isabel.” “Thanks, Mom. I’m glad everything is okay.” I glance up at my captor. He’s leaning against the counter by the sink. He looks neither pleased nor displeased. “Oh Isabel, I wish you could see my gown I’m going to wear for tonight. It was a gift from the House of Glitz. Isn’t that amazing? The House of Glitz! It’s silver and covered with beads. It’s amazing.” “Wow. I wish I could see that.” The House of Glitz is a trendy and famous shop in Los Angeles. The store caters exclusively to celebrities and movie stars. A cold lump settles in my stomach. “And,” my mother adds, “I have an interview tomorrow on the morning news, plus I’m having lunch with Senator Kate Brown after that.” “Wow, you have a busy schedule.” “Oh, you have no idea. The phone has been ringing off the hook. Your dad and I have been on all the late-night shows. Being a celebrity is mind-blowing, Isabel. We get gift baskets from everyone. Oh, and you should see the stuff in these gift baskets—MP3 players, digital camera, gift certificates, expensive wines. It is unreal.” “I’m glad everything is going well, Mom.” I swallow a hard lump in my throat. “Uh, listen, I…I can’t stay on the line very long. I’m sorry.” “Oh, that’s okay. The hair and makeup people are waving me over right now. They want to get me ready for tonight. Press will of course be at the White House. It was good to hear your voice, dear. We all love you very much, and we’re all so proud of you.” “Thanks, Mom. I love you too. Have fun tonight.” I quickly hang up the phone. A strange numbness settles around me as my fingers start trembling. My captor quickly rushes over. He places a hand on my shoulder and takes the phone from me, which I’m grateful for because I nearly dropped it by accident. Much to my surprise though, he hurls the phone across the room. I hear it break as it hits something. “Are you all right?” he asks gently, kneeling in front of me. Almost immediately, I start sobbing…because my captor just asked me the one question I wanted my mother to ask. He takes me in his arms. “Shh, it’s all right, American.” His fingers stroke through my hair. “Come on. Let’s go to bed. I have to get up very early tomorrow.”

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With his arm around me, he leads me up the stairs. I wipe away my tears with my hand. “My parents were invited to the White House,” I whisper as we climb the stairs. I’m not sure why I told him that. Maybe I shouldn’t have. “I know. I read about that. You’re a national hero in the States. The press loves you. Your picture still pops up from time to time on American news.” “You know?” “Of course. We keep up with news in the States. I saw your induction picture. You were an adorable child.” I laugh softly at that. “Thank you for letting me call my mother,” I whisper sincerely. Actually, I am grateful for the phone call, and I’m glad everything is okay at home. “You’re welcome.” Once we’re in his bedroom, he promptly locks the leash to my anklet. It’s turning into a routine really. I take a moment to wash off my face with some cool water and brush my teeth as he gets undressed. I also retrieve the bottle of body lotion from under the sink before smoothing a little over my face. My captor only watches me through the open bathroom door as he undresses, but he doesn’t say anything. Once I’m finished, I slip under the covers. He takes a quick shower and brushes his teeth while I lie in bed and wait. He turns off the lights before climbing into bed next to me and taking me in his arms. There’s only the sound of our breathing. He smells like soap. “I think you owe me a proper show of gratitude for the phone call.” His voice is a low murmur. My heart actually flutters at that statement. I can’t explain it, but I want to make him happy. “What would you like me to do?” He groans softly. “I miss the feel of your mouth.” I can do that. Softly, I kiss his muscular chest as I slip my head farther under the covers. I breathe in his clean, masculine scent. My fingers skate across firm, smooth flesh. I work a trail down his stomach, planting soft kisses on him. His nimble fingers tangle softly in my hair. He doesn’t rush me or dictate my pace. His touch is more supportive and encouraging. I gently take his arousal between my lips. I’ve learned from experience what he likes. He lets out a ragged breath as my tongue wraps softly around him. I take in as much of his erection as I can, stopping just before the blunt tip hits the back of my throat. The feel of his thick cock stretching my lips and filling my mouth thrills me in a way that truly shocks me. As I suck his swollen organ, my fingers gently wrap around the base of his cock. I stroke what my mouth can’t take. “Mmm, that’s nice,” he whispers.

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He groans again as his body shudders beneath me. Giddiness washes through me. Remembering something from our shower, I bob gently. He takes another ragged breath. “Stop,” he orders. His hands also gently push me away. Confusion filters through me. Did I do something wrong? He tugs me up next to him. “I want to come in your tight little pussy. I want you writhing beneath me.” “No,” I protest as he traps me under him. “I’m thanking you for the phone call. I don’t want to come.” “Well, I want you to come.” “But—” “Shh, I know, American. I know.” I look away from him, not wanting him to see just how much I like lying under him. The tip of his cock presses against the entrance of my sheath. He nibbles my earlobe as my lips involuntarily tremble. Tears slowly seep from my closed eyes. His hand slides next to my head as he abandons my ear. He cups my cheek and gently turns my face toward him. I know he wants me to look up at him. Hesitantly, I do. “Every time I fuck you, your sweet lips quiver and your eyes fill with tears.” “Sorry,” I mutter. “I…I can’t help it.” I’m not sure why I’m apologizing. “No, I like it.” His thumb pushes away my tears. “In fact, it makes me even harder, American. Do you know why?” “No,” I whisper. His cock eases farther inside me. I wince as his invading organ stretches my tight passage. “Because it’s so innocent.” I only look up at him, confused. “I don’t understand.” Hot tears stream down my temples. “I know.” Holding me tighter, he slowly pushes the remaining length of his cock inside me. Hot wetness gushes from me, coating him. His lips graze mine. Without thinking, I clench my jaw, disallowing his tongue from entering my mouth. He pauses and lifts his head. I sense he’s confused. “I want to know your name,” I whisper. I’m not sure why I feel compelled to demand something. I think I’m angry because he knows everything about me, including exactly how to touch me, and yet I don’t know a damn thing about him. He chuckles darkly at my statement. His thumb presses hard against my chin as he pries my mouth open. I can tell this is a pointless struggle, so I slacken my jaw. “I don’t bargain with prisoners, American.” He sounds amused. He presses his lips against mine again and plunges his tongue deep in my mouth, quite literally taking the kiss I tried to withhold. Every thought evaporates.

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He slowly works his throbbing arousal in and out of me as he kisses me hard and deep. As usual, he gets me to climax quickly, and he breaks our kiss. I whimper and pant helplessly beneath him. The tip of his tongue teasingly traces my bottom lip as I come. My soft whimpers and sharp pants only excite him, and his movements become even harder and faster. My muscles knot up painfully as he forces me to come again and again. Just before the world turns dark, I hear myself chanting the one word I know he likes, “Please, please, please…” Reality slowly comes back to me. Opening my eyes, I realize I’m lying in his arms. My face is pressed against his chest. I can tell he’s not asleep. “Are you awake?” he asks. “Yes.” “Are you all right?” His concern for my well-being always confuses me. “Yes.” He exhales deeply. I can tell he’s sleepy. “Can I ask you a question?” I whisper. “You can ask me anything. Of course, I may or may not answer.” “Will you ever tell me your name?” He laughs softly at my question. “Yes, but not tonight.” “When?” “When I decide.” His fingers brush through my hair. “Now go to sleep, American.” His gentle petting lulls me into a deep and peaceful sleep.

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Chapter Eight I’m half-asleep when the phone stirs me awake. My captor actually stayed home from work today, even though he said last night that he had to get up early. I think he was worried about leaving me alone since the phone call with my mother upset me last night. We spent most of the day in bed except when we ate breakfast, lunch and dinner. It’s relatively early in the evening. Glancing at a clock, I see it’s only a little after eight. I think my captor left me to nap while he went to work in his office. The phone rings a second time. It sounds as if it’s coming from his office at the end of the hall. The phone in the kitchen is still broken. After two rings, I hear his voice. He answers and converses in German. I can tell he’s talking to a friend. Loosely translated, I hear, “Hello.” Followed by, “Yes. How are you?” There’s a stretch of silence. “Nothing, just working.” He sighs. “I take time off. My American has kept me more than distracted lately.” I perk up at that. He’s talking about me. “No, of course not. You can meet her.” Meet? Does he want me to meet someone? What’s going on? I hear him laugh, followed by, “Uh-uh.” And then, “Yes.” The conversation seems to switch more to business. “No, I don’t think that report is coming out until later this month.” After a pause, I hear, “Right.” And then, “Yes. I have a copy of that report.” Silence, followed by, “No, come by the house tonight. I’ll give it to you. You can meet my American.” Oh crap! What the hell is this? He says goodbye before I hear his footfalls coming. He finds me sitting up in bed. “Oh good, you’re awake,” he declares in English. “I heard you on the phone.” “Yes, that was a friend of mine. I want you to meet him.” He’s not wearing his uniform. Instead, he’s wearing his tan robe, but he’s obviously intent on changing. I don’t say anything but instead watch him slip on a fresh uniform. He tosses a clean white dress shirt to me. “Here, put this on.” This is all I get for company? I don’t say anything. If I protest, he might make me stay naked. Hell, I’ll take what I can get. I slip on the shirt before carefully buttoning it 126

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up. Since I have so little, I don’t want to miss a single button, though I leave it parted at the top. After getting dressed, he looks at me and frowns. “What’s wrong?” I ask. “It’s nothing,” he chuckles, grabbing a hair brush from the top of the dresser. He uses the brush to smooth down my hair. He doesn’t hurry, and he patiently brushes out my shoulder-length hair. “There. Much better,” he declares, setting aside the brush. He unlocks my leash before taking my hand and then leading me downstairs. We walk into the rarely used living room. He grabs something off the couch. It’s a large, flat crimson pillow, which he tosses on the floor by the sofa. “Here, kneel down,” he instructs, gesturing toward the oversized pillow on the floor. I’m a bit annoyed I have to sit on the floor, but I guess there are worse things. I kneel on both knees and sit on my heels. I’m actually nervous. Who’s coming over? What’s going on? He turns on lamps in the living room before stepping into the kitchen. I’m not certain, but I think he turned on the coffeemaker. My palms are sweaty, and I press them against my shirttails, which are covering my thighs. He walks out of the kitchen and then hurries back upstairs. His footsteps thud above me, and I study the ceiling, wondering what he’s doing. As he moves around upstairs, I hear a car pull up outside. I even hear the engine die before the distinct whumph of a car door closing. Fresh nervousness courses through me. I’m not sure why I’m so nervous, but I am. There are heavy steps on the front porch. A half-second later, there’s a knock. I steady my nerves. My captor descends the stairs with a bundle of papers in his hand. He glances at me briefly before setting the papers down. “Relax, American,” he declares, unlocking the door. “No one is going to hurt you.” He opens it. I lean to the side, eager to know who his visitor is. From where I’m sitting, I can’t see anything…yet. I hear greetings and pleasantries. His visitor is a man, but that’s all I know. They’re casually conversing in German. My captor asks him to come in and sit down. There’s movement in the foyer, and I finally see who his visitor is. And much to my surprise, it’s another SS officer. He sees me almost immediately, though I can’t quite tell what he looks like. The foyer is shadowed. “That’s her,” the stranger states simply to my captor in German. It’s not a question, which I find somewhat alarming. I sense this person has seen my picture somewhere. “Yes, this is my American,” my captor declares, gesturing toward me. “Please sit down.” “Thank you.” They’re both still talking in German.

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My captor’s guest steps into the living room, where the lighting is better. The stranger is a bit older than my captor, mid-forties perhaps, but I can tell he’s physically fit like my captor. I’m guessing it might be a requirement in the SS, but I’m not sure. The stranger’s uniform is a little different than my captor’s. He’s dressed in a black uniform but he has a yellow stripe under his red armband and a crimson braid looped over the shoulder of his other arm. Only members of the Waffen wear a yellow armband. The Waffen used to be a branch of the SS. But now, they serve as an elite, military group meant only to protect and defend the emperor, much like the US Secret Service. Since the yellow band is sewn under his red armband, revealing only a one-inch stripe, I think it means he’s officially retired from the imperial guard. The crimson braid over his shoulder means he’s a voting member in the emperor’s council. Though technically a dictatorship, the Third Reich also has a council of appointed members. The council votes and decides on more mundane business, such as budgets and certain laws. Just from his uniform, I know my captor’s friend is an expert linguist who once served as one of the emperor’s bodyguards and is now an appointed member in an elite political group. To say this is an ambitious and intelligent man is a bit of an understatement. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was a named successor to the empire. “She’s even lovelier in person,” the stranger says in German. “I can see why you’ve taken her as a war prize.” War prize? I never thought of it that way. “May I?” He’s gesturing toward the sofa next to me and looking at my captor. “Yes of course, please sit down. Visit with her. I’ll get some coffee.” I’m a bit nervous about being left alone with this stranger, and I anxiously watch my captor leave the room. I sense the stranger sit down close to me. A gloved hand gently takes my jaw and turns my face away from the kitchen. The stranger’s eyes meet mine. “Don’t worry, he’ll be back.” It’s a whisper in English. Like my captor, though, his English is heavy with a German accent. He almost seems amused by something. I’m not sure what’s going on. His fingers stroke my cheek. It’s weird that this stranger is touching me, but I’m not sensing anything malicious from him. His gray eyes study me intensely. Curiosity and intrigue color his expression. “You are quite breathtaking, my dear.” Again, he says it in English. “I can see why the American media is so enamored with you. Usually, captured spies don’t even make the afternoon news, even back when we executed them, but you’ve landed spots on prime time.” Sadly, he is indeed correct about media indifference. Whenever one of us is captured, no one really cares. But I’ve apparently garnered a certain level of national

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attention, though I have no idea why—I’m just a spy. I’m not sure extra news coverage is a good thing. I fear the media may be heightening my importance in the eyes of the Third Reich. This mysterious, high-ranking visitor seems to confirm my suspicion. A bit uncomfortable under his heavy stare, I break eye contact. My eyes take in his uniform instead. I can’t help but notice the differences. Details have always been my thing. The yellow stripe and the crimson braid are the most striking differences, though he has a couple of pins on his tunic that my captor doesn’t have. And unlike my captor, he has a sidearm clipped to his belt. I haven’t seen my captor’s sidearm since the night he arrested me. The stranger turns my face gently toward a lamp. I study his eyes, wondering about his motive. He’s furrowing his eyebrows. He looks confused. “It’s not the light,” my captor declares in English. He approaches us and sets down a coffee cup near the stranger. “Why do her eyes look like that?” “I have no idea.” My captor sits down in a plush chair before taking a sip of his coffee. “There’s something of a curiosity about her.” “Really? I think it’s more of a vulnerability.” “Are you certain she was put through the same training as the others?” “As far as I can tell. All the classic markers are present. She remembers the hospital, the migraines, even the bloody tears.” The stranger grimaces before stroking my cheek again. “Please give me your hand.” I can tell he’s talking to me. A bit hesitantly, I offer him my hand. He interlocks his fingers with mine as his thumb strokes my knuckle. My fingers look delicate and pale between the patches of the stranger’s black leather gloves. “Does she understand what they did to her?” Without releasing me, he takes the coffee cup in his other hand. “No.” I don’t understand what they’re talking about. It’s weird for them to talk about me in front of me, but I take in everything they’re saying with peaked interest. They’re not trying to hide anything. They’re even speaking English. Questions start to gnaw at me. What did they do to me? Is there something wrong with me? “Honestly, how can any nation justify such a practice in the twenty-first century? It’s barbaric. The Americans act like the concentration camps are still open. Don’t they understand this is a civilized empire?” My captor only rolls his eyes, obviously annoyed about something. I’m not entirely sure what they’re talking about, but this isn’t a good time to ask. What practice is this man talking about? What’s barbaric? I find something odd about the stranger’s comment about “a civilized empire”. Hmm, let’s see, I’ve been arrested, held captive, interrogated, broken down, seduced 129

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and claimed as a war prize by an enigmatic SS officer who won’t even tell me his name. I don’t even want to know what this guy’s definition of an uncivilized empire is. Of course, I am an American prisoner. All in all, I’ve been treated surprisingly well. And I can’t say I hate the things that have been done to my body. I glance at my captor. He’s looking at his friend. He furrows his eyebrows before speaking. “I don’t understand why the American government is so adamant about refusing any real peace treaties. They don’t seem to have any problem doing business with us.” It’s not exactly a source of national pride, but the United States is actually quite dependent on the Third Reich for several things. There are multiple business arrangements and corporate peace treaties in place for just about everything, including food, clothing and especially oil. Most citizens don’t know that many of the things they buy are imported from the Third Reich. “We’re making progress,” the stranger comments. Holding my fingers between his, he keeps stroking my index finger with his thumb. “We’ve had a significant break in the auto industry. In time, the Americans will come around.” I know what the stranger means about the auto industry. A few months ago, German cars started cropping up in the States. And unlike other product names, American citizens know that both Mercedes and BMW are German companies. I’ve heard the cars are actually quite popular. The dealerships that sell them claim they fly off the lot, despite the high price. Capitalism will most likely open borders eventually. “You look really good, my friend,” his guest announces. “I don’t think I’ve seen you look this rested in years.” “Did I look bad before?” my captor asks, laughing softly. “No…well. You looked tired, a lot, especially after your divorce. You were working too much. But you look good. I think your war prize is beneficial for you.” My captor only smiles at him. The stranger studies me briefly before turning back to my captor. “The embassy asked about her. They inquired about a possible spy swap.” “Really?” My captor doesn’t sound happy. In fact, he sounds kinda pissed off. “The embassy was informed that she is now the official property of the Third Reich. She’s not going anywhere, my friend. We had a few other captured spies we were able to barter with.” My captor looks relieved. I’m not surprised by the news. I wasn’t expecting to go anywhere. Though, to be honest, I’m a little relieved too. “Could she read something for me?” “Of course. Let me get a book.” I’m not sure what’s going on. The stranger releases my hand. My captor retrieves a book and hands it to me. “Read a few paragraphs aloud, American. My friend only

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wants to hear your German.” Leveling a finger at me, he smiles and adds, “And don’t color it with any other accents. Try to sound like a native German.” “Other accents?” his guest asks. “Yes, she can color her German with another accent. It’s how she tried to fool me at the checkpoint. It was actually quite good. If I hadn’t been tipped off about her, I might not have caught it.” “Really? That’s not easy to do. They don’t train spies to do that.” My captor nods. “I know. It was one reason I brought her here. I wanted more time to analyze her.” His guest turns to me. “Why did you do that?” I’m hesitant to answer the question, but I know full well they can force me to respond. “Because I knew my pronunciation would never slide by an SS officer, so I tried to muddy the waters as best I could.” Looking a bit surprised by my answer, he turns to my captor. “That’s a very independent thought.” “I know,” my captor mutters, taking another sip of coffee. “And she remembers the hospital?” My captor only nods. “Fairly vividly actually. She mentioned a nurse giving her candy and the smell of alcohol.” “That doesn’t make any sense. If she was put through the same training, she shouldn’t have improvised. She should’ve tried to seduce you, not fake another accent in the interview.” My captor only shrugs. “I have no idea why she’s so different. I asked every question I could think to ask.” I’m not sure what to make of all this. I don’t say or do anything. There’s a long stretch of silence. “So what other accent did she use at the checkpoint?” his guests asks. “Irish.” “Irish? She can speak German with an Irish accent?” “Yes, and quite well too.” “English is still spoken in parts of that country. It was smart to choose Irish.” “I thought the same.” The stranger turns to me. He looks eager. “Please, read a paragraph in German with an Irish accent. I want to hear this.” It’s strange that I’m being asked to perform this task, but I’m willing to try. Swallowing hard, I open the book and read several sentences. I memorize a paragraph and mentally ready myself. I repeat the paragraph and color my German with a subtle Irish accent. To me, it sounds perfect. But hell, I guess if it was perfect, I wouldn’t be here. 131

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me.

No one says anything right away. “Can you say it again?” his guest asks. I only nod before repeating the paragraph. “It’s very close,” he says to my captor. “I know. At first, I thought I’d been misinformed.” “Can you say the same paragraph but just in German, like a native?” his guest asks

Again nothing about the request strikes me as vicious or unreasonable, so I nod and then comply. Once more I don’t detect anything wrong with my words. “Her German is excellent, and her pronunciation is perfect. But I can tell she’s forcing some of it.” “Yes, I agree,” my captor states. “I think the Irish may have thrown me had I been questioning her since spies aren’t trained to do that.” “It did throw me off. It was more about persistent questioning that made her pulse betray her.” “Interesting,” his guest declares. “And a bit concerning. Perhaps greater rewards should be offered for turning in spies.” A twinge of guilt hits me. Great, now I’m making things harder for others. I’m hoping we’re almost finished. Much to my relief, they stop talking to me and instead start discussing budgets and reports as well as other mundane business, though they continue to carry on the conversation in English, which I find a bit odd. I only sit on my heels, grateful they’ve lost interest in talking to me. After several hours, the stranger finally stands, thanking my captor for a lovely evening. My captor hands him a stack of papers in the foyer and wishes him a pleasant night. The stranger only looks at me before he goes but doesn’t say anything. I have a feeling I may see him again. “Come on. It’s late,” my captor declares, pulling me off the floor. He turns off the lights in the living room before leading me upstairs. Once we’re in his bedroom, he locks the leash to my anklet. “I’ll be back in a minute,” he states. He leaves the room. I hear his heavy footfalls going down the stairs. He’s doing something in the kitchen, but I’m not sure what. I hear him on the stairs. When he returns, he’s holding a saucer with a coffee cup on it. “I want you to drink this. It’s some hot cocoa mixed with a mild sedative.” “A sedative? You want to drug me?” “I want you to sleep, and I don’t want you to dream or remember anything.” I hesitate.

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“I can easily inject you with something,” he declares. “But this particular drug is better and it’s meant to be ingested.” A bit reluctantly, I take the cocoa and drink it. It’s actually quite good. If he hadn’t told me, I wouldn’t know it was laced with something. After setting the empty cup down on the nightstand, I only sit and watch him get undressed. With a low groan, he slips under the covers. He takes me in his arms, and I press my face against his chest. “What did you two mean about how I was trained?” He sighs at the question. “It’s difficult to explain to you, American, because you don’t remember it.” “Yes, I do. I remember the films and lectures and videos.” “That was only a part of it, the part they wanted you to remember.” “What else was there?” I whisper. He holds me tighter. “Don’t think about it.” “But…what did your friend mean about it being barbaric?” “Shh, don’t talk.” “Please don’t do this to me. Just tell me.” “You don’t need to know.” “Yes, I do,” I insist. I try to pull away, but he won’t release me. His nimble fingers brush though my hair. His gentle petting, combined with the sedative, is slowly pushing away consciousness. “What did they do to me?” I whisper. “They trained you to be a spy. Now stop thinking about it. I don’t want you to remember anything. I do wish my friend hadn’t commented on how the practice is barbaric, but he’s more of a military man, straight and to the point.” Despite my best efforts to stay awake, I feel the world slipping away. “Just go to sleep,” my captor whispers.

***** When I wake up, my heart is racing and I’m covered with sweat. It’s still dark. My captor is holding me against his chest. The dream lingers as I gingerly untangle myself from his arms. I can tell by his breathing that he’s deep asleep. My leash quietly drags against the hardwood floor as I hurry to the bathroom. Tears spill from my eyes as I quickly close the door. I don’t turn on the light, not wanting to rouse my captor. I kneel on the floor and cry quietly in the dark. I just need a few moments to recover. I feel I’m finally coming to terms with something I’ve tried hard to either ignore or deny. I press my forehead against the tub’s edge, welcoming the cool feel of the porcelain. I jump when the door opens. The light comes on a half-second later.

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He’s wearing his tan robe. He looks sleepy and confused. “I thought I heard you crying. What’s wrong?” he demands. “It’s nothing,” I mutter, mopping away my tears. I look away from him and instead study the bathtub. He laughs softly as he walks across the bathroom. He settles on the tub’s edge. “You don’t honestly think I’m going to accept that response as a valid answer, do you?” He sounds more alert and awake. I say nothing and instead study the tub. “Tell me what’s wrong.” Silence. My eyes shift to the floor. “Do we have to do this with the needle?” he demands. “No,” I mutter. I’m not afraid. I just know there’s no point in withholding information. His fingers slide under my chin and turn my face up to him. I reluctantly meet his eyes. “Tell me what’s wrong.” “I…I just had a nightmare…and something I kinda forgot came up in the dream.” He looks anxious and concerned. He curses softly in German. “What do you remember?” “I don’t really know where to start.” “Take your time. Start at the beginning.” Shivering, I wrap my arms tightly around myself. “A few days after my eighteenth birthday, I went to the recruitment office and signed the papers stating I wanted to serve in the military.” My captor only nods as if he already knew that. “The next day, they called me and told me to report to a base in Virginia. They said I’d been selected for intelligence.” Again, my captor only nods. “Almost from day one, I quickly found out that my superiors and instructors didn’t like something about me.” My voice wavers ever so slightly, and I study the floor. He doesn’t say anything. “A couple of days after I arrived at the base, I walked into one of my classrooms for a scheduled lesson. I was early. Two of my instructors were talking, but they immediately stopped when I walked in the room. One of them even shushed the other, and I knew at the time that they were talking about me.” My fingers lightly pluck at the hem of my shirt. “Before they stopped talking, I overheard one of them say, ‘Well, they obviously botched her surgery.’ And you asked me if I remembered having a surgical procedure or a place that looked like a hospital and…there were the bloody tears and the migraines, and your friend said that the practice was barbaric…” 134

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My eyes dart to his face. I can tell he understands what I’m saying. “What did they do to me?” My fingers drift to the side of my head and press against my scalp. I shudder when I touch the scar hidden in my thick hair. My mother told me I fell one day when I was a kid, which is how I supposedly got the scar, but I never quite believed that explanation. He lets out a heavy sigh. “If I tell you the details, it’s just going to create more nightmares. And quite frankly, I don’t like finding you crying alone in the dark.” “Please… I need to know.” “No, you don’t,” he insists. I start to protest, but he only shakes his head at me. “No.” I wilt. “But I will tell you this. The purpose was to make you more obedient and more pliable in the hands of your superiors. It was also supposed to make your rigorous training easier for you to accept. In all honesty, I think something did go wrong with your procedure because your personality is very different from what I’ve seen.” “Then why didn’t they dismiss me or send me home?” “Dismiss you? American, you were able to break into a highly secure military building, locate top-secret documents, and then you memorized several pages of material. I actually went to the Echelon and located the files you found. It was over eighty pages of documents you memorized word for word. “Training can only go so far, American. They chose you specifically for your intelligence and memorization skills. They’re not going to just dismiss you.” “But…but the surgery, didn’t they do something to heighten my memory or improve my intelligence?” “No,” he says simply. “The surgery was done to alter your personality so you wouldn’t question orders…at least, that’s what it was supposed to do.” “But there are laws in my country. They had no right to do that or…” My body shakes as I start sobbing. I cover my face with my hands, not wanting my captor to see me like this. When I was in school, one of the documents I had to memorize was the Declaration of Independence, and I distinctly remember the line about Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness. But it wasn’t just a line in the Declaration of Independence. To me, it was more of a philosophy that seemed to shape most of the laws in my country. Somehow, being drafted as a child and surgically altered to fit a preconceived personality seems a bit antithetical to that principle. His hand settles gently on my shoulder. “Yes, there are laws in your country, but rules for draftees are different. You were chosen to defend and protect the rights of your country for your fellow citizens. You were selected to serve the greater good. Your test scores placed you under military jurisdiction, exempt from criminal and civil laws, which is one of the many reasons why your parents were paid so generously.” 135

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“But why?” I whisper, looking up at him. “Because it’s still a war.” Pointless tears continue to fall. My captor sighs. “American, it’s not in my nature to bargain, but I’m willing to make a deal with you.” A bit confused, I look up at him. I’m still sobbing. “If you try to stop crying and come back to bed with me, I’ll take my time kissing and licking the back of your neck.” I can’t help but smile a little at his offer, even though I’m still crying. He knows I like that. “Hmm. That’s almost a smile.” He grabs a washcloth and then wets it under the tub’s facet. After wringing it out, he hands me the damp cloth. “Here, rinse off your face first. You’ll feel better.” Still sniffling, I wipe my face with the cool, wet cloth. Once I’m finished, he takes the washcloth before setting it on the tub’s edge. He takes a hold of my arm and helps me to my feet. As he pulls me back to his bed, I continue to sniffle a bit. Logically, I know there’s little point in dwelling on the subject. I can’t do anything to change the past. He lifts up the plush bedding. “Come on,” he orders, obviously wanting me to get back in bed. I slip under the covers and scoot across the mattress. Feeling a bit dazed, I lie on my back and study the ceiling. He slips in bed next to me. “Roll over on your belly.” Still sniffling, I roll over and bury my face in the pillow. He brushes aside my hair. “Shh, it’s all right,” he whispers. For some reason, my breath keeps hitching, despite my best efforts to make it stop. I think the sound is upsetting him. “Shh, calm down.” “I thought you liked to see me cry,” I challenge, feeling angry at the whole damn world right now. His firm lips press against the back of my neck, and I shudder from the sensation. “Not like this. Your crying during sex is different, and you know it.” I sniffle as he plants soft kisses up and down the nape of my neck. True to his word, he does indeed take his time. After several minutes, my breath finally stops catching. “How do you feel now?” he whispers. His words flutter across my flesh. “Safe,” I admit. A brief wave of panic courses through me. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. “Good.” His tongue draws a line from the top of my spine to the edge of my hair. “You are safe.” 136

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His gentle kissing and licking causes wetness to pool between my thighs. His hand slides under me and cups my mound. Nimble fingers gently caress my nub, coaxing me to orgasm. I cry out softly as his skilled fingers massage my clit. He doesn’t drag out my release the way he usually does. After several minutes, he gently propels me onto my back. “Better?” Actually, I do feel better. “Yes.” His firm lips press against mine as his arousal prods at my slit. He enters me slowly. He simply holds me against him, keeping himself sheathed inside me. There’s only the sound of our breathing. “Perhaps this was my fault,” he whispers. “Maybe I should have talked to you about your training instead of telling you to not think about it, but for the future, I want you to promise me something.” “What?” “If something is bothering you, really bothering you, tell me, wake me. Don’t hide in the dark and cry alone like that. I don’t ever want to find you like that again.” “Okay,” I whisper. “No, promise me.” “I promise I won’t hide like that again if I’m upset.” As if to reward me, he kisses my forehead. “Good girl.” He holds me tighter as his cock glides in and out of me at a quickened pace. He doesn’t drag out my release but instead stops just before my orgasm turns painful. He reaches his own breaking point shortly after I do. He collapses next to me and takes me in his arms. I can feel myself drifting to sleep, and I bury my face against his pec, seeking the warmth and comfort of his embrace. He holds me tight against his muscular body as if I’m the most valuable possession in the entire world.

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Chapter Nine Sitting on the bed, I hear the front door close. I press stop on the handheld game and wait for him to reach the bedroom. A few days ago, he brought me this electronic device. I thought it would be a boring video game, but it actually requires a lot of memorization to solve puzzles and riddles. The game also adjusts for skill. It’s progressively getting more difficult for me, but I like it. It keeps my mind occupied when I’m not working out. As he nears the bedroom, a ripple of genuine nervousness courses through me. I’ve been his prisoner now for a couple of weeks, and the only thing predictable about our relationship is the unpredictability. Sometimes when he comes home, he ties me up, ravishes me and then fucks me into unconsciousness. Other times, he slips under the covers next to me, takes me in his arms and we simply cuddle for several hours before he feeds me dinner. And sometimes still, he unlocks my leash, leads me to his office at the end of the hall and has me kneel on the floor next to him while he quietly works at his laptop. Once, only once, he took me to his cellar. It’s basically a home gym down there. He tied my wrists above my head to a piece of exercise equipment and flogged me. But it wasn’t like the first time he did it. It was more intense. I actually came in the middle of it, just from the flogging alone. After I came and while he continued to flog me, he started asking me questions and even though he didn’t drug me, I willingly answered everything, not because he was hurting me or torturing the answers out of me but simply because…I needed to tell him. He asked me what I thought of my parents and what I thought of my government. I don’t remember the specific answers I gave him. But I do remember the emotions that poured through me—the despair that my parents sold me to my government, the betrayal that my government decided my fate. But above all else, I remember the rage. After the emotional storm passed and he purged me of the pent-up anger I didn’t even know I had, he assaulted my body with a steady stream of strange toys and clamps. He said it was my punishment for withholding information from him. He told me I wasn’t allowed any secrets or buried resentment. He made me feel things I’ve never imagined. Some of it hurt a little, like the metal clamps he placed on my nipples and pussy lips…but it didn’t hurt in a bad way. He called it erotic pain. He also introduced me to dildos and plugs. At first I pouted, wanting his cock and not a toy, but he showed me how a dildo could fill my sheath while he mercilessly fucked my ass. He called it double penetration. At the very end, after he untied me and just before he carried my spent and exhausted body upstairs, he told me to call him Master, which I did, not because I was 138

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afraid of him or because I didn’t want to provoke him, but because in that brief and strange moment, he was my Master. I’m still struggling emotionally with what happened in his cellar. I haven’t called him Master since then and he hasn’t asked me to again. The bedroom door opens. As usual, he’s dressed in his uniform, except his coat is draped over his arm. But today, he’s carrying several brightly colored gift bags. I’m too nervous to even wonder what’s in the bags, worrying instead we’re going downstairs to his cellar again. He tilts his head at me. “You look nervous,” he declares, setting down the gift bags on the floor by the bed. He drapes his coat over the footboard. I only shrug, trying to look aloof. “In case you’re wondering, I’m not taking you down to the cellar tonight.” Relief washes through me. He walks closer to me and then kneels down on the floor. “Although I do think it’s time we talk about what happened down there.” I only shrug again in a feeble attempt to be nonchalant. “No response?” he prods. “I don’t know,” I barely whisper. “Well, I think you liked what I did to you, and I think you liked calling me Master, but I also think it scared you because it was more intense than what we usually do, which is why you’re nervous about going back in my cellar.” It unnerves me just how well he knows me. My eyes unwillingly meet his. “Maybe,” I reluctantly whisper. “Maybe,” he mutters, tilting his head. The skull pin on his hat catches the light as he moves. He polished it last night along with every buckle and snap on his belt. He rises up a bit before gently kissing my forehead. “The only remedy for our situation is time, American. Now stop worrying. I won’t take you back down there until I know you’re ready.” A bit nervously, I fiddle with the electronic game still in my hands. My captor is beginning to bring out deeper and even more confusing emotions from me. Unable to say anything, I simply stare at the mute device in my hands. “You still like your toy?” he asks. “Uh…yes, I do.” I look up at him. “Very much.” I’m relieved he changed the subject. It still kinda freaks me out just how easy it was to call him Master. “I thought you might. I purchased the most difficult level for you, so it should stay challenging.” He turns toward the colored gift bags on the floor. “What’s in the bags?” I ask, putting down the game. “I bought you a few things. I want to take you to the opera tonight.” Giddiness washes through me. “Out? Really?” 139

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“I was thinking you’ve been cooped up for a couple of weeks now. I thought you’d like a night out.” “Yes, I would.” “But if you give me any trouble, I’ll never take you out again.” I wasn’t even thinking about trying anything, but I’m not going to admit that to him. “I understand,” I reply evenly. “Good. I trust you can figure out what to do with all this.” “What is it?” I ask, kneeling on the floor next to the bags. “Some of it is makeup, there are also some shoes. I basically purchased anything I thought you might need. I also had a designer make a gown for you. I gave him your blue dress to use as a pattern, so the gown should fit. If not, I had the blue one cleaned. They’re both in this box.” He points to a rectangular-shaped red box that’s peeking out of a matching gift bag. “When I was in the designer’s studio, I saw a dress hanging up. I thought it would look nice on you, and the designer told me it should be your size. It’s not appropriate for tonight, but I’d like to see it on you sometime in the spring.” Spring? It’s still technically fall, though winter is just around the corner. He’s buying me clothes for spring? He picks up a small silver gift bag. “And this bag has your jewelry.” He sets it on the nightstand by the bed. “Since you’ll be on my arm tonight, you’ll be expected to be in jewelry. I bought some pieces that flatter both the blue and the red, though I’d prefer the red tonight. I trust you can prepare yourself in four hours.” “Yes, I can.” “Very good. I’ll be in my office working.” With a polite nod, he turns and leaves me. I’m curious about the bags’ contents, and I debate where I should begin. I decide to look at the jewelry first and open the silver bag on the nightstand. There are several white boxes inside, and I eagerly retrieve one. I carefully pull off the small lid. There’s a black, velvet box inside, and I gently open it. It’s a pair of earrings. I’m certainly not an expert on such matters, but the earrings look like rubies and diamonds. They’re almost too ornate to be real. I tilt the earrings toward the light, and the clear stones reflect intense shades of orange and yellow. I don’t know if they’re real or not but they’re beautiful, and if they are real, which they probably are, they must have cost a considerable fortune. Not wanting to lose them, I close the velvet box. I decide to stow them in the top drawer of the nightstand until I’m ready to put them on. Pulling out another box, which is bigger, I find a necklace that matches the earrings. It’s just as ornate with three thick rows of what look like diamonds and rubies. A large teardrop pendant, heavy with red and clear stones, immediately catches my eye. Like the earrings, the clear stones reflect intense hues of orange and yellow.

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After stowing the necklace next to the earrings, I reach in the bag and retrieve another small box. It’s another pair of earrings, only it has clear and blue stones. The design is a little different, but they’re just as elaborate and beautiful. I can only guess that the stones are sapphires and diamonds, but I’m not sure. After carefully going through the bag, I learn he bought me two pairs of earrings, two necklaces and two bracelets. One matching set looks like rubies and diamonds while the other looks like sapphires and diamonds. Somehow, I can’t quite process that he just bought me so much expensive jewelry. It’s not that I’m so materialistic that I’m swayed by his bank balance, it’s just that…would he spend this much money just to turn around and kill me? Can I really trust him? I neatly stow the jewelry in the top drawer of one of the empty nightstands. After ensuring I took everything out of the gift bag, I pull the tissue paper out, fold it up and then flatten the bag. I move to a large pink bag on the floor and then carefully kneel down next to it. This bag is lined with pink and gold tissue paper. There are several bottles inside including a bottle of body wash, a tube of face wash, shampoo, conditioner, body lotion, face moisturizer, body splash, bubble bath, body powder and a pink bath sponge. All of the bottles have matching pink and gold labels, very feminine. I open the bottle of shampoo and bring it to my nose. It smells like flowers. I close the shampoo before setting it down on the floor with the other bath products. Wanting to keep everything organized, I decide to stow the bath products in the bottom drawer of the same nightstand, at least for now. I may leave a few things in the bathroom later. Rummaging through another bag, which is pink and black and also lined with tissue paper, I find another bottle of face moisturizer, foundation, concealer, powder, blush, eyeliner, eye shadow, mascara, lipstick, as well as a set of makeup brushes, a mirror, a makeup bag and a bottle of makeup remover. Looking at the colors, I realize he even got flattering shades that match my skin tone. In the same pink and black bag, there’s also three bottles of perfume and some scented body lotion. I can tell all of it is higher-end cosmetics and fragrances. I neatly stow the makeup and perfume in the second drawer of the same nightstand, glancing briefly at a clock to check the time. In another bag, which is blackand-white, I find a hair brush, a comb, hair gel, mousse, hair spray and some kind of mysterious, goopy product in a jar. There’s also a hair dryer, a curling iron, a hair straightener and a crimping wand. I also find some bobby pins, which makes me laugh because that’s how I picked his handcuffs the first night. Chuckling to myself about the bobby pins, I also find some rubber bands and hairclips. I discard as much of the packaging as I can before neatly stowing the hair products in the same drawer as the cosmetics. I add the packaging, the empty gift bag and the

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folded tissue paper to my neat pile next to the nightstand. Giddiness washes over me. This is fun—tearing through tissue paper, opening gift bags and boxes. There are still four gift bags left to explore. In a smaller, simpler bag, I find some products that give me a little more pause. There are three toothbrushes, more body lotion and face moisturizer—even though there was some in the other bags—disposable razors, antiperspirant, nail clippers, three bottles of nail polish, a small manicure kit, toothpaste, a loofah and some feminine hygiene products. There are also several fashion magazines, some paperback books and even bubble gum. It all screams so…long-term. I can’t help but smile at all the products he bought. It’s as if he went to several stores and told the staff, “Sell me everything a woman would use,” which apparently they did. There’s some room left in the bottom drawer of the same nightstand, and I store the drug store items alongside the bath products he bought me, though I stack the magazines and paperback books on the top. I turn to the large red bag he pointed to earlier, the one he said had the dress in it. I pull the box out and set it on the bed before carefully opening it. Wrapped in gold tissue paper is a folded red dress. Pulling it out, I realize it’s heavy with elaborate beadwork. It’s much more ornate than my blue dress. In the same box, I find my old blue dress, clean and folded in some tissue paper. After setting aside the two dresses, I find the third dress on the bottom, the one he said he wanted me to wear in the spring. It’s bright pink with spaghetti straps. I hold it up to my body. It hits me about midthigh. It’s adorned here and there with satin ribbons and tiny bows. He’s right. It’s very spring. To be honest, the pink dress kinda freaks me out. Again and again, he keeps making this sound long-term. Curious about whether or not it’ll fit, I slip off his buttondown shirt and quickly slip on the flared pink dress. I walk to the mirror and take in my image. It fits. I’m not sure why, but I want to show him what it looks like. I quickly dismiss trying to get his attention though. He said he wanted me to get ready for tonight, besides, I don’t know what the hell I’d call him. A part of me is tempted to call him Master again, as I did in his cellar…but I don’t. I slip the pink dress off and walk back to the bed before setting it down. I’m torn between trying on the red dress next or going through the other bags. I decide to explore the other gift bags next. I slip his dress shirt back on, just to keep warm. In the next bag, I find three pairs of shoes that match each dress as well as a lovely red wrap and my navy coat. The thick wrap, which beautifully matches the red dress, is also padded and lined with something plush and soft. There’s even a small, zippered pouch on the inside that’s just big enough for a few small items. I’m actually grateful for the wrap. It’ll probably be cold outside, and it might be chilly in the theater. My captor is quite good at anticipating my wants and needs.

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I’m tempted to tidy up a bit. I’d like to hang up some clothes and put away the extra shoes, but I have no idea if the ensemble he wants me to wear tonight will even fit. I may have to wear the blue out of sheer necessity. A bit hesitantly, I slip on the lovely red shoes first. Heavy with beadwork and elaborate crystals, they almost look like jewelry for my feet. Holding my breath, I sit on the bed and strap them on. I cautiously stand up. Much to my relief they fit, except they’re a bit spikier than I’m used to. I once again shrug off his button-down shirt before tossing it on the bed. I pick up the beaded red dress before gingerly slipping it over my head. It’s beautiful, and I’m a little nervous that the dress won’t fit me right, which is why I think I hesitated to try it on earlier. After letting the ankle-length garment fall around me, I reach for the zipper, which is actually on the side, and zip it up. Much to my relief, I can zip it! And it feels like it fits. I walk to the mirror and study my reflection. Not only does it fit, but it even hits me in all the right places. My blue dress was from a consignment shop and it was a little too big for me, but the red dress fits me much better. My captor must have gotten my exact measurements at one point. There’s no other explanation. Looking back, I do remember him knocking me out the first night after the initial interrogation. I know enough about Nazi procedures to know he probably took measurements and even collected some blood that first night while I was out. He might have even stripped and examined me. I think I’m looking for a reason to be mad at him. But…for the life of me, I can’t find any anger for him. Deciding I’ll take a bath in a minute, I slip off the dress and the shoes. I leave the red dress, the matching shoes and the red wrap on the bed. I put away the extra dresses and shoes in his closet with his civilian clothes. I would jump in the tub now, but I still have one more bag left to explore. It’s a pink pastel bag with a matching box inside. It’s actually quite large. After opening it, I find a few scraps of transparent fabric and lace. Lingerie. I gently dig through the large box. Hmm, lots of lingerie. I actually lose track of how many bras, panties and teddies I find. I think he may have wiped out this particular store. I also find a lovely satin robe, dyed the color of champagne, and some comfy-looking nightgowns. I can tell everything in the box is brand new, but I smell a mild detergent and I also find a cleaning ticket at the bottom of the box. He had the garments laundered after purchase. I’ve basically filled one nightstand already, so I decide to stow the lingerie in the other nightstand. I hate to use both of them, but the last time I checked they were both empty, though from time to time, he keeps his black interrogation case in the top drawer. I pull open the drawers of the other nightstand. All three are empty. For now, I guess I’ll keep my lingerie in here unless he says something. Since I still have to get ready for tonight, I hurriedly put away the lacy garments. I use one drawer

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for panties, one for bras and one for teddies and nightgowns. I also find some garter belts and sexy stockings, which I put in the same drawer as the teddies. I have a sneaking suspicion I’ll be modeling some of this later tonight. I know him well enough to conclude he’ll probably want some kind of payment for my night out. I would pick out something for later, but I need to get ready. I do, however, pull out a cute pair of panties for tonight. Since it’s a formal affair, I really should wear underwear. I don’t need a bra though since the backless dress has sewn in cups…which also match my body suspiciously well and even create some flattering cleavage. I can’t help but wonder just how thoroughly he must have examined me that first night. I walk around the bed to the other nightstand and then retrieve some of the new bath products he bought me. As I soak in the tub, I try not to think about just how much he spent. Everything, including the makeup and the bath products, were all from high-end stores, not to mention the dress was made by a designer…and then there was the jewelry. I fiddle with one of the pink and gold bottles as I meditate. It’s the shampoo. Picking it up, I notice a partial price tag on the bottom of the bottle. Whoever tore it off missed a large piece. It’s priced at thirty-six credits. One German credit equals about two US dollars, give or take, depending on how our relationship with the Reich is. When things are a bit tense, I’ve seen it go as high as seven dollars to one credit, which usually grinds business relations to a halt. But the basic rate is usually about two to one. So, by current and standard rates, this bottle of shampoo would be over seventy dollars in the US. To put it in some perspective, I usually spend about five dollars on a bottle of shampoo. Again, I’m not impressed with his bank balance, but honestly, the man bought me things like nail clippers and bubble gum, not to mention a dress for spring and even pink sandals to go with it. Since the very beginning, there’s a part of me that’s been convinced that this is all temporary. He’s not going to keep me. I’m not stupid. If he wanted to, he could take me outside and shoot me! There’s not one law protecting me from anything. Of course…I guess there weren’t any laws protecting me from anything back home in America either. A bit bitterly, I trace the scar hidden in my thick hair. Tears blur my vision as my fingertips press against the healed incision. Pulling my hand away from my head, I go back to thinking about my relationship with my captor instead. If he was planning on killing me, why would he buy me bubble gum or a pink dress for spring or nail clippers or extra toothbrushes? Why would he spend thirty-six credits on a bottle of shampoo? There’s a tiny voice that suddenly pipes up in my head. Because you’re special to him. I dunk my head underwater. Nothing good can come from foolish thoughts like that. I hurriedly finish my bath and make my mind think straight again. It’s best to

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think only about the present, and right now, the present is good. There’s no point in thinking about tomorrow. I stand and drain the water from the tub. I smell like flowers. I pile a towel on my head and wrap another one around me. I like the scent of the pink and gold products he bought, so I retrieve the body splash and the matching lotion. I splash a little of the body splash on my neck and torso and smear some across each of my wrists. Looking at the lotion, I realize it has a subtle sparkle to it. I wouldn’t say it’s glittery but it has a subtle sheen to it. After squeezing out a palmful, I coat my arms and freshly shaved legs with a thin layer. It gives my skin a nice glow, and it smells nice. Since it’s from the same line as the shampoo, I’m guessing the splash and the lotion were probably pricey as well. But I don’t even look for a tag. Admit it, the little voice insists. You’re special to him, and you know it. “No, I’m not,” I mutter. Great. Now I’m arguing with myself. I apply some antiperspirant to my recently shaved underarms and try to quiet my mind. I retrieve the small mirror he bought me as well as some of the makeup. I set the cosmetics and the mirror on the table by the window before sitting down. I study my reflection. I look rested. I think I’ve gotten more sleep in the last couple of weeks than I have over my entire lifetime. Even the dark shadows that usually live under my eyes are gone. My skin has a nice, youthful glow to it. I don’t feel I need a lot of makeup, so I decide to mix a few dots of liquid foundation with some facial moisturizer. I pass on the powder and the blush. I take my time with the eyeliner before applying a nice bronze eye shadow. I finish my eye makeup with some mascara and then apply a dark crimson lipstick. Again, that annoying little voice keeps asking why my captor would buy all this if my days were truly numbered. I ignore the voice and stow the cosmetics back in the drawer. I hesitate about stowing the lipstick though. I’m not certain if dinner is in my captor’s plans or not. If we eat, I’ll have to touch up my lipstick. I’m thinking we’ll probably eat, so I tuck the lipstick in the small, zippered pouch on the wrap. After putting away the makeup, I retrieve the comb, the brush and the hair dryer. I pull the towel off my head and plug the hair dryer in. I drown my thoughts in the noise of the dryer. As I dry my hair, I make myself think logically. Obviously, his position pays well. I’m confused and I think it means something because it seems as if he spent a lot on me, but it was probably nothing to him. This is foolish to think about any long-term plans. The only thing I should be worrying about is what I should do with my hair. Since the dress plunges in the back, it would be better if my hair were up. After running the blow dryer for several minutes, I run the brush through my hair, which is softer than it’s been in days. Mulling it over, I decide to part my hair on the left and do a

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French braid down each side. Wanting my hair to be up, I twist the remaining length into a tight, low bun and secure everything with a few bobby pins. I use a little hairspray to keep everything smooth and in place. I stand up and walk to the full-length mirror on the closet door. Holding another mirror, I turn around and study my work. It looks good. My eyes drift to the fresh flowers in the crystal vase on the table—red roses with some baby’s breath. He left them this morning with my breakfast. I snap off a few twigs of baby’s breath and use the flowers to dress up the braids and the bun. Unfortunately, the flowers do nothing to quiet that annoying little voice that insists I’m special to my captor. With my hair and makeup complete, I slip on the satin panties before gently retrieving the ankle-length gown. After I have the dress on, I slip on the matching shoes. Dressed and in my shoes, I pull open the top drawer of the nightstand. I slip in the ruby earrings first and then secure the matching necklace. I’m a little surprised that the pieces have some weight to them, not heavy per se but definitely substantial. I try to put on the bracelet, but I can’t clasp it myself. I’ll need help with that. I set it on the nightstand instead. I gather the loose hair products that are still out before neatly stowing everything in the nightstand. I leave some of the pink and gold products in the bathroom. Glancing at the clock, I see I still have almost an hour to spare. I spend the time walking back and forth in the shoes, trying not to wobble. After a little practice, I actually get much better walking in the spikey red shoes. Pacing up and down, I hear the door suddenly open. “Oh.” It’s all he says. I turn and meet his startled face. “Do you not like it?” I ask. He doesn’t say anything. His eyes roam over me. I’m not sure what he thinks. “You look beautiful,” he says. “I like the dress even more than when the designer showed it to me. He had a woman model it, but I like it better on you.” Yeah, he likes it better on you because you mean something to him. That little voice is getting really obnoxious. His eyes drift to my wrist. “I thought I bought you a bracelet.” “Oh, you did. I couldn’t get it on by myself.” I retrieve the bracelet before walking up to him. “Could you clasp it for me?” He takes it and then leans into me. “You smell nice.” “Thanks,” I whisper. His gloved fingers deftly wrap the bracelet around my wrist before securing the clasp. He doesn’t release me but instead strokes my wrist with his thumb. “You look really…good,” he murmurs. “I mean…I always thought you were beautiful, but…I’ve never seen you quite so made up.” His eyes study my hair approvingly, lingering on the flowers. 146

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I can tell he’s a bit surprised by my appearance. When he arrested me, I didn’t have any makeup on that night nor have I worn any since. “Thanks,” I foolishly whisper again, not certain what else to say. “I almost don’t want to leave now,” he mutters. I guess something like disappointment shadows my face because he quickly adds, “Oh, all right, don’t pout. I’ll take you out.” I force myself to smile. The way he’s looking at me is kinda freaking me out, and that annoying little voice is on the verge of saying, Told you so. “Come on. It’s a little early, but we can drive around for a while.” “I’d like that.” I’m actually eager to get out. I think I need some fresh air to clear my head. I quickly retrieve the red wrap from the bed. Just before we step outside, he moves to his desk in the living room. He pulls out his holstered sidearm. A bit unhappily, he clips it to his belt. “I’m sorry. I don’t like being armed around you, but I’m expected to have my sidearm in public.” I’m not mad that he got the weapon. Instead, I’m touched that he doesn’t wear it around me. “It’s okay.” I shrug. Once we’re outside, I take a deep breath of the cool air and pull the heavy wrap tighter around me. It’s still light outside. After ushering me to his parked car, he opens the passenger door for me. I think he even had his car cleaned for tonight. I sit down and eagerly look around. It’s nice to take in my surroundings. He’s right. I’ve been cooped up for too long. After starting the car, he turns away from the house and cruises down the gravel road. He doesn’t say anything as he drives. I have the impression driving is something he enjoys. I take in the purple sky and study the stars coming out. I almost feel I’m back home, though I’m not sure why. There’s something familiar and comforting about watching the sunset. We eventually merge onto the freeway. The car accelerates as he quickly takes the left lane. Once again, I sense he likes driving…specifically, driving very fast. We don’t talk. I think he’s focused more on the road. We drive for quite a while in one direction before he exits the highway, loops around and speeds toward Berlin. The car’s heater warms my feet. “Is there anything I forgot to purchase for you? Would you like anything else?” Startled by the questions, I turn and look at him. “No. You’ve been very generous.” And I mean it. “If you require anything, just tell me.” “Okay,” I whisper. As we approach Berlin’s city limits, I vaguely wonder what opera we’re going to see. But I don’t ask. I’ll find out soon enough. For now, it’s just nice to be out.

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His car cruises up to a lowered gate. Unfortunately, there are just as many checkpoints going into Berlin as coming out, and the guards often conduct random searches. Back in my pre-captured days, the biggest challenge was sneaking my toolkit in. My contact usually stowed it in the trunk and hit it under the spare tire. Once, I had a guard find it. He even unrolled and examined it. My heart nearly stopped when he pulled out the lock scrambler and asked me what it was. My superiors always told me to lie about my tools if discovered. But to me, a lock scrambler does not look anything like a broken MP3 player. So I told him the truth, kinda. I informed him that the device was a lock scrambler used to bypass ocular and fingerprint readers, but I also told him I was an off-duty locksmith and that I did a lot of contract work for the military. When he asked me why the case was hidden, I said the tools were pricey, and I didn’t want someone breaking into the car to steal them. I guess he believed me because he only nodded and then he let me pass. Miraculously enough, he even let me keep my tools. My captor rolls down the window as he approaches the second lowered gate. There’s a waiting patrolman. “Oh, good evening, sir,” the patrolman stammers in German. He looks nervous. I don’t think he knows my captor personally. I think he’s just a little surprised to see an SS officer. I kinda had the same reaction the first night I met him. “Good evening,” my captor replies in German. He hands the guard two lamented cards. I blink at that. Surely he’s not giving the guard my fake ID. The patrolman takes them, but he studies the second one a bit longer. He looks confused. After several seconds, he hands back the cards. “Here you are, sir. You’re clear to turn right.” “Thank you.” My captor nods and slips the cards back in his breast pocket. The patrolman backs away a bit and studies me before the car slowly turns to the right. He’s giving me a strange look. I have the impression there’s something odd about my ID. We cruise past several parking spaces that are marked for vehicle searches. Armed patrolmen watch us as we cruise up to another lowered gate. The gate opens swiftly before we cruise into what looks like an underground highway. I’ve never seen this road before. “What is this?” I ask, looking at the tiled walls of the brightly lit tunnel. “It’s a shortcut for military personnel and certain privileged civilians. This way, we won’t have to deal with the checkpoints. There’s another one leading out of Berlin.” “I never knew about this.” He chuckles softly at my comment but doesn’t say anything. “What ID did you give that patrolman?” “It’s your new ID. You had to have one of course. It was processed the same day I turned in your paperwork.”

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I can’t stop myself from asking, “What does it say?” He smiles. “The picture is actually from your fraudulent ID but instead of being listed as a native citizen, you’re listed as property. I’d show it to you, but it has my name on it. And you haven’t earned the right to learn my name yet.” This isn’t the first time he’s referred to me as property, so I let that part go. But I am curious about his name. “How do I earn the right to learn your name?” “You trust me.” “I…trust you.” “No, you’re learning to trust me.” I can’t argue with that. I think he’s right. There’s a part of me I’m still holding back. He’s claimed my body, yes, and he’s taken every secret, thought and memory I have. But I think he wants even more…and I’m terrified to let him in. We cruise in silence. The road slants up slightly. We exit the underground road, and I blink at my surroundings. Several armed patrolmen watch us as we roll past them. We’re in downtown Berlin. The Hoheit isn’t far, but my captor turns down a road in the opposite direction of the opera house. I soon find out that dinner is indeed in his plans as he parks the car in a restaurant parking lot. I’m eager about dinner. I’m actually quite hungry. We’re seated quickly and order our food. As we eat, though, disappointment settles around me. I’m accustomed to feeding myself when I’m alone while my captor is at work, but when he’s home…I sit across his lap and he feeds me. This feels kinda…wrong. I look up at my captor and study his face. I think he senses it too because he’s frowning at his plate. Even the waiter asks if something is wrong, but my captor only smiles and tells him everything is great. I know what he means…it’s not the food. After our meal, I pop in the bathroom and touch up my lipstick. Renewed excitement courses through me as we cruise toward the Hoheit. “Next time, we will eat at home and not out,” my captor declares as he drives. “I like eating with you in my lap.” Next time? Again, long-term. “Yes,” my captor mutters. “I will place a to-go order next time and bring the food home.” “Okay,” I whisper, not certain what else to say. He’s already planning another night out? As we near the Hoheit, traffic slows. Several people are crossing the street in front of us and walking toward the opera house. They’re all dressed in formal attire. Uniformed patrol guards direct cars and pedestrians. Several framed posters line a wall off to my right. I think the posters are advertising Madama Butterfly. My heart flutters.

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It’s still running! It actually started a few nights before I was arrested, which was why it was my cover story. I’ve always wanted to see it, but I never have. The car cruises directly up to the front steps of the opera house. A valet does something of a double take when he sees the car. I’m not much of an expert on such matters, but I think this particular vehicle is a very high-priced sports car. When we stop, another valet opens the door for me. He offers me a hand to help me out of the car. I take his hand and step out before standing on the sidewalk. My captor steps out as well. “Wow, nice car, sir,” the valet gushes in German. My captor barely mutters a response while handing him the key. “I’ll take excellent care of it, sir,” the valet stammers. My captor seems completely unconcerned about the car. He seems more concerned about the other valet, the man who took my hand to help me out of the car. The valet who helped me is actually talking with another customer and not even standing near me. But my captor is giving him a strange look, kind of a jealous, don’t-touch-my-woman look. My captor quickly walks around the car before possessively taking my arm. My heart oddly flutters. He wordlessly takes the claim ticket before we ascend the concrete steps. He doesn’t even turn to watch the valet drive off with his car. I drink in my surroundings. It’s intoxicating, really. Women are dressed in anklelength gowns, men are wearing tuxedoes and dark suits. Many turn and look at my captor, but no one seems overly concerned by his presence. People seem more interested in me than him, though I’m not sure why. I’ve never actually been to the Hoheit. I’ve only read about it. Once we’re inside, I’m a bit awestruck. The high ceiling looks as if it’s made out of gold, which it might very well be. There are also several chandeliers dangling from long chains. Gold statues of chubby-faced cherubs peek over the ornate chandeliers down to the patrons below. My captor leads me off to the right. I’m so distracted by my surroundings that I don’t even see the man who approaches us. “Hello, sir,” a voice quietly greets in German. “Your box is this way. I’ve personally seen to your arrangements, and everything has been prepared exactly as you wanted.” The man speaking to my captor is very thin, late-forties. He also has glasses. He turns and leads us up a flight of stairs. The red-carpeted steps curve to the left. Several gold angel statues adorn the wide stairway. After we reach the top, the thin man pulls a key from his pocket before unlocking a door. “Here you are, sir.” He holds the door open for us. “Thank you,” my captor says quietly as he gently coaxes me first through the door. There’s a red curtain directly in front of me. My captor pushes it aside. There are two chairs overlooking a dimly lit stage. People are filing into seats below us. We sit down.

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I can’t help but lean forward and look over the rail of our box. My eyes dart about the ornate auditorium. I’m probably being quite uncouth. I have the distinct impression I’m not behaving properly, but I’ve never been to the opera before. My captor is…quiet. I turn and look at him. He’s smiling at me. He doesn’t say anything but instead takes my hand. The lights flick on and off several times. Stragglers below us hurry to seats. Chatter stops as the audience settles. After several minutes, the auditorium turns dark. I sit up straight as the stage lights come up. It’s strange. I feel so…in the moment. Before I was captured, I was always thinking about the next step or the what if. My mind was a constant buzz of fear and worry. I was always watching my back or cautiously eyeing my contact. Sleep was nonexistent behind enemy lines and even when I was home in America, I had reoccurring nightmares of being captured. My execution played out in my head on a near-nightly basis. I usually woke up in the middle of the night sobbing, convinced I had just been ripped to pieces on a public stage. And I rarely, if ever, could go back to sleep. A few months before I was captured, a military doctor even told me I was sleep deprived and bordering on exhaustion. He asked if anything was wrong. I told him about the nightmares, about my fear of being tortured and dismembered, but he just patted my shoulder and said, “Well, try not to think about what they’ll do to you.” Then he handed me a prescription for sleeping pills that didn’t work. But now that I’ve actually been captured, it’s something of a relief. I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow, but I don’t want to worry anymore. It’s too exhausting. Besides, there’s a part of me that knows my captor would never allow anyone to hurt me. I suppose there’s some flicker of trust there, but I’m scared to call it that. I think he worded it best, I’m learning to trust him. He seems to understand it’s going to take time for me to learn that. Everything about the performance is beautiful—the costumes, the sets. The performers of course live up to their reputations as being the best of the best. Much to my disappointment, the curtain eventually closes and the lights come up. A voice announces a twenty-five-minute intermission. People file out of seats. I frown. I don’t want a break. I don’t have to use the restroom. I want to see the rest of the opera. “Ah, time for a break,” my captor whispers in English. I turn to him. He stands up briskly before walking across the small box. I suddenly realize there’s champagne chilling in the corner of the darkened box. There’s also some chocolate-covered strawberries and chocolate truffles. I’m guessing the champagne and the sweets were the “arrangements” the thin man in the glasses mentioned. “Turn your chair around,” he instructs in English. I don’t know why, but it sounds strange for him to speak English in public, even though we’re alone. He turns his chair around and moves it farther away from the edge. I do the same.

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We’re now facing away from the stage and we’re hidden back in the shadows. He pours me a glass of champagne and then feeds me the strawberries and truffles. He has a few, but he gives most of them to me. His blue eyes seem to darken a bit as he slowly feeds me. His gaze becomes hard and intense. After we polish off the last of the sweets, his hand cups my cheek as his thumb brushes over my parted lips. My eyes unwillingly close. Two of his gloved fingers slide past my lips and over my tongue. I can’t stop myself from gently sucking his fingers. He groans softly as he pulls his hand away. Without saying anything, he gently tugs me out of my chair before pushing me onto my knees before him. He unzips his trousers and quickly frees his rock-hard cock. I can feel his need, and I know I can make it better. I want to make it better. My lips wrap around him as my tongue glides across tight flesh. I take in as much of his thick arousal as I can, wanting his erection to claim and fill my mouth. He groans softly as I start sucking. I detect a slight shudder from him as his hand settles encouragingly behind my neck. I’m not sure anyone has needed me as much as he needs me at this moment. And I like satisfying his want, his need. It’s a strange feeling I don’t entirely understand. He lets out a low growl as his fingers spear through my tightly bound hair. He climaxes quickly and silently. I promptly swallow the warm fluid and take my time licking him clean. Sometimes, I feel this is exactly where I belong—kneeling at his feet with his cock filling my mouth. “That’s enough,” he whispers. Again, he says it in English. It’s as if the language is some taboo secret between us. “You’re such a good little slave.” Slave? This is the first time he’s ever called me that. It sounds strange but also…right, kinda like me calling him Master. I’m a bit dazed when he zips himself back up. His fingers tilt my chin up. “Your lipstick is smeared.” He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket. He tenderly swabs my chin and cheek with the soft fabric. “There we go,” he declares, pocketing the handkerchief. The lights in the auditorium start flashing. With a subtle gesture, my captor indicates we should move our chairs back to the front of the box. We move our seats, and I glance down at the audience below us. People are settling. No one is looking up at us. I don’t think anyone knows what we just did. I glance around. There are two boxes on the other side of the auditorium, but they’re both empty. The lights dim again as the curtain rises. My captor takes my hand as the performance continues. Butterfly is waiting for her American husband to return to Japan, which everyone knows he won’t…well, I know he does technically return, but not to resume his life with Butterfly. The spinto soprano is breaking my heart as she sings of that One beautiful day. The audience applauds when she finishes the opera’s famous aria. Not breaking character, she keeps looking off in the distance, waiting for

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her America husband’s naval ship to return. I sense my captor leaning into me as the audience keeps applauding. “Her mistake,” he whispers in English, “was in letting her American go.” I turn to him, but he’s already refocused on the stage. My attention returns to the performance as the audience once again settles. For some reason, I can’t shake off my captor’s words. It’s as if there was some veiled promise in his statement, as if he’d never make that mistake. I watch the rest of the opera in a bit of a daze, shaken and confused by his words. After the curtain goes down and the performers take their bows, my captor and I stand. “Thank you for taking me out,” I whisper in English. “No, thank you. I very much enjoyed tonight. When we get home, you’ll try on some of the lingerie I bought you. Yes?” He looks eager. “Yes,” I whisper. He opens the door. As we exit the box, we pass a mirrored wall. With my arm wrapped around his, I don’t look anything like his prisoner. We look like a couple. I’m not sure I’ve ever looked so happy. Hell, I look radiant with joy. The image only lasts a moment, but it haunts me as we walk. A queasy feeling settles deep in my stomach as we descend the stairs. I’m a bit dazed when we step outside. The valet takes one look at him and hurriedly rushes off to retrieve the car. The familiar black vehicle cruises up to the curb. “Here you are, sir,” the valet announces, passing him the key. My captor hands him a piece of plastic. “Add thirty percent for yourself.” “Oh thank you, sir,” the valet chirps, swiping the card through a handheld reader. I can tell my captor is in good spirits. I was too until I saw my reflection. I force myself to smile as my captor opens the door for me. I keep my smile frozen as I sit down. He pauses for a moment before closing the door but doesn’t say anything. He walks around the car and gets in. Without saying anything, he starts it and then drives down the street. Tears pool in my eyes. Taking shallow breaths, I manage not to sob. Even though I don’t make a sound, the car suddenly slows before pulling over on the side of the road. Without saying anything, he kills the engine. I hear a soft click. In my peripheral vision, I see him putting his seat back. “Slip off your shoes and come here,” he orders simply. Confused, I only study him. “Slip off your shoes, climb over the console and straddle my lap,” he specifies.

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Tears spill from my eyes as I slip off my shoes. Shifting around, I hike up my dress before climbing over the center console. Without looking at him, I gingerly sit spread thigh on his lap. His gloved hands pull my wrists behind my back. He holds them there firmly with just one hand while his other tilts my chin up. I manage to avoid looking at him. “Now why are you crying?” “I…I’m a traitor,” I whisper. “How are you a traitor?” “I shouldn’t be out with you like this. No matter what my country did to me, I still made a promise. I—I took an oath, I promised to defend my country from all enemies,” I sob. “I mean, look at me.” “Yes, you’re wearing a gown I had made for you, a gown I told you I wanted you to wear. You’re wearing jewelry I purchased as well as makeup that I wanted you to apply. You were my escort tonight, and I wanted you to look a certain way. I couldn’t very well take you out wearing one of my dress shirts.” I only close my eyes as tears spill down my cheeks. He hitches my chin up farther, and I reluctantly meet his hard gaze. “American, do you remember the morning I tied you up and held a knife to your throat?” I hesitate for a moment. “Yes.” “I could have easily slit your throat that morning. You understand that, don’t you?” Uncomfortable with the question, I look down. “Look at me,” he orders coldly. Shaken by his tone, I meet his eyes. He looks angry. “You have control over nothing, American. Your very life is in my hands.” His gloved thumb sweeps gently across my left cheek. “You’re not a traitor. Now stop crying.” His facial expression softens as he pushes back my tears. “Now,” he whispers. “Where is all this traitor talk coming from?” “I saw our reflection in the mirror outside the box.” “So?” “I looked…happy.” “So? That doesn’t change your status with me. There’s a reason you’re still wearing your locator. You’re not my wife or my girlfriend. You’re my prisoner, my slave, my captured American.” He smiles darkly at me. “You’re my war prize. I own you.” His strange and possessive tone actually makes me feel better, though I know logically it shouldn’t. Somehow, I feel he just told me something I needed to hear. It doesn’t make any sense, I know, but I needed to hear I was owned. It’s as if the word itself, own, struck some deep, resonate chord with me.

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He’s staring intensely at me as if he’s reading my thoughts. Comprehension slowly fills his eyes. “You feel better now, don’t you? To know that you’re owned.” Hesitantly, I only nod. I know he doesn’t like gestures in questioning, but I honestly don’t think I can verbally respond. Thankfully though, he doesn’t push the issue. “I should have told you that sooner. I’m sorry. I thought you understood your status.” “Understand? I…I don’t understand anything about you or about us,” I whisper. He smiles at my comment. “All you need to know is that I will always take care of you, American. I promise.” He knows how I feel about promises. I suppose he could just be saying that to gain my trust, but that’s not what I’m sensing. “Now get back in your seat,” he whispers, pulling his hands away. Gingerly, I ease back into my seat before he restarts the car. The seat belt snakes around me. “I’ve kept you cooped up for a while now. I hate to take you straight home. Would you like some ice cream?” I haven’t had ice cream in ages. The very thought reminds me of the few happy times from my childhood. “Yes,” I whisper, smiling at him. Nodding, he steers the car back into traffic before turning left down another road.

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About the Author When not at her day job, Gail Starbright can usually be found in front of her laptop. She often stays up late, either reading or writing, and drinks entirely too much caffeine. As a writer, she love that “ah-ha” moment…that moment when a great idea hits or some big break in the story shows itself. She only wishes she had more time available for writing. Gail welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email address on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.

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Also by Gail Starbright Lucifer’s Slave Master’s Runaway

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