CapturedbytheSS (28 page)

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.”

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. 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 ankle-length 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.

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.

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 her America
husband’s naval ship to return. I sense my captor leaning into me as the
audience keeps applauding.