CapturedbytheSS (6 page)

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?”

“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.”

“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.”

“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.

“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.

“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.

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.”