CapturedbytheSS (8 page)

“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 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.

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 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.”

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 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.