“Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
Two hours later, Darvlicht sat in his office. His digital recorder rested on the desk. For the third time, he pressed play, wanting to hear it once more, needing to hear the same snippet of information again.
“I was awake,” she said on the recording.
His voice came next. “You were awake? What do you mean? Explain that.”
“They were doing something to me. I think I was in an operating room. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t scream. It hurt. I tried to tell them to stop, but I couldn’t.”
“What do you remember?” His voice sounded calm and even on the recording.
“Someone said, ‘she’s bleeding too much. The code won’t incorporate if we can’t stop the hemorrhaging.’ And there were words…I don’t know, it was like someone was putting thoughts in my mind, like they were trying to give me some message.”
“What were those words? What message was someone trying to put in your head? Tell me that message.”
“The message was—I am an agent. Agents feel no fear. Agents have no nightmares. We are strong. We are the guardians of freedom.”
His voice, firm and calm asked, “Were you ever afraid in enemy territory?”
Her voice, clear and sweet, came next, “Yes.”
He quickly hit stop on the recording. He pressed his fingers against his temple, willing away a piercing headache.
No, she wasn’t the programmed agent she was supposed to be, but she wasn’t the upgrade he feared she might be, either. His initial evaluation was indeed correct. What she lacked in blind, surgically obtained obedience, she made up for in spades in something far more precious: loyalty, patriotism. Again, as he’d concluded before, she served her country because she wanted to, not because she’d been programmed to do it. The doubt that had been gnawing at the back of his brain evaporated.
Although his doubt faded, annoyance colored his mood. What in God’s name had the Americans been thinking? There was a war raging between the Third Reich and America. It was a cold one, yes—bullets were rarely fired back and forth—but it was still vicious in its own way. The players who participated in this fucking battle were supposed to be both heartless and soulless. Fuck, they’d sent a lamb into the lion’s den.
Before he could stop himself, he grabbed the recorder and hurled it against a wall. It clattered to the floor in pieces. Although clearly broken, the thing defiantly clicked on. He angrily retrieved it before yanking out the batteries.
Sitting back down, he glanced at a nearby clock. It was a little after nine. After interrogating her, he’d given her a small dose of something called T-12, which was unusual to say the least. Before tonight, he never saw a need for it. It was a sedative-based drug that made the subject forget segments of recent time. Depending on how much was used, the subject would loss between two to fourteen hours. By his calculation, he gave her enough to forget the last four hours. He didn’t want her remembering anything. For reasons he didn’t entirely understand, he didn’t want to create more nightmares for her.
He suddenly stood and walked to his bedroom, curious about his war prize’s condition. She was awake, barely, and reaching for a glass of water by the bed.
He hurried to her side and retrieved the glass for her.
“Here,” he whispered, holding it to her lips.
She eagerly sipped the water. It seemed to revive her instantly. “Thank you,” she whispered. “You’re home,” she stated, clearly not remembering when he came home earlier.
“How do you feel?” he asked carefully.
“A little groggy,” she said slowly. “I…I must have fallen asleep.” She brought her hand up to her forehead. “I remember taking a shower….” Her words trailed off. Her hand drifted to the lacey pink top she was still wearing. She clearly didn’t remember putting it on.
“It’s all right,” he murmured. “You were just tired. I worked you hard this morning.”
She pressed her lips together at that comment. Yes, she remembered this morning.
He slipped his finger under one of the spaghetti strings of her delicate pink top.
“I like this color on you, American.”
He continued his examination. She was also wearing a thong, but really, it was nothing but a bit of lace over her sex that tied on either side of her hips. He toyed with the satin ribbons that barely held the garment in place.
Even though her thong was little more than lace and ribbons, and did absolutely nothing to shield her pussy from his eyes, she was obviously nervous about him removing the bit of lace. He withheld a smile, deciding he’d remove it later, when she was ready.
Instead, with a reluctant sigh, he abandoned the delicate, pink thong and gently caressed the side of her neck. She sighed softly and closed her eyes. He was still wearing his gloves, so he couldn’t feel her soft flesh. But he didn’t mind. Her facial expression intrigued him. There was nothing, fucking nothing, calculated about it, nothing fake or artificial. She liked it. She liked how his gloved fingers touched her.
Almost inaudibly, she barely whispered, “Don’t.”
“Don’t?” he repeated.
“You don’t have to do that. You can just do what you want. I won’t resist you.”
“Don’t talk, American.”
He gently took hold of her body and effortlessly positioned her the way he wanted—lying on her side with her face turned to the pillow. With deliberate slowness, he brushed her hair up. She shuddered heavily when he exhaled on the back of her neck. She suddenly grew very still, as she always did whenever he touched her there. He smiled. He knew most women liked this, but with his war prize, it was really the ultimate reward, the one thing that made her the most pliable in his hands.
As he worked, he listened closely to each soft sigh she made. He sensed her body relaxing. Oddly enough, he felt himself relaxing, too. Before, he’d had a piercing headache, but now, with his war prize beneath him, he felt better. Taking her in a firm embrace, he scowled, realizing he was still dressed.
“Stay,” he ordered firmly, not wanting his war prize to move.
With a groan, he stood. He quickly shed his clothes. As he tossed his black tunic and pants on the floor, he noticed movement from her. She turned and studied him, apparently curious as to what he was doing. His hat, gloves, boots and undergarments quickly followed. Now free of the unwanted clothing, he slipped back into bed and pulled the blankets and sheets over both of them. He gently turned her head, returning her to her previous position.
“I ordered you to stay,” he said firmly.
“You don’t have to do this,” she said simply. “You can just fuck me. You can just use me.” There was something almost dire about her words, a plea, really.
“Shh,” he whispered. “I told you not to talk, either.”
In the length of time it had taken him to undress, she’d slid back into her old resistance, and her body was stiff and rigid against him. He didn’t mind. Hell, it was inevitable with her. He let his tongue explore her.
He sensed her resistance ebbing away. God, she felt so good in his arms, especially now, without his clothes in the way. His cock grew painfully hard, and it was everything he could do not to fuck her just yet. Instead, he cupped one of her breasts. She gave a little gasp, obviously aroused. She was still wearing the lacey top and matching thong. With very little effort, he pulled off the skimpy pieces of lace and ribbons. Once she was undressed, she tried to lie back down on her back, but he immediately sensed something—shame, desire. She liked it when he kissed and licked the back of her neck, but the problem was…she liked it when he kissed and licked the back of her neck.
“No,” he ordered simply, easily flipping her back over.
Her tiny hands clung to the pillow as his tongue traced an invisible line from the top of her spine to the edge of her hairline. Planting petal soft kisses on her shoulder, he slid his hand under her and found her sex. She was wet and hot and more than
ready for him. She jumped when he touched her pussy, and he instantly knew what the problem was. She didn’t want him to find her so wet and ready. She didn’t want him to find her so aroused by his touch. He groaned.
A spurt of panic seemed to hit her. She tried to roll over, but he pinned her down.
“Easy, American,” he murmured. Normally, he would have tied her to the bed to rob her of any control she might think she had over this situation, but he could manage without the rope.
“You can do what you want,” she said again.
“Shh,” he murmured, nuzzling her neck. He knew exactly what was going on in her head right now. To her, if she enjoyed her captivity, it made her a traitor. That’s why she didn’t want to like his touch, that’s why she didn’t want him to nuzzle her neck. She had an unusual sense of morality, which was something he just didn’t see in people. Everyone played everyone in this day and age.
Cupping her sex firmly, he resumed his earlier ritual of kissing and licking the back of her neck. Eventually, her hand covered his as she guided his fingers where she wanted them, where she needed them. He pulled away just as he sensed her release nearing. She was quivering now, claimed only by lust.
He coaxed her up on her hands and knees. Nodding in satisfaction, he entered her pussy from behind. Looking down, he watched his swollen organ slowly disappear inside her tight, fist-like passage. As she always did, she gasped and squirmed a little, seemingly struggling to take his entire member. In this position, he could gaze down at her lovely ass as well. Withholding a groan, he withdrew his erection a bit. It glistened with her wet heat. Holding her hips, he forced his organ back inside her, needing his aching cock to fill her, to claim her. He closed his eyes for a moment, relishing the feel of her tight channel around his rock-hard member. Unable to hold himself back any longer, he fucked her in earnest. She came almost instantly and cried out in bliss. Although a part of him wanted to stay hard and keep riding her, he let himself find a quick and easy release. The darkness in him was more than sated. Something about the sweet way she’d whispered “don’t” earlier had placated that part of him. Spent and satisfied, he pulled his softening cock from her and released her hips.
His war prize practically collapsed on the mattress. He wordlessly retrieved a towel and carefully wiped away the hot wetness still oozing from her cunt. Lying on her side, she studied him as he worked.
“Why are you doing that?” she asked.
“Because I want you to be comfortable.”
“Why do you want me to be comfortable?”
“Because I do.”
He felt relaxed but not really sleepy. He studied his war prize. She’d been chained to his bed all day, and he’d sedated her after the interrogation. She probably wasn’t too sleepy, either.
“Are you hungry?” he asked, knowing she had to be.
She looked at him. Her eyes answered the question even before she said, “Yes.”
“Stay,” he ordered, leveling a finger at her, though the order was pointless—she was still chained to his bed.
After slipping on a robe, he went downstairs and silently prepared dinner. He had some nice steaks in the fridge as well as some fresh vegetables. Once the food was ready, he carefully cut up the cooked steaks and veggies into bite-sized pieces, knowing he’d want to drape his woman across his lap tonight. When he had the platter of food prepared, he took it and a bottle of expensive wine into the living room. He also retrieved some cloth napkins and two crystal glasses. He cued up the television for a movie he’d heard from someone was supposed to be good. He watched almost no television, but he thought his war prize might like it. With everything ready, he went upstairs for his woman. He found her sitting up in bed with her arms wrapped around her folded legs. She was lovely, yes, but he wanted to see her in more of her lingerie. The pink baby doll top and matching thong was twisted up on the floor. He went to the dresser that held her lingerie and sifted through the lacey pieces.
Liking the style on her, he pulled out a lavender baby doll top with a matching thong.
“Here. Put this on.” He handed her the soft pieces of lace and ribbons.
She only nodded before obediently standing up to get dressed. Again, though, as she’d done before, she almost looked uncomfortable about dressing provocatively for him. He sat down, watching her slip on the pieces of lace. He liked seeing women in lingerie. It was like they were naked but also dressed up.
After several seductive seconds, she looked at him, silently asking, Is this okay?
Without a word, he motioned with his finger for her to spin. She turned and showed him the back. The top went down past her ass but the fabric was so sheer that he could easily see the lacey thong underneath. He groaned, liking how the thin strip of lace looked wedged between her fleshy cheeks. She completed her slow spin and faced him. Her pink nipples were erect and hard, straining against the transparent lavender fabric.
He was tempted to make her spin around a few more times but then he remembered the platter of food downstairs. His woman needed to eat.
“Good. Now that you’re dressed for dinner, let’s eat.”
He unlocked her chain leash before picking her up in his arms. He effortlessly carried her downstairs to his living room and stopped before a plush, leather recliner. He sat down, still holding her, and extended the bottom part of the chair. Sitting across his lap, she soon spotted the platter of food on a small table next to the recliner. She looked excited about dinner.
Even though she didn’t remember the interrogation, he almost felt guilty about making her relive her procedure, which was, well, fucking weird. SS men served the Reich, and they didn’t feel guilt or remorse for what had to be done.
He grabbed the remote, started the movie, and then poured the wine for him and his woman.
“You can grab your wine glass when you want a drink, but I feed you, yes?”
“Okay.”
He placed a cloth napkin in her lap, not wanting to spoil her lavender top, before retrieving the fork and spearing a cut piece of meat. He carefully placed the first bite of steak on her tongue. She closed her eyes for a moment, obviously satisfied, before slowly chewing. He sensed her body relaxing. She even shifted around, settling more into his seated form. They watched the movie in silence as he carefully fed her small bites of food. He occasionally took a few bites himself, of course, as well as a few swallows of wine. When the food was gone, he got up and retrieved a blanket.
Snuggled against him under the warmth of a blanket, his woman silently watched the movie.
Being this close to her made him crazy with lust. She’d always had this effect on him. The flicker of guilt he’d felt earlier about interrogating her completely evaporated, not because he felt forgiven or even justified. He just wasn’t the type to hold on to remorse. Hell, he wasn’t even the type to fucking feel it. His final trials had seen to that.
He let out a slow exhale. He didn’t like thinking about his final trials. They were horrible, yes, and men did commit suicide sometimes after going through them, but the final trials were reserved only for a select few. It was an honor to be selected. The final trials had been the last phase of his training for the SS, and they had made him stronger. Yes, stronger. He banished the memories.
He moved his hand across her thigh. Her skin felt like warm silk. He gently kissed her temple, and she made small cooing sounds.
“Would you like more wine?” he asked casually, noting the empty bottle as well as her empty glass.
“No,” she barely whispered.
Something about her answer made him pause. There was something deceptive about it.
“Why not?” he carefully probed, listening intensely to not just what she said but how she said it.
“I…just don’t want anymore,” she barely answered.
His extensive training picked up on all her non-verbal responses, and he easily filled in the gaps. “You don’t want to lose your senses around me.”
She looked at
him. He saw surprise in her expression, and he knew, instantly, that that’s what she was afraid of. He carefully reviewed the last time they had shared a bottle of wine. He suddenly remembered how slowly she had drank her wine, how carefully she had nursed one glass. Even tonight, just now, he was fairly confident she had only had one glass of wine. He then stood up and placed her feet on the floor.
“Stay,” he quietly ordered before walking to his kitchen. He opened the door to his cellar and descended down the wooden steps. Over the years, he’d acquired dozens of expensive bottles of wine—some he’d purchased, some his wife had purchased, some were gifts, etc. He selected one that was covered in dust and went back upstairs. He stopped in the kitchen, cleaned off the bottle and carefully pulled the cork out. When he walked back into the living room, he wasn’t the least bit surprised to find her standing in the exact same spot he’d left her. She was very responsive to his voice. He sat down and filled her glass.
“Come here,” he ordered, motioning her to return to her previous position.
Reluctantly, she sat back down on his lap. He effortlessly took her in his arms and pulled her closer. With a sigh, he once again reclined the leather chair and took hold of the wine glass.
“Drink it,” he ordered, giving her the glass.
She hesitated.
“You’re not going anywhere, American. You’re staying right here in this house. If you get sick, I’ll clean it up. If you pass out, I’ll carry you upstairs. Now, drink it.”
She seemed resigned to his request, apparently sensing he wasn’t going to change his mind on this. She obediently drank the first glass before he poured her another, and it wasn’t long before he figured out why she didn’t want to lose her senses completely. Just as he suspected, the more she drank, the more it lowered her inhibitions. Eventually, she was mindlessly kissing and licking his neck, seemingly surrendering to what her body wanted as opposed to what her mind told her. He enjoyed her mental resistance, yes, but this was pleasurable, too. Here he was, in a darkened room, watching television and drinking wine, with his very intoxicated war prize in his arms. It was…relaxing. In all his life, he wasn’t sure he’d ever had a moment of peace and relaxation with any of his lovers. As she sucked his ear lobe, he slipped his hand under the gauzy piece of fabric covering her sex. Slowly, he ran his fingers back and forth through her soft curls. He wasn’t really focused on making her come as he stroked her pussy—it was more of an act of possession.
Agent of Darkness Page 5
