Drunk on wine, his woman only sighed sweetly at the intimate petting.
“Come on,” he whispered, clicking off the television. He carried her upstairs. He had a theory about something, and he was anxious to test it.
Still dressed in the lavender baby doll top and matching thong, his woman said nothing as he placed her back on his bed. After relocking her leash back to the locator around her ankle, he draped her over the side of the bed with her lovely ass tilted up. With a soft groan, his woman only pressed her face against the mattress.
He raised her lacey top to her mid-back before pulling her thong panties down just below her fleshy cheeks. He quickly retrieved his leather flogger that he kept in his nightstand drawer. No, it wasn’t his old one, the one with the metal edging. It was the new one he’d purchased just for her. It was more of a toy. He’d used it so few times on her. Without any word or warning, he forced the strips of leather to slap her rounded ass. She was so drunk and disoriented that surprise wasn’t her initial reaction. Just as he theorized, her initial response was more of an accepting moan. Oh, he did like wielding a flogger. There was just something about leather slapping against flesh that pleased something deep inside him. After several moderate slaps, she tried to cover herself, but he effortlessly pinned her stray hands down to the small of her back.
“No,” he gently scolded, holding her wrists down. “Your ass belongs to me.”
Since he was holding her now, he didn’t have quite enough room to wield his flogger properly. No matter. His open hand would be sufficient. With a sigh, he set the flogger down and instead, blessed her upturned ass with several sharp slaps of his hand. He didn’t strike her that hard, wanting only to warm her flesh and turn it pink. It was a far cry from what he used to do, where blood was drawn, but with his war prize, this was more than enough. When her fleshy cheeks were bright pink, he unzipped his pants. Wanting to enter her pussy from behind, as he’d done earlier that evening, he slipped off her thong panties and spread her thighs wider. He could tell she was far too drunk to even try to resist him. There would be no whispers of “no” or “don’t,” which usually thrilled him, but he didn’t mind. Again, as he’d done before, he watched his thick cock slowly disappear inside her.
He closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the feel of his erection nestled deep inside, filling her, claiming her. Nodding, he began to move, knowing immediately that he would quickly find a release. Christ, her pussy was so fucking tight. He wondered, vaguely, what his cock felt like to her as it roughly invaded her slick channel. Judging by her reaction, he concluded that his organ pained her some, as if his size challenged her, but he also knew that it brought her great pleasure, as much as she tried to resist him.
He felt his woman climaxing beneath him, but this time, she tried to hide the fact that she was coming. She buried her face in the sheets and clutched the bedding tightly. He knew why she was trying to hide her release. She’d liked it when he’d flogged her, and she’d liked it even more when he’d spanked her. He could tell at the time that she’d liked it. A part of her just couldn’t accept that.
He felt himself come suddenly as he spilled himself deep inside her. He stood motionless for several minutes, merely enjoying the intense moment of his release. Swallowing hard, he shuddered heavily, feeling the last waves of his orgasm hitting him like aftershocks.
How many times had he come today? Fuck, he’d actually lost track. He felt his organ growing soft. With a heavy sigh, he pulled his cock from her. Boneless, his woman slid down into a kneeling position on the floor. She rested her head against the side of the mattress.
Still drunk on wine, she barely whispered, “I’m a traitor.”
“Shh, no you’re not, American,” he whispered, helping her up. He placed her in bed and draped the blankets and sheets over her. She studied him with sleepy eyes.
He said nothing and instead stroked her hair, knowing it would lull her to sleep, which eventually, it did.
Spent and exhausted, he glanced at the clock. It was a little after three am. Hmm, late night. No matter. The Recital wasn’t until seven tomorrow night. He was tempted to go another few rounds with his war prize, but his brain ticked off the reasons why he needed to sleep. For one, he never slept well during the day and two, if he stayed up too late, the cameras might pick it up. Appearances were technically part of what his superiors evaluated him on. Showing up tired with dark circles under his eyes for The Recital wouldn’t go over well.
Besides, he was exhausted, and his woman was pretty much out already. He slipped under the blankets and took his limp war prize in his arms. She sighed and stirred a bit as he moved her, but she quickly stilled again when he placed her against his chest. Letting out a heavy exhale, he let sleep pull him under. But even though his body and his mind were shutting down, something deep inside him was coiling tighter and tighter, like a spring winding up. He always felt this the night before The Recital.
The darkness in him reveled in The Recital. Sure, the darkness found pleasure with his sweet war prize, but The Recital was where the darkness truly shined, where it really belonged. That was really the reason for his final trials, after all, to prepare him for the most glorious achievement of the Third Reich, The Recital.
Chapter Three
True to form, Darvlicht woke up early. One thought immediately entered his head. The Recital. Sleep fell away instantly, and he sat up straight in bed. Last night, he’d managed to find some kind of peace watching television with his war prize. But now, that calmness was gone, replaced instead with fresh rage. So often, only blood would placate this feeling, only the suffering of others would please the darkness in him. Someone would suffer. Someone would bleed.
He glanced at his sleeping war prize. She was still wearing the next-to-nothing, lavender baby doll top, but he’d pulled off her thong last night. So often, when he woke up feeling like this, he’d grab one of his weapons, something horrible that was meant to draw blood. Without a word, he slipped his hands on either side of her hips. The action roused her. The moment semi-consciousness claimed her, she turned sideways and pressed her thighs together. She didn’t verbally say it, but her body clearly said, “No.”
He chuckled softly, instantly pleased with her reaction. He didn’t need blood to please the darkness. He just needed her. With very little effort, he managed to part her thighs. She groaned softly, not entirely awake.
“Shh,” he whispered, not wanting to wake her. He just wanted to play with her body. She didn’t need to awake completely.
His fingers carefully parted her pussy lips. He wanted to see his woman. He needed to explore every inch of her luscious body. Even though she wasn’t entirely awake, she was already wet for him. He smiled at that. It only seemed fair, really. Christ, he got hard every time he was near her. It appeared her body responded just as strongly to him. Unable to restrain himself, he cupped her sex. She groaned and mindlessly rocked against his hand. He let his fingers penetrate her, fill her, stretch her. Using the wetness from her center, he allowed one of his fingers to claim her anus.
She groaned louder and writhed seductively beneath him. It was still so early, though, and she’d had so much wine the night before that full consciousness seemed beyond her ability. Fascinated with her reaction, he withdrew his fingers before plunging them back in, eliciting more soft moans from her. On and on, he continued, fucking her slowly with his fingers, intrigued with her body’s response. Enjoying the feel of her slick, tight passages, he smiled darkly to himself.
More than anything, he wanted to replace his fingers with his cock, but he didn’t. Instead, he denied himself that pleasure. Every instinct he had screamed at the action. He was a man accustomed to getting what he wanted when he wanted it and that was especially true when it came to sex. He did not abstain. Ever. But he had his reasons for denying himself.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he withdrew his fingers from her tight passages, making a mental note of her body’s heavy shud
der. He glanced at the clock, shocked to see it was almost noon. Damn, he’d spent the entire morning just finger fucking his war prize. Still rock-hard and unsatisfied, he stood from the bed and showered instead. Eventually, in the cold shower, he lost his erection, but his body damn well remembered how it had been denied and more specifically, the darkness remembered. Good, he would be on top of his game tonight.
He went through his usual routine—he ate a light breakfast, checked his email, worked out in his cellar. He also prepared his woman’s tray—her breakfast, including eggs, bacon and waffles, and her lunch, which was fruit and nuts. He also placed two aspirin in a small cup, knowing she might wake up sick from the wine. He carried the tray upstairs and set it on the table by the window. He turned to her and studied her sleeping form. A part of him wanted to go to her, to fuck her senseless, but denying himself only provoked the darkness, which was good. He needed every ounce of rage he had for that stage tonight.
Without a word, he ran his hand down her arm. God, her skin felt so good against his palm. Disoriented, she looked at him with heavy-lidded eyes.
“How do you feel?” he asked, knowing she might feel hungover.
“I…I’m not sure,” she whispered, sitting up. “I…I had this really vivid dream.”
He smiled at that. He could only imagine what dreams she’d had this morning while his fingers freely filled and explored her. “Try to nibble on some waffles. It might help clear your head.”
He’d already taken one shower this morning, mostly to cool off from playing with his woman, but he decided to shower again to wash off the sweat from his workout and prepare properly for The Recital. When he stepped out of the bathroom, his woman only watched him in silence, as she usually did. There was always something a little anxious about how she watched him get ready, as if she didn’t want him to leave her. If he was being really honest with himself, he kinda felt the same way too but…he had work to do.
“I’ll be back late tonight,” he explained, noting that she’d actually managed to eat most of her breakfast. Apparently, last night’s episode with the wine hadn’t left her too worse for wear. He cupped the side of her face. “Wear some of your lingerie tonight.”
Again, as before, she only reluctantly nodded.
“Good girl.”
And with that, he turned and walked out the bedroom. He paused downstairs to clip his holstered sidearm to his belt and retrieve his interrogation bag from the desk, though he wouldn’t technically need either one. Hell, he’d leave the bag in the car. But according to regulations, he had to have them. And then, well, it was time to drive to the studio.
As he drove, his ever-present rage threatened to boil over. Denying himself the pleasure of fucking his war prize had had the desired effect. There wouldn’t be a shred of mercy in him tonight. The Recital was just too fucking important to do a half-ass job on. Implemented in the late-seventies, The Recital was considered by many to be the single most important weapon in the Reich’s arsenal. It was what kept the empire in order. It was what kept citizens in line. It was the reason why everyone was so terrified of their neighborhood officers.
The Recital was the reason why no one wanted to be out of step with the Reich because no one, fucking no one, wanted to find themselves up on that stage. Every night, just before sign off, The Recital ended with a message to all the citizens of the empire—No one is immune. Disobey your neighborhood officer, and it could be you.
Of course, Darvlicht knew that wasn’t quite the case. The people that were selected for The Recital were true traitors of the empire, informants mostly, people who had cooperated with American agents, people who had sold information to spies, things like that. But fuck, if The Recital made citizens too terrified to shoplift or even litter, then that didn’t sound like a dystopia to him.
He knew how America was, how they championed weakness, how they wasted money on prisons when a bullet to the head was cheaper. Sure, he’d heard the criticism, how the Reich ruled through intimidation and fear, how the empire ruled with an iron fist. But hell, what was the alternative? America? Land of the free? A land where women were assaulted in the streets. A land where merchants constantly battled shoplifters and dishonest employees. A land where criminals were allowed to sleep and relax in prisons. A land that constantly lowered its standards to the lowest common denominator. That was freedom?
Oh sure, it all sounded good on paper. Let’s all run around and be free, but that shit didn’t work in the real world. People needed order. People needed fear. People needed the Reich to tell them how to live and how to live correctly.
For Darvlicht, The Recital was probably one of his most important duties, if not the most important duty. The empire was simply too large to handle people on a case by case basis. Something grand and sweeping had to be done to ensure the Reich’s hold on its citizens remained absolute. Whatever he did tonight, and there was no plan or script for it, it had to be horrific and it had to please his superiors.
He pulled into the studio parking lot, where a valet eagerly waited for him.
“Good afternoon, sir,” the young man said.
“Good afternoon,” Darvlicht replied. The kid looked like he was still in high school, and Darvlicht could easily read him. He wanted everything that Darvlicht had—the high-priced sports car, the money, the fame, the respect. He himself remembered the whispers in kindergarten, how the men in the black uniforms got everything they wanted. Even the teachers had said, “Boys, if you’re smart enough, you might get in the SS and girls, if you play your cards right, you might get to marry an SS man.” It was the ultimate reward in the Reich, but so few really knew that it cost you your soul.
Darvlicht handed the kid the keys to his car.
“I’ll take excellent care of it, sir. I have a covered spot for it.”
“Very good,” he muttered.
As he walked to the studio door, the production assistant, a woman named Kate, walked up to him.
“Hello, sir. I didn’t know they’d be sending you.”
Darvlicht smiled at that comment. The trials had done more than just polish the sadist in him—they had created something else, something that was often too frightening for most people to witness.
“My superiors felt that the last few SS officers for The Recital were weak. Reports indicate a steady uptick in everything from shoplifting to violent assaults. A clear message needs to be sent tonight.”
“Oh, I see,” the woman stammered.
The problem, really, was the advances made in the truth serums. SS officers didn’t have to get so bloody and messy to interrogate a spy anymore. It made for weaker SS officers. He was currently on a committee to address the problem.
When the doors to the studio opened, it was a rush of sensory overload. People were hurrying about. Racks of brightly colored clothes and costumes lined the walls around him. There was music blasting in the background. An announcer was talking to the studio audience in a booming voice. People apparently needed a show before the big event, or so he’d been told. Kate showed him to a chair in a brightly lit room. Once he sat down, someone gently removed his hat and set it aside while someone else draped a cloth over him and snapped it around his neck.
“Okay, clear the room, people,” a woman announced. Darvlicht recognized her. She was the lead makeup artist, though he didn’t remember her name. The small group, which was primarily women, grudgingly filed out, but one dark-haired girl lingered behind. He zoned out as the makeup woman readied her brushes and tools. The announcer’s voice droned on in the background.
“What makes the Reich great?” the announcer asked the audience.
“Work!” They all yelled back.
“That’s right! Now coming up next is your favorite comedy duo, John and Peggy, The Lazy Americans, in this next skit, Free Money.”
As the makeup woman applied a thin layer of cold liquid to his face, he listened to some pointless argument on stage. John and Peggy were arguing about the best way to ge
t more money from the US government.
“Well, I could say I have a limp,” Peggy began. Apparently, she must have started limping around because the audience was laughing at something.
“No, no, no. That’s not how you limp. This is how you fool the US government. You go down to the welfare office and say, ‘I have a bad back. Give me free money!’”
The audience was laughing. Even the makeup woman was smiling.
At the end of the skit, the audience all started chanting, “Work makes you free!”
“Would you like something to drink?” the other woman in the room offered. Darvlicht was fairly certain she was with wardrobe.
“Excuse me,” Darvlicht said, barely registering the question. He was so lost in his own rage right now that the outside world seemed very distant.
The makeup woman turned slightly and glared at her.
“Would you like something to drink?” she said again, lewdly, obviously hinting at a sex act. “Or something to…eat?”
“No, thank you,” he muttered.
Tramp, he thought.
“Jessica,” the makeup woman hissed. “Go check on the geisha girls. Make sure they have everything for their number.”
The tramp, obviously named Jessica, glared at the other woman before reluctantly leaving the room.
Alone with the makeup artist, Darvlicht knew what she was going to offer next. He’d seen scenarios like this play out over and over again.
“You have such gorgeous blue eyes,” she said, buffing some fluffy brush across his nose. He fought the urge to scratch his face, knowing it would only ruin the makeup.
Agent of Darkness Page 6
