“Thank you,” he muttered.
“And your blond hair. You know, the studio gets more fan mail for you than any other SS officer.”
“That’s good to know,” he said evenly.
“You know, it must be really hard to be such a powerful man. So much responsibility. So much…stress.” She carefully applied something to his eyelashes as she talked. “You know, if you need some…relief before going out on stage, I could help with that, sir. Would you like that?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” he responded evenly.
Undaunted, she only smiled at him. “Of course, sir. I just wanted to let you know that…well, I’m here for you, if you need anything. And I mean anything.”
“Thank you,” he muttered.
The makeup woman handed him a piece of paper that had her number on it. He politely put it in his pocket, but he knew he’d throw it away later. She took his hat, which was resting on a nearby table, and carefully placed it on his head. She also removed the cloth draped over him.
“Stand up now, please,” the makeup woman said as a team of prep people entered the room.
He stood and let a team of people fuss over any stray hair or piece of lent on his uniform. As per procedure, he emptied his pockets for a waiting stage hand, knowing the items would be returned later—his keys, his phone, the makeup woman’s unrequested number and his wallet.
As usual, a slight flutter of nervousness took hold of him. He always felt this in the moments before going out on stage. He followed the prep team to a position in the wings. Would he be able to do what he needed to do? Would his superiors be pleased? Would he pass this test? After all, that’s really why it was called The Recital. Right now, his superiors were sitting in some darkened room right now, leaning back in their chairs, smoking their cigars and cigarettes, smiling smugly and telling him, in that pompous way of theirs, “Show us what you’ve learned.”
The darkness that lived in him rose to the surface. The part of him that enjoyed the suffering of others was now in control. He was almost powerless to stop it now, to stop the part of him that did this kind of work. He barely heard the announcer anymore as he stood in the wings. The nervousness he’d felt earlier vanished. He was no longer worried about what his superiors would think or what they would do. Let them watch. Let them see what they’d created.
He saw his victim standing center stage. He was shirtless with his hands shackled above his head. The announcer droned on about some crime he’d allegedly committed, but it really didn’t matter. The man in shackles wasn’t the one being judged right now. He wasn’t the one being evaluated.
Taking a steadying breath, Darvlicht walked out on stage. He barely registered the intense flood of light that engulfed him. And then, the next thing he knew, he was standing in the wings again.
It was the sound of static that he registered first, the kind of noise one might hear on a radio.
The following words broke the static, “What do we do?”
Darvlicht blinked, realizing a stage hand was standing next to him. Like the valet, he was also really young, probably still in high school. The kid’s headset was around his neck, which was why Darvlicht could hear what was being transmitted to the crew’s radios.
“Do we go to blackout?” someone else asked.
“No, no,” someone else was shouting. “Keep rolling! Keep rolling! I want those cameras in there! Where the hell is camera two?”
“I think he’s puking up his guts,” came a response.
“Fuck, someone get on that camera. This guy’s not gonna be alive much longer.”
“That was very decisive,” the makeup woman purred, taking a place directly in front of him. He allowed her to lead him backstage to the recovery room. A team of wardrobe people surrounded him, though he noticed most of the stage hands were backing away from him and the group.
“It’s always such a pleasure to watch a real SS man work,” the makeup woman whispered, helping the team pull off his bloody clothes.
“Oh, for sure,” yet another woman said, elbowing her way closer to him. “Men like you keep the streets safe for women like me.”
Even his undergarments were drenched in blood and plastered against his body. Nimble fingers carefully peeled off his blood-soaked t-shirt. Someone else slipped off his underwear while someone else managed to get his socks.
More women crowded around him.
Warm water suddenly poured over him. A group of naked women now surrounded him in a massive-sized shower. Giggling, the women scrubbed his nude body with soapy sponges. As usual, they spent an exorbitant amount of time cleaning his cock and balls. But their touch didn’t even arouse him. It never did. Women like them did nothing for him.
Eventually, the wardrobe team dried him off. They slipped fresh undergarments on him before helping him into a crisp, clean uniform. Someone even re-holstered his sidearm. Steady hands helped him step into a fresh pair of boots. Someone else added a crisp hat and a fresh pair of leather gloves while someone else fussed with buttons and buckles. His old uniform would be discarded. A woman lewdly slipped the contents of his pockets back in his trousers, though at this second, he couldn’t remember what exactly those items were—keys, maybe? His phone? He barely registered the pieces of paper being handed to him, the dozens of phone numbers. Someone gave him water. Still in a daze, he walked silently outside.
The valet practically tripped over himself to get Darvlicht’s car. When the kid drove up, Darvlicht was half tempted to ask if he still wanted to do what he did, but he didn’t.
All Darvlicht could see was a mental picture of his superiors. They were laughing and smiling amongst themselves, smoking their cigarettes and cigars, slapping each other on the back and commenting on what a great job they’d done in training him.
As Darvlicht drove home, something from his trials flashed through his mind. It was an image of a man holding a gun to his head and ordering him to suck his dick. He hated that day of his trials. He could almost handle them beating him up but afterwards, they’d taken turns making him suck their cocks. He only wished one of them had been up on that stage tonight. He wished he could have disemboweled one of them. He wished he could have used a very dull, rusty knife to castrate one of them. Or better yet, he wished he could have sliced off one of their cocks, slowly, meticulously, bit by agonizing bit…instead of having to settle for the poor slob on stage. The darkness in him longed for a revenge that would never come.
The quiet beeping of his phone made him jump. The display on his dash showed that it was one of his superiors. He pressed the answer button on the steering wheel.
“Yes, sir,” he said evenly as he drove.
“Good work tonight, Darvlicht. I can always count on you to do what needs to be done.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Very original I must say. You’ve always been one of our best but tonight’s performance was truly stellar.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Is your war prize still alive in your house?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Take a few days off then. You’ve earned it. Burn some of that rage off on her. Or if you prefer a whore, just charge it to our account.”
“My war prize will be sufficient,” he responded.
“Very well. Good night, Darvlicht.”
“Good night, sir.”
And with that, the connection went dead. Darvlicht stepped down harder on the accelerator. That man he’d just spoken to, Max Dodson, had been one of the men that conducted his trials. That’s part of what really burned him. He had to be respectful to these people. He had to call them sir. He had to be professional and act like he didn’t remember those fourteen days. He had to act like he didn’t remember Max Dodson shoving his cock down his throat and laughing the entire time. The darkness in him was threatening to boil over, to consume him the way it sometimes did.
In the past, when he’d come home on Friday nights, if he’d been selected for The Recital, that’s when he would push
his wife past her limits, that’s when the darkness demanded the most. What would the darkness want from Isabel?
When he arrived home, he paused downstairs momentarily only to lock his sidearm and interrogation bag in the desk. Swallowing hard, he ascended the stairs to his bedroom.
His woman was awake. She sat on the bed, wearing only a few scraps of white lace and ribbons. He could tell she’d showered for him as well.
The lingerie was nice, sure, but that’s not what made him pause. Less than an hour ago, he’d been surrounded by bouncy, soapy boobs, and his cock hadn’t even so much as twitched. But now, gazing at his war prize, his organ swelled painfully. Christ, how could she do that? But there was something else. She’d done something different, something bolder. He could read it in her body language, but what? What had she done? His eyes took in the lacy white bra that did nothing to cover her pink, erect nipples. He also noted the white silk stockings and satin garter belt.
As he studied her, he realized she was sitting up with her lower body slightly turned, as if she’d made some risqué decision earlier and now regretted it. His curiosity was more than piqued, and he slowly approached her. He took hold of her leg, which was now clad in a silk stocking. Shifting her body, he realized what she’d done that was now making her so nervous. She’d only worn a garter belt with stockings but had omitted even a thong or a G-string.
He met her gaze, wondering what her motives behind it were.
“With the stockings and the garters, I just thought it would get in the way,” she stammered.
He almost wanted to laugh at that. Did she really believe some scrap of lace would get in his way?
“Stand up,” he ordered, pulling her out of bed.
He had her spin for him a few times, liking how she looked in the few bits of white lace and ribbons. But it wasn’t just her body that made his cock grow hard. It was her nervousness and uncertainty that pleased him.
He wordlessly undid his woman’s leash and scooped her up like a child in his arms. She wrapped her arms around his neck in what he could only describe as an obvious gesture to try and please her captor. He carried her downstairs to his formal dining room. He very seldom ever used this room. It had a large table made from some dark wood, though what exactly he neither knew nor cared. It was some insanely expensive piece his ex-wife had purchased.
With more tenderness than he thought he possessed, he set her down. She briefly looked around the space and studied him quizzically as he settled into one of the immaculate chairs. He’d placed her near the end of the table, so he could take hold of her legs. She rested on a white runner, which made it easier for him to slide her closer to his seated body. She tensed when the action knocked over a centerpiece and two silver candlestick holders that were also on the white strip of cloth. He barely registered the noise. Holding her knees, he kept her thighs splayed, briefly noting the stark contrast of her white silk stockings and his black leather gloves. She said nothing and instead balled her hands into fists. He dipped his head down low toward her pussy before gently kissing her labia. Almost of its own free will, his tongue speared her mound and slid roughly between her lips.
“Oh, no, please,” his war prize whispered. Her small hands even tried to push him away, but her strength was no match for his. All she managed to do was knock off his hat.
He smiled darkly to himself, enjoying her resistance. He wasn’t at all gentle as he brutally sucked her sex, either. Time seemed to dissolve around him.
He started with something simple, yes. Sucking. And there were so many delightful pieces of flesh to suck on too, whether it was her clit or a pussy lip or even the flesh of her inner thighs. There was no lack of delicious little pieces of skin. And then, just to keep her on her toes, he occasionally blessed her clit with a tender kiss or two, eliciting a sweet “no” or “don’t” from her. Toying with her clit always made her protest and squirm the most. Just for fun, he would sometimes exhale on her wet skin, causing her to shiver as if suddenly cold. And of course, his favorite part was when he let his tongue roughly explore the length and depth of her slit. Oh fuck, who was he fooling? The entire thing had been his favorite part.
How long this went on—the sucking and kissing and licking and gentle biting—he wasn’t sure.
All he knew for sure was that her hot wetness tasted like nectar.
He paused and glanced up at his woman. Her face was flush, and several strands of hair were plastered to the side of her face. She quivered in what he concluded was a combination of pleasure and intense lust. His rock-hard cock twitched at the sight of her like this. A part of him wanted to plunge his erection into her sweet cunt and ride her to oblivion. But that’s just what the man in him wanted. The darkness wanted something else. The darkness wanted to keep forcing pleasure on her. No, the darkness needed, fucking needed, to keep forcing pleasure on her.
He stood, rolling his head, working out a slight kink he had in his neck, knowing he was far from finished. No longer being held down, his woman slowly brought her thighs together. He withheld a smile, liking her reaction.
He took hold of her knees. “What do you think you’re doing?” He spoke to her using his harshest tone, his most authoritative voice.
She instantly responded to his veiled threat. She was so responsive to him.
“I’m sorry,” she said, looking genuinely worried.
“It’s all right,” he whispered, not at all angry with her. So often, his past lovers had easily enraged him with only the slightest of mistakes, but his war prize was so easy to forgive. “It’s not exactly difficult to hold you open,” he chuckled, forcing her thighs apart. He took a moment to admire the white garter belt and matching stockings she still wore.
“Now, just relax, American.” With a satisfied exhale, he sat back down in the chair and scooted her back to her previous position.
He resumed his earlier ritual of licking and sucking her pussy. It wasn’t long before he had her moaning in pleasure and even rocking gently against his thrusting tongue. Satisfaction washed through him when she cried out in bliss once again. He eagerly sucked her hot juices, and he had every intention of continuing his work, despite his war prize pleading for an end to her release.
A part of him merely wanted to take her upstairs and fuck her before passing out. That’s what any other man would have wanted. That’s precisely what the mere man in him wanted. But something else raged for more. So often, only blood or the suffering of others would placate the darkness. But with his war prize, just making her come when she didn’t want to was enough to please that part of him. His cock was aching for release, but he refused to even touch his overly sensitive member or even free it from the confines of his clothes. His stupid flesh could wait.
After a long stretch of time, he again sat up for a break.
Sighing, he took a moment to evaluate his woman’s current state. The hair at her center was wet and glistening from his eager mouth while her lovely face was pink and sweaty.
“It’s all right,” he whispered. “You’re doing so well tonight, American. The Recital always brings out my most demanding side. Just be patient with me.”
She only nodded at him. He didn’t have to explain what The Recital was for the same reason that he didn’t have to introduce himself formally. She was an agent. She was different from the others, yes. But she was still a trained, carefully instructed agent. She knew what The Recital was, just as she knew exactly who he was.
She’d always known.
He’d seen it in her eyes that night, the very second she’d walked into that interview room—the recognition. Everyone in the empire knew who he was. In the past, yes, she’d asked him his name once or twice, but that was only because she didn’t want to believe the truth. She didn’t want to believe she’d been captured by Darvlicht Hans-Kimmler. Not him. Anyone but him. He knew what files the Americans had on him—he knew he was a living nightmare to their agents, if they were capable of nightmares, that is. No, he was a living n
ightmare to her.
Eager for more, he effortlessly held her open. When his tongue entered her slit, she twisted a bit in his grasp and even pressed a foot against his shoulder. Back and forth, his tongue moved, exploring every crease and fold. He knew her body so well. He knew precisely where to lick, where to suck. As he worked, he glanced at her from time to time, assessing her stress levels. Her fingers tangled in his hair as she futilely tried to push him away.
Her hot juices flooded his mouth, and her pussy quivered in spasm. He eagerly swallowed her wetness, knowing already that she tasted good, but there was something else. Here she was, all splayed out before him on his dining room table like a decadent meal. No, like a live sacrifice. The very idea pleased him so much more than drawing blood or even castrating a prisoner on live television. He closed his eyes, vaguely registering her cries of tortured pleasure or her inarticulate pleas for an end he knew was nowhere near.
Again and again, he forced her body to spill forth its sweet nectar. He eagerly sucked and lapped her pussy with each warm gush he elicited. From time to time, he felt her pulling or sensed the pressure of her foot trying to push him away. But her struggles only pleased the darkness more. Time and reality fell away. There was only her and the bottomless rage that lived in him.
When reality did return to him, only one thought filled his mind. He was exhausted. He hadn’t slept at all, which was normal on these Friday nights, these Friday nights when he was assigned to The Recital, that is.
His jaw was sore and his tongue felt raw from so thoroughly eating his woman’s pussy. He was vaguely aware of the sound of his war prize panting in exhaustion. From time to time, she muttered “please,” the way she so often did when he fucked her. But another thought pierced his exhausted mind. He hadn’t fucked her.
Not surprisingly, he was still rock-hard. But then, getting hard and staying hard had never been his problem. He stood on wobbly legs and fumbled with the zipper of his trousers. With a heavy groan, he finally freed his aching and swollen erection. She barely even moved or said anything when his cock roughly plunged into her so thoroughly assaulted pussy. He came quickly and nearly instantly. He collapsed—spent, sore and exhausted—back into the chair.
Agent of Darkness Page 7
