With more force than I thought the medic had he manhandled my arms into position and bound my wrists with my own tie. He then pushed them out of the way, above my head, before readjusting the saw at my neck and rummaging through my open jacket with his free hand. He glared at the small metal vials before throwing them to the side. My revolver was removed, unloaded, and tossed away along with the holster. My knife followed not far behind.
When the silver case was pulled from its pocket the disguise puffed away and the medic's glare intensified tenfold. What was interesting is that the glare seemed more directed at himself than at me, though I didn't have the luxury to ponder his apparent self-reprimand with all my weapons and devices gone, not to mention the effects of whatever that syringe contained. It didn't seem to be clouding my mind; if anything it cleared it. However my body did not seem mine to control, my limbs unresponsive though not numb. A powerful muscle relaxant, perhaps? No matter. Whatever it was it was doing its job and that's all I really needed to know.
I considered my situation as the medic continued searching my person, unnecessarily as he'd already found everything. I was incapacitated, bound by strong and durable silk, and pinned to the mattress by the medic's weight. Even if I had full use of my legs it was unlikely that I would be able to get out from under him and even if I did there was no where I could go. If I opened the door I would be greeted by a grumpy Gasmask or that great laughing soviet behemoth. Leaving the way I came would be laughable. Besides, there was that wide jagged blade pressed against my neck, leaving pinpricks through my mask with not that much pressure.
I never thought that I'd quite be this accepting when facing my imminent death. I was mostly amazed that it took so long to get to this final stand.
However, there was one thing I wanted to know before my execution. It was hard to make my throat work, to make my tongue move properly, but I managed to get the one word out:
"How?"
The slightest pause told me the medic heard me, but he did not stop his search until he was sure no toys remained. He then tilted his saw towards my chest so it was still in clear contact with my jugular but at an angle better suited for looking at me. I repeated it with the calm that came with the knowledge my question was a simple curiosity; knowing wouldn't change the course of events but it would be nice to know.
The medic seemed to realize this. After a long consideration he decided to be charitable. "I have never remembered my dreams."
"I see." It was not so hard to move my mouth that time; perhaps the drug metabolized quickly. It was still no matter as it seemed the medic was stronger than I, a man built for lithe and flexible intrusions through grimy air vents. Still trapped; still didn't know. "Why... did this... take... seven...?"
"Because I thought..." he looked to the side. The muttered 'dummkopf' didn't seem to be directed at me. Ah, the human heart, the greatest betrayer of all. The sniper's reaction to my... attentions must have broken through whatever romantic hope was delaying this predicament of mine. I didn't have to ask why the night's dose didn't affect him; the serum was designed to linger in the bloodstream for days, and its effectiveness was bought at the cost of stealth. Even with limited equipment he could have easily isolated the compound and created a counter-agent in the time between their sniper's outburst and my return to his room.
I had my answer, I'd lived a longer life than I should, and I had some incredible fun along the way. I closed my eyes and bared my neck to the jagged blade; I wouldn't be talking under any torture anyway so it would be nice to skip that unpleasant phase. The medic didn't seem to be biting. I sighed and resigned myself to a messier end. It was probably what I deserved.
However, after many long moments with no action whatsoever, I opened my eyes and looked up at my captor. I couldn't begin to describe the look on his face beyond the word 'conflicted.' I was curious as to why he hadn't killed me or alerted his team to my presence, and since my life was already forfeit I figured, hey, what the hell.
"Well? What... are you... waiting... for?"
Some decision crystallized in the medic's eyes. There was still that flavor of mostly self-directed rage, but it was accompanied with a hunger I was beginning to understand. My hunch was confirmed when he shifted and leaned forward.
The breath on my ear was hot and the metal at my neck cool when he whispered his intent. "It has been four years. Do not struggle, ja?"
It's an interesting situation, to be held at knifepoint and be told not to struggle. It wasn't the first time it happened to me though it was the first time it was a surprise; in my younger years it was a fabulous way to get close to a target, and they even supply the knife. Legitimately being caught was an embarrassment to be sure, but as it took thirty long years for it to happen I couldn't feel too ashamed about it.
I couldn't feel too opposed to the good doctor's offer either. After all, it would be a shame to end my eventful life on a dry spell.
Swiftly he pushed up my shirt and vest far enough to lay those jagged teeth on my stomach before dismounting the bed. Kneeling there he fumbled with my belt and trousers, the friction and the feel of that deadly saw already setting me off. When he tugged at the fine pinstripe fabric I obligingly lifted my hips. That gave way to a pause and a momentarily raised eyebrow, but when he looked back at the hunger in my eyes he seemed to understand. Choosing not to dwell on what would generally be considered bizarre behavior, he repeated the process with my underwear.
I suppose I made a sight, laid out naked from the waist down, wrists bound by my own tie, jacket open and shirt riding up. Or perhaps the medic was just that desperate. Whatever the reason I saw my own animalistic lust mirrored in his eyes. He shifted on his knees, spanning the short distance to his desk without removing his saw from my stomach. Oh yes, the prospect of that jagged thing cutting into my flesh and spilling forth all that lay within was far more effective than a simple gushing bleed at the neck. I was beginning to comprehend the fact that he was not the soft man I assumed him to be. He would probably enjoy the sight of me fumbling with my innards while half naked and bleeding to death on his mattress.
The thought only made me harder. I suppose it was a sure sign that I'm not quite right in the head, but then I've known that for decades.
He retrieved something from the bottom drawer and turned back to the bed. He exerted some warning pressure and the saw teeth dug a shallow line into my skin, at the same time pressing something smooth, cool, and rounded into my heavily bruised side. I gasped; kidney injuries have that unique power to take the breath out of you. He dropped the object onto my chest and got back on the bed, leaning against the corner of the room by my feet. With a slight nod and a marvelously sadistic look on his face he gave the permission to examine the object. I brought my bound wrists to my chest and turned the small metal canister in my hands.
Though I tried, I couldn't suppress the moan that escaped my lips when I saw the simple label adorning the surface. When the flat of that jagged blade touched my knee and gently suggested the next course of action, I ceased to care.
I bent my knees and spread my legs farther in compliance with that cruel saw even as I awkwardly unscrewed the lid. I scooped out a generous portion and let the canister roll off my body to ching to the floor. Though it was the dead of night the distant moon offered just enough light to lock eyes with my captor. Grinning, I smoothed the stuff over my fingers, uncaring as to what it would do to the leather. Grinning, I slowly trailed those fingers down my chest and stomach, still unblinkingly staring at the man against the wall. He stared unblinkingly back, unfazed save for the slightest hitch in his breath when I touched the bed of short curls between my legs.
There's something undeniably and unequivocally erotic about using gun lubricant in such an act.
I forwent toying with my own need; though I could be a horrible tease I hadn't lost sight of this situation, and I know that he hadn't either. I only had the time it took for him to lose control, and given the tenseness in his frame and the pink tongue that darted out to lick his lips, I didn't have much time. The sharp points again graced my skin, pressing against my inner thigh as I curled upwards to prepare myself. It was his turn to moan when I pushed those slick fingers in with no hesitation and almost no resistance. I worked myself madly as he opened his trousers and pumped his length with his free hand. It didn't take long for his patience to snap.
With a growl sounding more animal than human he lifted his blade--in both senses. The saw found its way back to my neck and the blunt tip pressed against me. Even though I'd... entertained myself through these long lonely years I did not possess the certain flexibility that would enable such a sudden intrusion with no sharp pains lancing up my spine. The medic took no heed to my winces, mindful only of his own pleasure.
No pretense of romance, no half-meant justification, there was nothing standing between us and the sheer, simple beauty of a purely truthful relationship.
The guttural nature of the German language was perfectly suited to the violent act; though I had no idea what things he was calling me the very sound of his snarls cut through the discomfort and sent my own need weeping. He shifted and lifted my hips higher to better facilitate the penetration of my body, and I took the momentary liftoff his blade to again raise my arms above my head. The trace of an amused grin passed across his face and then it was gone, replaced by the ragged breaths, the slapping flesh, the smell of sweat just almost overwhelming the tang of blood and well-used steel...
It was heaven.
I don't know if it was courtesy, habit, or accident, but towards the end he hit that place of pleasure with almost every stoke. Not that I needed it to reach my peak when embroiled in such a shamelessly carnal deed, but with the added sensory overload it nearly shattered me. He finished a few thrusts after when I was just reaching the crest of blinding lights, joining me with a surprisingly subdued grunt after all that streamed from his mouth before. He filled me, a feeling so foreign after so long a drought and so much more appreciated. My own release was soaking through my shirt and promptly smeared across his when he half-collapsed, digging the saw into my mask and neck with the force.
Another few moments were spent catching his breath, and then he was kneeling beside the bed once again. With the blade at my sticky stomach he unknotted my tie, releasing my wrists. With that famous cold German efficiency he simply said, "Dress."
It took me a second or two to catch up to the logic: at least one member of his team was homophobic and thus presenting the half naked body of the enemy would be less than intelligent. Might as well have the prisoner do it while still breathing to save the trouble later... or he was doing the smart thing and was already planning my torture. The only trouble was that my legs seemed to not be working. What's almost comical is that I'm fairly certain that whatever he drugged me with had long since worn off; it was simply that damn good.
With some effort I managed to roll off the bed, almost falling in his lap in the process, and began gathering my clothing. I wiggled into my underwear without care of how unrefined I was being; however I couldn't bring myself to do the same to my already creased and soot-streaked trousers. I began to stand, wobbled, and fell. The sheer absurdity of the situation hit me and I started laughing, albeit quietly, and could not seem to stop.
The medic was somewhere between 'is he laughing at me' and 'the man's gone mad.' I tried to hold it in but it was impossible to escape the fantastic humor in the whole affair. There I was, the seasoned Spy who once used his body as a sexual weapon every other mission, who'd fucked and been fucked in all corners of the world and by every quality of man, and yet I was so absolutely and ludicrously sated after a ten minute screw with the enemy medic.
The look on said medic's face was beginning to suggest that I'd better have a good explanation for my sudden and obvious insanity or the quality of my death would plummet. I managed to quiet my mirth to an undignified snigger and answered his growing curiosity and offense.
"I cannot stand," I said, truthfully.
He frowned, his expression taking on a hint of impartial researcher.
"You should not still be affected by the--"
"I'm not," I interrupted emphatically. The snickers refused to be contained and I resigned myself to putting on my suit pants while sitting. "That sniper of yours is truly an idiot," I added without thought, and I'm not sure why I said it. I didn't look at him as I was re-lacing the shoe that somehow got kicked off in the lack of struggle, and when I raised my eyes again he had turned away.
"I don't suppose you would allow a dying man a last smoke?"
"That is bad for you," came the automatic sounding reply, distracted and distant. I took it as a no and sighed in regret. The only possible way to make that hour more perfect would be to send it out with the flavorful and mellow taste of a fine cigarette, especially after such an aggressively wonderful coupling. I itched for one and turned my stare to the case still lying on the floor. I was distracted from my secondary lust when the medic stood and pointed his blade towards me without meeting my eyes.
I grinned in resignation and shakily made it to my feet with the help of the desk, ready to meet my end.