Oh man. Oh man. Oh man. Oh man. Oh man.

She's coming. Her knee-high black boots echo throughout the empty bunker. Oh s***! she's got her paddle in her hand, the silver death skull etched into the black rubber. Her luger fits snug and ready in its holster, caressed by her rough, calloused hands. Oh mein gott, she's going to break me. Her icy blue eyes are cold and piercing; she knows I've been bad. "Mmmph!" is the only sound I can muffle out as my wrists fight the rope tied behind my back. She smiles and tsks. She'd never let me go that easily. She snaps her fingers and points to a spot by her side, and I grunt and quickly shuffle beside her. She gives me a hard look before a swift slap meets my face, leaving a stinging sensation. She hates it when a man slouches, as if he were entitled to act so selfishly. "On your knees, soldier," she growls and rips the piece of cloth from my mouth. I gasp,

"Yes, Miss Emma."