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It Ended in Moscow
- Thread starter Barbaria1
- Start date
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
What a way to die!
@Fossy @Barbaria1
Another episode where Barb didn’t have to strip!
Great espionagimg
Hmm, so torture by denial work IF the victims sync their orgasms?
Good Old Flash Henry as effective as ever at keeping his mouth shut. This time he gave himself up despite the impediment of a ball gaf? Although one might argue gagging those you might be torturing for information that a gag’s not the obvious starting place, Although I guess it helps keeps the true sadists happy!
Caning post admission of guilt is a fantastic tradition dating back to st least the heady days of the inquisition: 3 days torture:confesses; ahh now the real torture begins, who else was in your coven/etc! Helpful at filling dungeons and Gulags, I guess, the latter a well known Cottage Industry in Soviet Days! Well more dormitory than cottage I guess, and a heavy tradition dating back to the Tsarist days and forward into maiden times, presumably expanded under Xyulo - wanted by criminal international court in The Hague
Well done , full of highlights, who knew the best way to shut Barb up is vodka, ritual torture, and sexual humiliation? Ok, I guess we all did? Thank You for another compelling episode!
Another episode where Barb didn’t have to strip!
Great espionagimg
Hmm, so torture by denial work IF the victims sync their orgasms?
Good Old Flash Henry as effective as ever at keeping his mouth shut. This time he gave himself up despite the impediment of a ball gaf? Although one might argue gagging those you might be torturing for information that a gag’s not the obvious starting place, Although I guess it helps keeps the true sadists happy!
Caning post admission of guilt is a fantastic tradition dating back to st least the heady days of the inquisition: 3 days torture:confesses; ahh now the real torture begins, who else was in your coven/etc! Helpful at filling dungeons and Gulags, I guess, the latter a well known Cottage Industry in Soviet Days! Well more dormitory than cottage I guess, and a heavy tradition dating back to the Tsarist days and forward into maiden times, presumably expanded under Xyulo - wanted by criminal international court in The Hague
Well done , full of highlights, who knew the best way to shut Barb up is vodka, ritual torture, and sexual humiliation? Ok, I guess we all did? Thank You for another compelling episode!
Kathy
Terra Nova Tramp
Chapter 16
SIS Headquarters. Section D, Century House, 54 Broadway, Westminster, London, 3:30 pm, Sunday, 14th January, 1940
“I have Churchill on the phone now holding for you, Major Grand,” called the pretty communications officer through the open door to his office.
“Thank you, Marjorie.”
“You’re very welcome.”
“Good afternoon, Winston.”
“And the same to you, Laurence. Please be forewarned that you may hear some running and splashing water over the line. I happen to be taking your call during my daily afternoon bath.”
“So forewarned.”
“Splendid. So, what pray tell has happened that warrants disturbing my bath?”
“Important news! We’ve just learned, only an hour ago, from our sources in Sweden, that earlier today Soviet war planes bombed the Swedish Bothnian port of Luleå.”
“Loss of life? Damage?”
“No reported injuries, some damage to a few residential buildings. Most likely the bombing was meant as a warning to the Swedes, who as you know have been quietly supporting the Finns with military equipment, munitions and volunteers.”
“Bad news for us, I fear, as this Russian provocation might well drive the Swedes straight into the arms of the Boches. That would most certainly make Von Ribbentrop’s day!”
“Perhaps so, certainly bears watching.”
“Agreed. Changing the subject somewhat, let me inquire as to whether there’s been any progress to report on our joint effort with the Swedes to plant a two-agent team in the Swedish Embassy in Moscow? What was our chap’s name? Underwood, I seem to recall.”
“Yes, Underwood. More troubling news there, I’m afraid.”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Oh, kindly ignore that, Grand. I was just thanking the lovely young lady with me here for washing my back and refilling my glass of Johnny Walker.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Best you can’t see. Now, fill me in on that troubling news.”
“Well, it appears the Swedish Embassy in Moscow has reported the sad news that our man, Underwood and his Swedish partner, a certain Maja Sundahl, have both fallen into the hands of the NKVD.”
“Uh … a little lower down my dear … yes, there you go … that’s the sweet spot …. Ahhhhh. Right! Forgive me. Now Grand, tell me, have the Swedes thought to protest the arrest of their … uh … diplomats?”
“I believe the Swedish Envoy in Moscow, Otto Wilhelm Winther, is as we speak on his way to have a sharp word about it with Molotov.”
“Molotov, you say? Tough customer. Lot of good that will do. There must be a better way! Certainly SIS has some other assets there that can be brought into play?”
“No, i’m afraid Underwood was it.”
The Office of Vyacheslav Molotov, Commissar for Foreign Affairs, The Kremlin, Moscow, 4:30 pm, Sunday, 14th January 1940
Swedish Envoy to the Soviet Union, Otto Wilhelm Winther, strode determinedly into the office of the Russian Commisar for Foreign Affairs.
Without looking up from the paperwork on his desk and purposely neglecting to offer his Swedish visitor a seat, Molotov growled, “if you’ve come here to protest the bombing of Luleå, stop right there Winther. My government vigorously denies responsibility. I suggest you look to the Finns instead. My sources suggest the heinous attack was carried out by the Finns, with the encouragement of their Nazi Germany backers, to provoke the entry of Sweden into war with Russia. We are not responsible for the bombing attack!”
“My dear Commisar, I am in fact here to protest the attack on Luleå, and to state my government’s skepticism over your claim that the incursion was the work of the Finns. But that’s not all. I’m also here to protest and demand the immediate release of two of my Embassy staff whom I am given to understand have been wrongfully arrested and detained by your NKVD!”
“Wrongfully, my dear Winther? Not so! Both have confessed under questioning to have plotted an act of espionage against my country. Neither of them are diplomats. The young woman, Maja Sundahl, freely admits to being an agent of your Security Service, and her accomplice, already known to us, is not a Swede at all, but a British SIS agent. They’re both spies, caught in the act, and will be dealt with appropriately.”
“All of that, my dear Molotov, is a fabrication, and you know it! My government demands their immediate release!”
“Nyet!”
“Then my government demands that access be given to them to determine whether they’ve been ill-treated!”
“Nyet!”
“Refusal may result in my government’s public condemnation of both the Soviet Union’s bombing of the port of Luleå as well as the unlawful detainment of two Swedish Embassy staff.”
“Get out!”
Personal quarters of NKVD Commissar Sergei Mikhaylovich Popov, Lubyanka, Moscow, Soviet Union, 9:30 pm, Sunday, 14th January 1940
Barbara stirred lazily on the bed, eventually rousing herself enough to sit up.
Popov had just left, saying as he hurriedly dressed to go out that he needed to attend another interrogation. He was always doing that.
She swung her long legs over the side of the bed, stood up and padded nakedly across the room to use the loo.
Returning, she cast about for something to occupy the time. Popov was certain to be gone for much of the night. She wondered whether the interrogation he went off to oversee involved that sweet young Swedish girl who was working with Henry. And that thought set in motion a pang of jealousy that she sought to suppress by turning to Popov’s half empty vodka bottle.
But, at that moment, another totally unrelated thought struck her. It was that when Popov had hurriedly departed, she did not recall hearing him lock the door to the flat from the outside as he always did to ensure that she remained inside waiting for him and, inevitably, yet another round of hard sex. The man’s appetite for that seemed insatiable.
Inching quietly up to the door, she tried the latch, and found she was right … Popov had failed to work the outside lock.
Now what, she asked herself. What would happen if she let herself out? Deciding it was worth a try, she began scrounging about for something to wear. She’d been brought back to Moscow from Stalin’s dacha not wearing a stitch, and whatever clothing she’d had before going to the dacha was still there.
She tried the room’s small wardrobe, which aside from Popov’s uniforms, produced a rather short silky red negligee, which she donned. In the wardrobe she also found a woman’s full length winter coat, and a pair of shoes that seemed to fit. She had no idea to whom they might have belonged. The good news was that she had something at least to wear.
Moments later, after scooping up a handful of banknotes and coins Popov had left on the bed stand, she was out the door and into the corridor. A glance down its length told her that the uniformed, hatchet-faced woman who sat at a small desk near the stairwell and recorded everyone’s comings and goings, appeared to be fast asleep.
Wasting no time, Barbara slipped stealthily past her, descended the stairs to the ground level, opened an exterior door and exited out onto the street, where she was immediately embraced by the chill of a cold January Moscow night.
Looking about she found there were few people to be seen, it being past curfew. Reasoning that her best chances of escape lay in moving away from the city center, she turned to her right and began walking briskly northward.
Over the next half hour, or so, she covered quite a good distance, but stopped short when she suddenly spotted a pair of policemen coming her way. She could tell by their quickened pace that they had seen her and that they intended to stop and question her.
Desperate to escape an encounter, she seized upon an opportunity presented by the fact that there were a number of obviously half-drunken young men loitering against the front of a nearby building.
Swinging her hips from side to side, she crossed to the other side of the street. And when she got close enough, brazenly opened the front of her coat to offer them a good long look at her short red negligee and bare legs.
One of the men grinned wolfishly at her. Singling him out, she moved in close, pressing herself against him while taking his hand, sliding it under the silky garment, and pressing it against one of her bare breasts while moving her hips in an exaggerated bucking motion.
The man responded as expected, and glancing over her shoulder she saw the faces of the two officers break into knowing grins as they continued on without stopping.
Extricating herself from the grasp of the excited young man took some time and finesse, but she managed to accomplish it, but not before submitting to a spirited round of rude groping by he and his friends, as well as promising to return shortly with more girls. Thinking this was their lucky night, they cheerfully let her go.
On her way once again, she distanced herself as quickly as she could from the scene and continued on her northward course along a largely deserted thoroughfare until she eventually found herself standing at the edge of a square facing the eclectic grandiosity of Moscow’s Baltiysky railway station’s turn-of-the-century facade.
Inside, she found exactly what she was looking for. A night train was leaving in about a quarter of an hour for the Baltic port city of Riga. By spending most of the rubles she’d taken from Popov’s room, she acquired a ticket for a sleeping berth, then hurried down to the platforms just in time to board the train before it departed.
Cell 4G, Lubyanka Prison, Moscow, Soviet Union, 2 pm, Sunday, 14th January, 1940.
Igor Vanovic entered cell 4G, where his eyes fell upon Swedish Special Agent Maja Sundahl, naked and backed up against the far wall, wrists secured overhead by a pair of iron cuffs, toes barely able to find purchase on the concrete beneath her feet.
Her eyes were closed. She appeared to be barely conscious.
He took his time in lighting a cigarette, time to allow his eyes to roam over and savor the contours and curves of her stunningly beautiful figure. He admired the fairness of her hair and skin, the serried lines of her extended ribs, her full upturned breasts with their pebbled pinkish areolae, each centered around and crowned by a perkily erect nipple; by the flatness of her belly, plunging downward to the exquisitely-shaped and silky-haired mound centered between her hips, and leading to the parted slit of her pouty sex, nestled at the apex of a smoothly sculpted and tapered pair of thighs.
Yes, a truly stunning beauty. Pity to see the effects of torture … the scattered bruises and burns … that marred the pureness of the spectacle.
He knew that her powers of resistance had been weak and ineffectual. She was too young and insufficiently trained to resist the brutal interrogative style insisted upon and personally overseen by his boss, Commissar Popov. Breaking her had been easy. Over three sessions she’d cried, sobbed and begged for mercy, screamed and shrieked with each successive application of pain and shock, and had sung like a canary, eagerly divulging everything she knew in a vain attempt to stop the torment.
And yet, her suffering was destined to continue. As there was always more to get out of a broken prisoner. Her Swedish masters had been hopelessly naive in thinking they could send someone as unprepared as her on a such a mission.
Reaching out suddenly, he slapped her hard across the face, and then kneed her in the gut.
And as she cried out and her big blue eyes flew open, he snarled, “prepare yourself, my sweet little singing Swedish nightingale! For Commissar Popov is on his way down here to oversee another session!”
Words overheard just two cells away by a thoroughly disheartened Henry Underwood.
TBC
SIS Headquarters. Section D, Century House, 54 Broadway, Westminster, London, 3:30 pm, Sunday, 14th January, 1940
“I have Churchill on the phone now holding for you, Major Grand,” called the pretty communications officer through the open door to his office.
“Thank you, Marjorie.”
“You’re very welcome.”
“Good afternoon, Winston.”
“And the same to you, Laurence. Please be forewarned that you may hear some running and splashing water over the line. I happen to be taking your call during my daily afternoon bath.”
“So forewarned.”
“Splendid. So, what pray tell has happened that warrants disturbing my bath?”
“Important news! We’ve just learned, only an hour ago, from our sources in Sweden, that earlier today Soviet war planes bombed the Swedish Bothnian port of Luleå.”
“Loss of life? Damage?”
“No reported injuries, some damage to a few residential buildings. Most likely the bombing was meant as a warning to the Swedes, who as you know have been quietly supporting the Finns with military equipment, munitions and volunteers.”
“Bad news for us, I fear, as this Russian provocation might well drive the Swedes straight into the arms of the Boches. That would most certainly make Von Ribbentrop’s day!”
“Perhaps so, certainly bears watching.”
“Agreed. Changing the subject somewhat, let me inquire as to whether there’s been any progress to report on our joint effort with the Swedes to plant a two-agent team in the Swedish Embassy in Moscow? What was our chap’s name? Underwood, I seem to recall.”
“Yes, Underwood. More troubling news there, I’m afraid.”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Oh, kindly ignore that, Grand. I was just thanking the lovely young lady with me here for washing my back and refilling my glass of Johnny Walker.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Best you can’t see. Now, fill me in on that troubling news.”
“Well, it appears the Swedish Embassy in Moscow has reported the sad news that our man, Underwood and his Swedish partner, a certain Maja Sundahl, have both fallen into the hands of the NKVD.”
“Uh … a little lower down my dear … yes, there you go … that’s the sweet spot …. Ahhhhh. Right! Forgive me. Now Grand, tell me, have the Swedes thought to protest the arrest of their … uh … diplomats?”
“I believe the Swedish Envoy in Moscow, Otto Wilhelm Winther, is as we speak on his way to have a sharp word about it with Molotov.”
“Molotov, you say? Tough customer. Lot of good that will do. There must be a better way! Certainly SIS has some other assets there that can be brought into play?”
“No, i’m afraid Underwood was it.”
The Office of Vyacheslav Molotov, Commissar for Foreign Affairs, The Kremlin, Moscow, 4:30 pm, Sunday, 14th January 1940
Swedish Envoy to the Soviet Union, Otto Wilhelm Winther, strode determinedly into the office of the Russian Commisar for Foreign Affairs.
Without looking up from the paperwork on his desk and purposely neglecting to offer his Swedish visitor a seat, Molotov growled, “if you’ve come here to protest the bombing of Luleå, stop right there Winther. My government vigorously denies responsibility. I suggest you look to the Finns instead. My sources suggest the heinous attack was carried out by the Finns, with the encouragement of their Nazi Germany backers, to provoke the entry of Sweden into war with Russia. We are not responsible for the bombing attack!”
“My dear Commisar, I am in fact here to protest the attack on Luleå, and to state my government’s skepticism over your claim that the incursion was the work of the Finns. But that’s not all. I’m also here to protest and demand the immediate release of two of my Embassy staff whom I am given to understand have been wrongfully arrested and detained by your NKVD!”
“Wrongfully, my dear Winther? Not so! Both have confessed under questioning to have plotted an act of espionage against my country. Neither of them are diplomats. The young woman, Maja Sundahl, freely admits to being an agent of your Security Service, and her accomplice, already known to us, is not a Swede at all, but a British SIS agent. They’re both spies, caught in the act, and will be dealt with appropriately.”
“All of that, my dear Molotov, is a fabrication, and you know it! My government demands their immediate release!”
“Nyet!”
“Then my government demands that access be given to them to determine whether they’ve been ill-treated!”
“Nyet!”
“Refusal may result in my government’s public condemnation of both the Soviet Union’s bombing of the port of Luleå as well as the unlawful detainment of two Swedish Embassy staff.”
“Get out!”
Personal quarters of NKVD Commissar Sergei Mikhaylovich Popov, Lubyanka, Moscow, Soviet Union, 9:30 pm, Sunday, 14th January 1940
Barbara stirred lazily on the bed, eventually rousing herself enough to sit up.
Popov had just left, saying as he hurriedly dressed to go out that he needed to attend another interrogation. He was always doing that.
She swung her long legs over the side of the bed, stood up and padded nakedly across the room to use the loo.
Returning, she cast about for something to occupy the time. Popov was certain to be gone for much of the night. She wondered whether the interrogation he went off to oversee involved that sweet young Swedish girl who was working with Henry. And that thought set in motion a pang of jealousy that she sought to suppress by turning to Popov’s half empty vodka bottle.
But, at that moment, another totally unrelated thought struck her. It was that when Popov had hurriedly departed, she did not recall hearing him lock the door to the flat from the outside as he always did to ensure that she remained inside waiting for him and, inevitably, yet another round of hard sex. The man’s appetite for that seemed insatiable.
Inching quietly up to the door, she tried the latch, and found she was right … Popov had failed to work the outside lock.
Now what, she asked herself. What would happen if she let herself out? Deciding it was worth a try, she began scrounging about for something to wear. She’d been brought back to Moscow from Stalin’s dacha not wearing a stitch, and whatever clothing she’d had before going to the dacha was still there.
She tried the room’s small wardrobe, which aside from Popov’s uniforms, produced a rather short silky red negligee, which she donned. In the wardrobe she also found a woman’s full length winter coat, and a pair of shoes that seemed to fit. She had no idea to whom they might have belonged. The good news was that she had something at least to wear.
Moments later, after scooping up a handful of banknotes and coins Popov had left on the bed stand, she was out the door and into the corridor. A glance down its length told her that the uniformed, hatchet-faced woman who sat at a small desk near the stairwell and recorded everyone’s comings and goings, appeared to be fast asleep.
Wasting no time, Barbara slipped stealthily past her, descended the stairs to the ground level, opened an exterior door and exited out onto the street, where she was immediately embraced by the chill of a cold January Moscow night.
Looking about she found there were few people to be seen, it being past curfew. Reasoning that her best chances of escape lay in moving away from the city center, she turned to her right and began walking briskly northward.
Over the next half hour, or so, she covered quite a good distance, but stopped short when she suddenly spotted a pair of policemen coming her way. She could tell by their quickened pace that they had seen her and that they intended to stop and question her.
Desperate to escape an encounter, she seized upon an opportunity presented by the fact that there were a number of obviously half-drunken young men loitering against the front of a nearby building.
Swinging her hips from side to side, she crossed to the other side of the street. And when she got close enough, brazenly opened the front of her coat to offer them a good long look at her short red negligee and bare legs.
One of the men grinned wolfishly at her. Singling him out, she moved in close, pressing herself against him while taking his hand, sliding it under the silky garment, and pressing it against one of her bare breasts while moving her hips in an exaggerated bucking motion.
The man responded as expected, and glancing over her shoulder she saw the faces of the two officers break into knowing grins as they continued on without stopping.
Extricating herself from the grasp of the excited young man took some time and finesse, but she managed to accomplish it, but not before submitting to a spirited round of rude groping by he and his friends, as well as promising to return shortly with more girls. Thinking this was their lucky night, they cheerfully let her go.
On her way once again, she distanced herself as quickly as she could from the scene and continued on her northward course along a largely deserted thoroughfare until she eventually found herself standing at the edge of a square facing the eclectic grandiosity of Moscow’s Baltiysky railway station’s turn-of-the-century facade.
Inside, she found exactly what she was looking for. A night train was leaving in about a quarter of an hour for the Baltic port city of Riga. By spending most of the rubles she’d taken from Popov’s room, she acquired a ticket for a sleeping berth, then hurried down to the platforms just in time to board the train before it departed.
Cell 4G, Lubyanka Prison, Moscow, Soviet Union, 2 pm, Sunday, 14th January, 1940.
Igor Vanovic entered cell 4G, where his eyes fell upon Swedish Special Agent Maja Sundahl, naked and backed up against the far wall, wrists secured overhead by a pair of iron cuffs, toes barely able to find purchase on the concrete beneath her feet.
Her eyes were closed. She appeared to be barely conscious.
He took his time in lighting a cigarette, time to allow his eyes to roam over and savor the contours and curves of her stunningly beautiful figure. He admired the fairness of her hair and skin, the serried lines of her extended ribs, her full upturned breasts with their pebbled pinkish areolae, each centered around and crowned by a perkily erect nipple; by the flatness of her belly, plunging downward to the exquisitely-shaped and silky-haired mound centered between her hips, and leading to the parted slit of her pouty sex, nestled at the apex of a smoothly sculpted and tapered pair of thighs.
Yes, a truly stunning beauty. Pity to see the effects of torture … the scattered bruises and burns … that marred the pureness of the spectacle.
He knew that her powers of resistance had been weak and ineffectual. She was too young and insufficiently trained to resist the brutal interrogative style insisted upon and personally overseen by his boss, Commissar Popov. Breaking her had been easy. Over three sessions she’d cried, sobbed and begged for mercy, screamed and shrieked with each successive application of pain and shock, and had sung like a canary, eagerly divulging everything she knew in a vain attempt to stop the torment.
And yet, her suffering was destined to continue. As there was always more to get out of a broken prisoner. Her Swedish masters had been hopelessly naive in thinking they could send someone as unprepared as her on a such a mission.
Reaching out suddenly, he slapped her hard across the face, and then kneed her in the gut.
And as she cried out and her big blue eyes flew open, he snarled, “prepare yourself, my sweet little singing Swedish nightingale! For Commissar Popov is on his way down here to oversee another session!”
Words overheard just two cells away by a thoroughly disheartened Henry Underwood.
TBC
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
Does Winston also smoke cigars while bathing?
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
Of course LoxDoes Winston also smoke cigars while bathing?
...
@Barbaria1 are you certain you wish to frock up like that? I mean it’s probably going to save pixels from having to write another stripping scene, right?
And Popov, why wasn’t she at least chained to the bed or fettered or some such? Mmmm just imagine the image of Barb in that negligee and coat, running or jogging around in fetters? No more pants for you is an idea I’d be willing to support!
And Popov, why wasn’t she at least chained to the bed or fettered or some such? Mmmm just imagine the image of Barb in that negligee and coat, running or jogging around in fetters? No more pants for you is an idea I’d be willing to support!
War is hell, but imagine how much worse it would be if women ran them....
Hmm but the aesthetics would be more pleasant?War is hell, but imagine how much worse it would be if women ran them....
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
Chapter 17
Moscow Baltiysky railway station, Moscow, Soviet Union, 10:45 pm, Sunday, 14th January 1940
Barbara covered a yawn with the back of her hand, having made her sleeping berth just as the guard’s whistle sounded and the chug of the train’s wheel motion began. And now the exhausted girl needed so desperately to sleep.
Her mind had been a blur ever since she simply walked out of Commissar Popov’s personal quarters – he would be furious when he returned to find her gone and fleetingly, she thought of Henry and that other woman. Would Popov take his frustration out on them?
STOP! Barbara. She knew that she couldn’t afford to waste energy thinking about things like that. She had 900 kilometres to travel in over sixteen hours, providing the train wasn’t stopped and the journey interrupted. Barb had no idea where the train stations enroute were and she hoped to sleep through the journey, thus avoiding the need to care. Once she got to Riga she would figure out the next stage of her plan. As far as she knew Latvia might be occupied by Russian troops, though it was another Russo-border country into which the Germans could move troops of their own. She needed to get back to Britain and brief Major Grand on the Russian intentions towards the Swedes and the Nazi plans for Russia.
The chaos of war!
Having arrived so late to the train, Barbara tried to hurry by and simply flash the piece of flimsy paper towards the inspector’s enquiring look, but when he saw the pretty girl who seemed in such haste, he decided to give her a once-over himself.
Barbara recalled how his fingers had opened the front of her overcoat, and his lascivious grin that had greeted the sight of her negligee covered body.
“Leaving in a hurry?” He grinned.
She dared not engage him in Russian. That might invite more questioning. Best to play the role of a foreigner in the hopes that he’d lose interest. He’d been not at all bashful about ogling her. She decided to respond in either German or English, but had no idea which would be the most appropriate. So, she chose German because hopefully that would confuse the inspector sufficiently for him to wave her through.
“Ich muss meinen Mann finden. Er ist in Lettland …“ She told him that her husband was in Latvia and she needed to find him, but he seemed to have no clue as to what any of the words meant. In response he cupped her between her legs, massaging her mound which was deliciously bare under the negligee.
Barbara’s eyes widened and she shook her head violently letting out a garbled stream of words that included the name ‘Himmler’. A name the inspector recognised and he immediately released his hold on her. Taking advantage of her respite, Barbara took flight from his presence, and headed to the relative safety of her berth … she suspected that she hadn’t heard the last from him.
Cell 4G, Lubyanka Prison, Moscow, Soviet Union, 3 pm, Sunday, 14th January, 1940.
Popov slapped Maja’s face once more, watching in glee as her head snapped to the side. "Stop your snivelling bitch." His hand shot out again, her other cheek receiving the brunt of the second slap. Her head again flew to the side, but this time in the opposite direction. Popov chuckled, "… much better, bitch. You Swedes are so easy," and Maja heard Igor Vanovic laughing as she sat there, shivering in fear, quiet, afraid of the what this man would do to her.
His hand moved up to her face, this time gently caressing her cheek, moving her blond hair from her eyes. "… you are such a lovely girl," he said, as his touch continued to move menacingly about her features. He lifted her chin up, "look at those lips, born to suck a Russian cock, " laughing as his own erection hardened in his pants.
He knew that he had Fräulein Mohr waiting in his quarters, but he found it hard to resist the temptation of planting his seed in this Viking beauty too.
Commissar Popov had spent the last hour tormenting Maja Sundahl, slapping her face and breasts, covering her mouth while he squeezed her nostrils shut, pulling her hair and all the while plugging her for more information, which Maja would gladly have told him if indeed she knew anything more.
“So, you admit that your reason for being here was to spy and also to attempt to take the Fräulein Barbara Mohr back to Sweden with you?”
Maja nodded miserably. She would tell him anything but there was nothing more to tell, and she trembled as Popov’s hands continued to move over her bound, naked body, seeking out, intruding and penetrating. As fat, cold fingers began to move down the front of her chest Maja squirmed. “Such a lovely body, such succulent tits,” Popov continued, his hands now moving down to the bound girl’s firm, curvaceous breasts, whilst Vanovic, hands pulling back her shoulders, forced her to push her chest out, displaying herself like a whore for the Commissar.
“Oh God please help me,” she cried as Popov grabbed her breasts in a steel like grip, clenching and unclenching on the nubile flesh, feeling it filling his large hands. His fingers seeking out her nipples, finding them, making them harden …
… such whores the Swedes are … he thought. Then he released her tortured teats, stood back and said “Fetch us something to drink, Igor. We’ve a long night ahead of us.”
Sleeping berth 4b, near the Latvian border, enroute to Riga, Soviet Union, 08:00 am, Monday, 15th January 1940
The sleeper berth was a pleasant surprise for Barbara. She had no idea what she would find, having handed nearly all her money to the ticket seller without daring to engage in any questioning over what she was paying for. Would there even be a train never mind somewhere to sleep?
But there had been and so having successfully gotten past the guard without revealing that she had no papers, she was feeling safe, and removing her overcoat she sank blissfully under the clean sheet that adorned the bed and had fallen comatose in no time, sleeping like a baby until she woke. What time was now, she wondered.
As she sat up and threw back the sheet, Barbara could see that outside it was already light. Closing her eyes, she let out a deep breath and then realised how hungry she was. But with no money, food would have to wait – maybe she could find a running tap somewhere for a drink of water.
Then the flashing by of countryside became a slower view with an ever-increasing clarity of factories and warehouses as the train slowed down.
She saw a station sign that said ‘Kārsava’ – Border Town.’
Barbara recognised the name. Kārsava on the Russo-Latvia border, infamous because of its mainly pre-war Jewish population, most of whom had been already detained by … Russians and Nazis’? And now they were stopping here.
Just then the door to her sleeper compartment opened inwards and there stood the inspector staring at her exposed legs where the negligee had ridden high on her waist.
“Papers please.” He grinned.
“Fuck,” Barbara whispered to herself.
Cell 4G, Lubyanka Prison, Moscow, Soviet Union, 8:07 am, Monday, 15th January, 1940.
Popov stood with a gun trained on the head of Henry Underwood as the Captain’s fingers probed their way towards Maja’s pussy.
“That’s it, make her wet,” the sadistic, voyeuristic Commissar grinned, his cock already hard at the thought of what he was going to do to his little Fräulein when he had finished here. This last interrogation of the young Swedish spy had lasted all night long, but that meant that Barbara should be well rested and more than ready for him.
Maja lay back on the hard floor, her naked body prostrate, her legs spread wide as she was being stimulated under duress, by the man who just a short twenty-four hours ago had been her lover.
“Keep your gun aimed at the bitch’s head Igor,” Popov instructed his more junior colleague.
And then, when the physical sensations proved to be too much, Maja began to writhe, pushing upwards into Henry’s touch.
“Fuck her, fuck your bitch now for us Captain Underwood.”
Conscious of the gun at his head, Henry mounted the girl and slid his cock deep into her dripping slit. Maja arched upwards as Henry began to thrust as if his life depended on it, which of course it did.
Popov and Vanovic watched the rutting with a smirking pleasure, until the Commissar said “Now.”
Igor produced a roll of Pliofilm wrap and, kneeling, wound it round and round Maja’s head. Her eyes immediately widened as she tried to gulp in air, succeeding only in sucking the wrap into her mouth to create a suffocating seal.
“Keep on going Captain, until you are ready to spill your seed … are you ready?”
Underwood ignored the question, but Maja was already convulsing under him as her orgasm hit.
“Nooooooooooooo!” Henry cried out as his back arched and he ejaculated once, twice and … then never again as Popov shot him, mid climax, in the head.
The dead British spy fell onto Maja, whose orgasming body was slowly losing its own fight with the will to live, as the Pliofilm sucked the breath from her body.
Minutes later the two Russians looked down on the dead bodies of Henry Underwood and Maja Sundahl.
“Dispose of them please Vanovic, I have a certain little Fräulein to entertain now.”
Little did he know …
TBC
Moscow Baltiysky railway station, Moscow, Soviet Union, 10:45 pm, Sunday, 14th January 1940
Barbara covered a yawn with the back of her hand, having made her sleeping berth just as the guard’s whistle sounded and the chug of the train’s wheel motion began. And now the exhausted girl needed so desperately to sleep.
Her mind had been a blur ever since she simply walked out of Commissar Popov’s personal quarters – he would be furious when he returned to find her gone and fleetingly, she thought of Henry and that other woman. Would Popov take his frustration out on them?
STOP! Barbara. She knew that she couldn’t afford to waste energy thinking about things like that. She had 900 kilometres to travel in over sixteen hours, providing the train wasn’t stopped and the journey interrupted. Barb had no idea where the train stations enroute were and she hoped to sleep through the journey, thus avoiding the need to care. Once she got to Riga she would figure out the next stage of her plan. As far as she knew Latvia might be occupied by Russian troops, though it was another Russo-border country into which the Germans could move troops of their own. She needed to get back to Britain and brief Major Grand on the Russian intentions towards the Swedes and the Nazi plans for Russia.
The chaos of war!
Having arrived so late to the train, Barbara tried to hurry by and simply flash the piece of flimsy paper towards the inspector’s enquiring look, but when he saw the pretty girl who seemed in such haste, he decided to give her a once-over himself.
Barbara recalled how his fingers had opened the front of her overcoat, and his lascivious grin that had greeted the sight of her negligee covered body.
“Leaving in a hurry?” He grinned.
She dared not engage him in Russian. That might invite more questioning. Best to play the role of a foreigner in the hopes that he’d lose interest. He’d been not at all bashful about ogling her. She decided to respond in either German or English, but had no idea which would be the most appropriate. So, she chose German because hopefully that would confuse the inspector sufficiently for him to wave her through.
“Ich muss meinen Mann finden. Er ist in Lettland …“ She told him that her husband was in Latvia and she needed to find him, but he seemed to have no clue as to what any of the words meant. In response he cupped her between her legs, massaging her mound which was deliciously bare under the negligee.
Barbara’s eyes widened and she shook her head violently letting out a garbled stream of words that included the name ‘Himmler’. A name the inspector recognised and he immediately released his hold on her. Taking advantage of her respite, Barbara took flight from his presence, and headed to the relative safety of her berth … she suspected that she hadn’t heard the last from him.
Cell 4G, Lubyanka Prison, Moscow, Soviet Union, 3 pm, Sunday, 14th January, 1940.
Popov slapped Maja’s face once more, watching in glee as her head snapped to the side. "Stop your snivelling bitch." His hand shot out again, her other cheek receiving the brunt of the second slap. Her head again flew to the side, but this time in the opposite direction. Popov chuckled, "… much better, bitch. You Swedes are so easy," and Maja heard Igor Vanovic laughing as she sat there, shivering in fear, quiet, afraid of the what this man would do to her.
His hand moved up to her face, this time gently caressing her cheek, moving her blond hair from her eyes. "… you are such a lovely girl," he said, as his touch continued to move menacingly about her features. He lifted her chin up, "look at those lips, born to suck a Russian cock, " laughing as his own erection hardened in his pants.
He knew that he had Fräulein Mohr waiting in his quarters, but he found it hard to resist the temptation of planting his seed in this Viking beauty too.
Commissar Popov had spent the last hour tormenting Maja Sundahl, slapping her face and breasts, covering her mouth while he squeezed her nostrils shut, pulling her hair and all the while plugging her for more information, which Maja would gladly have told him if indeed she knew anything more.
“So, you admit that your reason for being here was to spy and also to attempt to take the Fräulein Barbara Mohr back to Sweden with you?”
Maja nodded miserably. She would tell him anything but there was nothing more to tell, and she trembled as Popov’s hands continued to move over her bound, naked body, seeking out, intruding and penetrating. As fat, cold fingers began to move down the front of her chest Maja squirmed. “Such a lovely body, such succulent tits,” Popov continued, his hands now moving down to the bound girl’s firm, curvaceous breasts, whilst Vanovic, hands pulling back her shoulders, forced her to push her chest out, displaying herself like a whore for the Commissar.
“Oh God please help me,” she cried as Popov grabbed her breasts in a steel like grip, clenching and unclenching on the nubile flesh, feeling it filling his large hands. His fingers seeking out her nipples, finding them, making them harden …
… such whores the Swedes are … he thought. Then he released her tortured teats, stood back and said “Fetch us something to drink, Igor. We’ve a long night ahead of us.”
Sleeping berth 4b, near the Latvian border, enroute to Riga, Soviet Union, 08:00 am, Monday, 15th January 1940
The sleeper berth was a pleasant surprise for Barbara. She had no idea what she would find, having handed nearly all her money to the ticket seller without daring to engage in any questioning over what she was paying for. Would there even be a train never mind somewhere to sleep?
But there had been and so having successfully gotten past the guard without revealing that she had no papers, she was feeling safe, and removing her overcoat she sank blissfully under the clean sheet that adorned the bed and had fallen comatose in no time, sleeping like a baby until she woke. What time was now, she wondered.
As she sat up and threw back the sheet, Barbara could see that outside it was already light. Closing her eyes, she let out a deep breath and then realised how hungry she was. But with no money, food would have to wait – maybe she could find a running tap somewhere for a drink of water.
Then the flashing by of countryside became a slower view with an ever-increasing clarity of factories and warehouses as the train slowed down.
She saw a station sign that said ‘Kārsava’ – Border Town.’
Barbara recognised the name. Kārsava on the Russo-Latvia border, infamous because of its mainly pre-war Jewish population, most of whom had been already detained by … Russians and Nazis’? And now they were stopping here.
Just then the door to her sleeper compartment opened inwards and there stood the inspector staring at her exposed legs where the negligee had ridden high on her waist.
“Papers please.” He grinned.
“Fuck,” Barbara whispered to herself.
Cell 4G, Lubyanka Prison, Moscow, Soviet Union, 8:07 am, Monday, 15th January, 1940.
Popov stood with a gun trained on the head of Henry Underwood as the Captain’s fingers probed their way towards Maja’s pussy.
“That’s it, make her wet,” the sadistic, voyeuristic Commissar grinned, his cock already hard at the thought of what he was going to do to his little Fräulein when he had finished here. This last interrogation of the young Swedish spy had lasted all night long, but that meant that Barbara should be well rested and more than ready for him.
Maja lay back on the hard floor, her naked body prostrate, her legs spread wide as she was being stimulated under duress, by the man who just a short twenty-four hours ago had been her lover.
“Keep your gun aimed at the bitch’s head Igor,” Popov instructed his more junior colleague.
And then, when the physical sensations proved to be too much, Maja began to writhe, pushing upwards into Henry’s touch.
“Fuck her, fuck your bitch now for us Captain Underwood.”
Conscious of the gun at his head, Henry mounted the girl and slid his cock deep into her dripping slit. Maja arched upwards as Henry began to thrust as if his life depended on it, which of course it did.
Popov and Vanovic watched the rutting with a smirking pleasure, until the Commissar said “Now.”
Igor produced a roll of Pliofilm wrap and, kneeling, wound it round and round Maja’s head. Her eyes immediately widened as she tried to gulp in air, succeeding only in sucking the wrap into her mouth to create a suffocating seal.
“Keep on going Captain, until you are ready to spill your seed … are you ready?”
Underwood ignored the question, but Maja was already convulsing under him as her orgasm hit.
“Nooooooooooooo!” Henry cried out as his back arched and he ejaculated once, twice and … then never again as Popov shot him, mid climax, in the head.
The dead British spy fell onto Maja, whose orgasming body was slowly losing its own fight with the will to live, as the Pliofilm sucked the breath from her body.
Minutes later the two Russians looked down on the dead bodies of Henry Underwood and Maja Sundahl.
“Dispose of them please Vanovic, I have a certain little Fräulein to entertain now.”
Little did he know …
TBC
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Holy Shit! That’s pretty dark, I wasn’t expecting to witness the death of Flash Underwood in the series! War is hell, eh? I guess it’sFlashman gets out of the Great Game!
now…
—————————————
Powerful stuff @Fossy , I don’t recall you ever letting 2 good guys be knocked off in a single Chspter ever. This meets the death of eKaterina and exceeds it!
—————————————
Technical comment: the first 3 parts in the black on grey background were diabolical to actually read on an iPhone... If it wasn’t this story i probably would have simply given up! Can you ask @Barbaria1 or another mod to reformat, please?
But bravo on a stunning climax!
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Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
I'll ask @Barbaria1 to take a look Loin' To be honest on my Mac it was posted as simply black on white which is how it looks to me. But if anyone can spot a more general formatting issue than Barb can. Thanks for raising the point Loin'
Flashman gets out of the Great Game!
now…
—————————————
Powerful stuff @Fossy , I don’t recall you ever letting 2 good guys be knocked off in a single Chspter ever. This meets the death of eKaterina and exceeds it!
—————————————
Technical comment: the first 3 parts in the black on grey background were diabolical to actually read on an iPhone... If it wasn’t this story i probably would have simply given up! Can you ask @Barbaria1 or another mod to reformat, please?
But bravo on a stunning climax!
Lace
Assistant executioner
Same for me too. But I read on a tablet, so wasn't too bad x
Flashman gets out of the Great Game!
now…
—————————————
Powerful stuff @Fossy , I don’t recall you ever letting 2 good guys be knocked off in a single Chspter ever. This meets the death of eKaterina and exceeds it!
—————————————
Technical comment: the first 3 parts in the black on grey background were diabolical to actually read on an iPhone... If it wasn’t this story i probably would have simply given up! Can you ask @Barbaria1 or another mod to reformat, please?
But bravo on a stunning climax!
Flashman gets out of the Great Game!
now…
—————————————
Powerful stuff @Fossy , I don’t recall you ever letting 2 good guys be knocked off in a single Chspter ever. This meets the death of eKaterina and exceeds it!
—————————————
Technical comment: the first 3 parts in the black on grey background were diabolical to actually read on an iPhone... If it wasn’t this story i probably would have simply given up! Can you ask @Barbaria1 or another mod to reformat, please?
But bravo on a stunning climax!
I'll ask @Barbaria1 to take a look Loin' To be honest on my Mac it was posted as simply black on white which is how it looks to me. But if anyone can spot a more general formatting issue than Barb can. Thanks for raising the point Loin'
Fixed now?
twonines
LIMERICUS
Much better.