Thank You Barb, all good for me too
-
Sign up or login, and you'll have full access to opportunities of forum.
It Ended in Moscow
- Thread starter Barbaria1
- Start date
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
Nope! Must switch from "light theme" to "default style" to read it!
"Papiere, bitte!?" As far as I recall, one needed internal visa in the Soviet Union, to travel from one region to another!
Sad!
settantuno
MUTUS PICTOR
settantuno
MUTUS PICTOR
settantuno
MUTUS PICTOR
settantuno
MUTUS PICTOR
Attachments
settantuno
MUTUS PICTOR
Fantastic stuff, @settantuno
I think this could be the cover art, unless it’s too much of a spoiler? Captures Henry and Maja’s ultimate scene perfectly!
Wow!!
I think this could be the cover art, unless it’s too much of a spoiler? Captures Henry and Maja’s ultimate scene perfectly!
Wow!!
settantuno
MUTUS PICTOR
Chapter 18
Sleeping berth 4b, near the Latvian border, enroute to Riga, Soviet Union, 08:00 am, Monday, 15th January 1940
“Papers please!” the train inspector repeated in Russian, when encountering no response from Barbara to his initial demand. And then, as an afterthought, remembering from their earlier encounter that she only spoke German, substituted “Papieren bitte!” That being pretty much the sum total of his knowledge of German.
Barbara continued to regard him thoughtfully from her reclining position on the berth, while tugging downward on the hem of her filmy red negligee to cover her exposed pussy. She knew what she probably had to do in order to get him to go away. She just wasn’t sure she had the stomach for it.
“Papieren bitte!” He demanded a second time, an edge now in his voice.
Sitting up, she shook her head dolefully and shrugged to indicate she didn’t have any papers.
“Papieren bitte!”
She sighed and cocked her head to one side. And then, moving deliberately with her eyes glued to the expressions on his piggish face, she lowered one of her negligée’s shoulder straps, allowing the thin fabric to fall away, catching momentarily on a hardened nipple before baring a breast.
And when that elicited the reaction she sought, she knew she had him and proceeded to do the same with the other strap.
His eyes seemed to bulge with anticipation.
Reclining onto her back, she gave him a come-on smile, tugged the hem of her negligee up above her hips and spread her legs wide in the most lewdly fashion she could imagine.
With amazing speed, he hastily dropped his trousers, crawled up onto the berth and was lying on top of her, hands grasping and roughly mounding, squeezing and shaking her breasts before lowering his face to them to vigorously suck, nibble and bite at her nipples.
She allowed him time to get his fill of that before reaching for and taking his engorged and rigid member in hand. Moments later she guided him inside, and wrapped her ankles around behind his legs as he began to vigorously rut, exclaiming his pleasure with each stroke.
He was big and strong and, like it or not, she surrendered herself to orgasm with him.
The question then, as he lay heavily on top of her in the aftermath was whether he’d be satisfied. And, much to her relief, it appeared so, as he rose, tweaked her playfully on the cheek, and clambered down from the berth.
She watched as he dressed quickly, and turned to leave. But then he stopped, returned to the edge of the berth, snatched up her negligée, which she had completely shed in the course of their coupling, held it up, grinned and said, “Papieren bitte!”
Tucking his ill-gotten souvenir under his arm, he turned and left.
And as the train, now hitched to a Latvian locomotive, started up with a jolt to cross over the border into Latvia, she could hear him out on the platform loudly bragging of his most recent exploit to his colleagues.
Office of NKVD Commissar Sergei Mikhaylovich Popov, Lubyanka, Moscow, Soviet Union, 9:15 am, Monday, 15th January, 1940
Popov rose from where he was seated, his face crimson with fury.
“You dolts!” He screamed in the faces of the two frightened members of the Moscow militia assigned to patrolling the streets of the city after curfew.
“H … h … how were we to know?” Stammered the first.
“It’s your job … your duty … you fools … to question anyone you come across on the streets after curfew!”
“But …”
“Shut the fuck up. An important female prisoner manages somehow to walk out of the Lubyanka last night. An all point’s bulletin with her description … attractive brunette wearing very little on a cold winter night … goes out this morning. Within an hour, you two volunteer that you may … that you MAY … have seen her last night heading north from the city center. And it never occurred to you to stop her, demand her papers, and question her about why she happens to be on the streets after curfew?”
“She appeared to be a prostitute. When we came upon her she was engaged in doing … uh … you know … well … with some guys who’d been drinking … yeah … we see it all the time … and well … we didn’t think …”
“You damn well DIDN’T THINK. I’m putting you both on report and recommending reassignment. Reassignment as far away from the relative comforts of Moscow as possible. How does Yakutsk sound to you?”
At that moment the door to Popov’s office opened wide enough for a young woman’s head to appear.
“Commissar Popov! A lucky break. We believe we’ve found her. A ticket seller at Moscow Baltiysky railway station says she recalls seeing Mohr in the station there late last night. She believes Mohr secured a ticket for passage to Riga, and departed Moscow on the overnight train.”
“And where is the damn train now?”
“It crossed into Latvia not long ago.”
“Fuck! Alright, alert all of our NKVD assets in Riga. I want her picked up and brought back. I don’t care how they do it. And if that’s impossible, I want her eliminated!”
“Yes, Commissar. I’ll transmit your orders to Riga immediately!”
Latvian Border Checkpoint, Moscow-Riga rail line, Terehova, Latvia. 11:40 am, Monday, 15th January 1940.
“Alright! Where is this detainee who claims to be an English agent escaping from our Russian friends?” demanded Seržants Aleksejs Jansons as he stood in the doorway of the border checkpoint building and stomped his booted feet free of the snow and mud that clung to them. He was anything but happy about having been dragged away from his nice warm office in Rezekne and having driven for nearly two hours on ice-covered roads to get there.
“She’s in the next room,” answered Kaprālis Kārlis Vitols, jumping to his feet and saluting.
“What’s her name?”
“She says it’s Barbara Mohr.”
“She’s German but claims to be spying for the British?”
“So she says.”
“Does she speak Latvian?”
“No, German and English, some Russian.”
“How did you communicate with her?”
“My mother was German. I know enough to get by.”
“I see. Alright then, take me to her.”
Vitols moved swiftly across the wood planked floor, to open the door for his superior and reveal the detainee, standing handcuffed, backed up against a wall, arms raised and secured to the wall just over her head. Heaped at her feet was a bed sheet with the insignia of the Russian railroad stamped in one corner. The woman was both stark naked and quite beautiful.
“Has she no clothing?” Demanded Jansons.
“She was wearing that bedsheet when we removed her from the train. She has no papers. Rather improbably she claims to have escaped the Lubyanka, and is fearful that the NKVD will track her down, even here in Latvia. She desperately wants us to send her over to the safety of Sweden.”
Jansons was contemplatively silent as he stepped forward to look her over more closely. Yes, she was quite beautiful and judging by the dried smears and globs of cum and semen visible on her inner thighs, she’d recently been engaged in sex.
“Have you or any of your men ….?” snapped Jansons, turning accusingly to the Corporal for an answer.
“No, we’ve not. Felt her up a little, perhaps. Who wouldn’t, after all? But neither of my subordinates here are responsible for that,”responded Vitols, pointing to the telltale smears and gobs. “Nor am I.”
“Alright,” said Jansons. “Let’s see this through. I know a little English, hopefully enough to get by. Let me talk to her. Alone!”
“Yessir.”
Whereupon, Jansons was left alone with her.
SIS Headquarters. Section D, Century House, 54 Broadway, Westminster, London, 2:30 pm, Monday, 15th January, 1940
“Incoming call from Sweden, Major. Chief Anders Hallgren of the Swedish General Security Service wishes to have a word with you.”
“Thank you, Marjorie. Please patch the call through to my desk phone.”
“Yessir.”
“Hello, Hallgren. To what do I owe this call?”
“Sad and troubling news, I’m sorry to say, Laurence. I’ve just heard from Otto Wilhelm Winther, our Embassy Envoy in Moscow, that both Maja Sundahl and Henry Underwood are dead.”
“Both dead? Oh no! Are we absolutely certain? How did Winther learn of this?
“They died in a most dreadfully horrible way, I’m afraid. Winther received a message of regret this morning, sent to him from Molotov himself. The message said that the two Swedish agents, who as the Swedish government was aware had been detained for questioning at the Lubyanka, had been shot attempting to escape. The message envelope also contained identifying photos of both Sundahl and Underwood lying naked in a pair of coffins. Our forensics team here in Stockholm was able to determine, on examining the photos, that both Sundahl and Underwood had been severely tortured, and both had most likely been executed with a bullet in the head rather than shot in some escape attempt.”
“Has a formal protest been filed by your government?”
“Not yet, but one will be prepared. Not that it will do any good. Sundahl snd Underwood were, after all, engaged in espionage and had fallen into the hands of the NKVD. Of course, they would be eliminated once they’d been forced to divulge everything they knew. That’s how the game is played, isn’t it?”
“Certainly is by our dear Nazi and Soviet friends,” agreed Grand drily.
“Sadly so. Winther says the bodies will not be returned.
“And the Mohr woman?”
“We’ve no idea. Presumably still alive out there somewhere,”
On the road to Riga, Latvia. 4:10 pm, Monday, 15th January, 1940
Darkness had closed in and Seržants Aleksejs Jansons had to lean forward and peer over the steering wheel in order to see the road through swirling eddies of wind-blown snow.
Riding silently beside him, her former nakedness now wrapped in the warmth of his greatcoat, was Barbara Mohr. After questioning her back at the border station that morning for more than an hour in his halting, barely adequate English, Jansons had become convinced of the veracity of her story. And, without giving much thought to the possible disciplinary consequences of taking unilateral action, had opted to personally convey her, without delay, to Riga in his car, where he hoped to secure for her the safe passage to Sweden she so desperately needed.
He knew the risks were enormous, for while Latvia remained at that moment a free and independent state, anyone paying attention knew that a Russian takeover was imminent, and there was no doubt that the Russians had plenty of undercover assets within the country that could easily be mobilized by now to apprehend or kill her.
He stole a glance in her direction. She looked back, the lights of the vehicle’s dashboard dimly lighting her face. She wore an anxious expression.
Yes, he’d do his best for her. But given the hour and the weather, it would have to wait for morning. The best thing to do, he reasoned, until then would be to hole up in a hotel once they got to Riga. Jansons happened to know the manager at the city’s Opera Hotel, a man who could be trusted to discreetly arrange something suitable at the last minute.
TBC
Sleeping berth 4b, near the Latvian border, enroute to Riga, Soviet Union, 08:00 am, Monday, 15th January 1940
“Papers please!” the train inspector repeated in Russian, when encountering no response from Barbara to his initial demand. And then, as an afterthought, remembering from their earlier encounter that she only spoke German, substituted “Papieren bitte!” That being pretty much the sum total of his knowledge of German.
Barbara continued to regard him thoughtfully from her reclining position on the berth, while tugging downward on the hem of her filmy red negligee to cover her exposed pussy. She knew what she probably had to do in order to get him to go away. She just wasn’t sure she had the stomach for it.
“Papieren bitte!” He demanded a second time, an edge now in his voice.
Sitting up, she shook her head dolefully and shrugged to indicate she didn’t have any papers.
“Papieren bitte!”
She sighed and cocked her head to one side. And then, moving deliberately with her eyes glued to the expressions on his piggish face, she lowered one of her negligée’s shoulder straps, allowing the thin fabric to fall away, catching momentarily on a hardened nipple before baring a breast.
And when that elicited the reaction she sought, she knew she had him and proceeded to do the same with the other strap.
His eyes seemed to bulge with anticipation.
Reclining onto her back, she gave him a come-on smile, tugged the hem of her negligee up above her hips and spread her legs wide in the most lewdly fashion she could imagine.
With amazing speed, he hastily dropped his trousers, crawled up onto the berth and was lying on top of her, hands grasping and roughly mounding, squeezing and shaking her breasts before lowering his face to them to vigorously suck, nibble and bite at her nipples.
She allowed him time to get his fill of that before reaching for and taking his engorged and rigid member in hand. Moments later she guided him inside, and wrapped her ankles around behind his legs as he began to vigorously rut, exclaiming his pleasure with each stroke.
He was big and strong and, like it or not, she surrendered herself to orgasm with him.
The question then, as he lay heavily on top of her in the aftermath was whether he’d be satisfied. And, much to her relief, it appeared so, as he rose, tweaked her playfully on the cheek, and clambered down from the berth.
She watched as he dressed quickly, and turned to leave. But then he stopped, returned to the edge of the berth, snatched up her negligée, which she had completely shed in the course of their coupling, held it up, grinned and said, “Papieren bitte!”
Tucking his ill-gotten souvenir under his arm, he turned and left.
And as the train, now hitched to a Latvian locomotive, started up with a jolt to cross over the border into Latvia, she could hear him out on the platform loudly bragging of his most recent exploit to his colleagues.
Office of NKVD Commissar Sergei Mikhaylovich Popov, Lubyanka, Moscow, Soviet Union, 9:15 am, Monday, 15th January, 1940
Popov rose from where he was seated, his face crimson with fury.
“You dolts!” He screamed in the faces of the two frightened members of the Moscow militia assigned to patrolling the streets of the city after curfew.
“H … h … how were we to know?” Stammered the first.
“It’s your job … your duty … you fools … to question anyone you come across on the streets after curfew!”
“But …”
“Shut the fuck up. An important female prisoner manages somehow to walk out of the Lubyanka last night. An all point’s bulletin with her description … attractive brunette wearing very little on a cold winter night … goes out this morning. Within an hour, you two volunteer that you may … that you MAY … have seen her last night heading north from the city center. And it never occurred to you to stop her, demand her papers, and question her about why she happens to be on the streets after curfew?”
“She appeared to be a prostitute. When we came upon her she was engaged in doing … uh … you know … well … with some guys who’d been drinking … yeah … we see it all the time … and well … we didn’t think …”
“You damn well DIDN’T THINK. I’m putting you both on report and recommending reassignment. Reassignment as far away from the relative comforts of Moscow as possible. How does Yakutsk sound to you?”
At that moment the door to Popov’s office opened wide enough for a young woman’s head to appear.
“Commissar Popov! A lucky break. We believe we’ve found her. A ticket seller at Moscow Baltiysky railway station says she recalls seeing Mohr in the station there late last night. She believes Mohr secured a ticket for passage to Riga, and departed Moscow on the overnight train.”
“And where is the damn train now?”
“It crossed into Latvia not long ago.”
“Fuck! Alright, alert all of our NKVD assets in Riga. I want her picked up and brought back. I don’t care how they do it. And if that’s impossible, I want her eliminated!”
“Yes, Commissar. I’ll transmit your orders to Riga immediately!”
Latvian Border Checkpoint, Moscow-Riga rail line, Terehova, Latvia. 11:40 am, Monday, 15th January 1940.
“Alright! Where is this detainee who claims to be an English agent escaping from our Russian friends?” demanded Seržants Aleksejs Jansons as he stood in the doorway of the border checkpoint building and stomped his booted feet free of the snow and mud that clung to them. He was anything but happy about having been dragged away from his nice warm office in Rezekne and having driven for nearly two hours on ice-covered roads to get there.
“She’s in the next room,” answered Kaprālis Kārlis Vitols, jumping to his feet and saluting.
“What’s her name?”
“She says it’s Barbara Mohr.”
“She’s German but claims to be spying for the British?”
“So she says.”
“Does she speak Latvian?”
“No, German and English, some Russian.”
“How did you communicate with her?”
“My mother was German. I know enough to get by.”
“I see. Alright then, take me to her.”
Vitols moved swiftly across the wood planked floor, to open the door for his superior and reveal the detainee, standing handcuffed, backed up against a wall, arms raised and secured to the wall just over her head. Heaped at her feet was a bed sheet with the insignia of the Russian railroad stamped in one corner. The woman was both stark naked and quite beautiful.
“Has she no clothing?” Demanded Jansons.
“She was wearing that bedsheet when we removed her from the train. She has no papers. Rather improbably she claims to have escaped the Lubyanka, and is fearful that the NKVD will track her down, even here in Latvia. She desperately wants us to send her over to the safety of Sweden.”
Jansons was contemplatively silent as he stepped forward to look her over more closely. Yes, she was quite beautiful and judging by the dried smears and globs of cum and semen visible on her inner thighs, she’d recently been engaged in sex.
“Have you or any of your men ….?” snapped Jansons, turning accusingly to the Corporal for an answer.
“No, we’ve not. Felt her up a little, perhaps. Who wouldn’t, after all? But neither of my subordinates here are responsible for that,”responded Vitols, pointing to the telltale smears and gobs. “Nor am I.”
“Alright,” said Jansons. “Let’s see this through. I know a little English, hopefully enough to get by. Let me talk to her. Alone!”
“Yessir.”
Whereupon, Jansons was left alone with her.
SIS Headquarters. Section D, Century House, 54 Broadway, Westminster, London, 2:30 pm, Monday, 15th January, 1940
“Incoming call from Sweden, Major. Chief Anders Hallgren of the Swedish General Security Service wishes to have a word with you.”
“Thank you, Marjorie. Please patch the call through to my desk phone.”
“Yessir.”
“Hello, Hallgren. To what do I owe this call?”
“Sad and troubling news, I’m sorry to say, Laurence. I’ve just heard from Otto Wilhelm Winther, our Embassy Envoy in Moscow, that both Maja Sundahl and Henry Underwood are dead.”
“Both dead? Oh no! Are we absolutely certain? How did Winther learn of this?
“They died in a most dreadfully horrible way, I’m afraid. Winther received a message of regret this morning, sent to him from Molotov himself. The message said that the two Swedish agents, who as the Swedish government was aware had been detained for questioning at the Lubyanka, had been shot attempting to escape. The message envelope also contained identifying photos of both Sundahl and Underwood lying naked in a pair of coffins. Our forensics team here in Stockholm was able to determine, on examining the photos, that both Sundahl and Underwood had been severely tortured, and both had most likely been executed with a bullet in the head rather than shot in some escape attempt.”
“Has a formal protest been filed by your government?”
“Not yet, but one will be prepared. Not that it will do any good. Sundahl snd Underwood were, after all, engaged in espionage and had fallen into the hands of the NKVD. Of course, they would be eliminated once they’d been forced to divulge everything they knew. That’s how the game is played, isn’t it?”
“Certainly is by our dear Nazi and Soviet friends,” agreed Grand drily.
“Sadly so. Winther says the bodies will not be returned.
“And the Mohr woman?”
“We’ve no idea. Presumably still alive out there somewhere,”
On the road to Riga, Latvia. 4:10 pm, Monday, 15th January, 1940
Darkness had closed in and Seržants Aleksejs Jansons had to lean forward and peer over the steering wheel in order to see the road through swirling eddies of wind-blown snow.
Riding silently beside him, her former nakedness now wrapped in the warmth of his greatcoat, was Barbara Mohr. After questioning her back at the border station that morning for more than an hour in his halting, barely adequate English, Jansons had become convinced of the veracity of her story. And, without giving much thought to the possible disciplinary consequences of taking unilateral action, had opted to personally convey her, without delay, to Riga in his car, where he hoped to secure for her the safe passage to Sweden she so desperately needed.
He knew the risks were enormous, for while Latvia remained at that moment a free and independent state, anyone paying attention knew that a Russian takeover was imminent, and there was no doubt that the Russians had plenty of undercover assets within the country that could easily be mobilized by now to apprehend or kill her.
He stole a glance in her direction. She looked back, the lights of the vehicle’s dashboard dimly lighting her face. She wore an anxious expression.
Yes, he’d do his best for her. But given the hour and the weather, it would have to wait for morning. The best thing to do, he reasoned, until then would be to hole up in a hotel once they got to Riga. Jansons happened to know the manager at the city’s Opera Hotel, a man who could be trusted to discreetly arrange something suitable at the last minute.
TBC
settantuno
MUTUS PICTOR
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
My goodness that picture is so evocative. Great work, thanks Sett!
Oh so it’s definitely love then? Goodonyer Popov!
Great episode, Barb, we need a break after Fossy’s bombshell chapter. Just a good tempo setting yourself up for the next drama… I noticed you had clothes on in both beginning and end, unusual !
Nice touch when the border guard souvenireed your negligee!
Last edited:
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
A race against time!
(but one wonders whether Barb will even be safe in Sweden, considering the NKVD seems to have infiltrated everywhere!).
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
Chapter 19
Hotel Opera, Raiņa bulvāris, Riga, Latvia 9:55 pm, Monday, 15th January 1940.
“I’m sorry but I have nothing more for you to wear,” Seržants Aleksejs Jansons said to his pretty companion, a girl he sympathised with but didn’t know well enough to trust.
“It’s fine, “Barbara replied, sitting huddled naked under the sheet in the tiny single bedded closet room they had managed secure at the Hotel Opera.
Jansons knew the manager here, Alfrēds Krūmiņš, from their time together at the University of Latvia where they were roommates for two of their years there. Through that contact, his clandestine arrival with the mysterious Fräulein late into the day, had not been questioned and this small, out of the way room provided for the night.
“Can you tell me who you actually work for Fräulein Mohr? You say the British but your name …?”
“It doesn’t matter what I do, Sir,” she replied, “… please just trust me when I say that I have to get to allied controlled territory as quickly as I can, and I can’t thank you enough for everything you have done me already, but …”
“… but you don’t have much time?” Jansons finished off her sentence.
“I do not. I was being held as the plaything of Commissar Popov when I escaped, and by now my description will be at every border control, and so crossing quickly from Latvia into Sweden is my only hope.”
Jansons sighed. “You know that the border between Riga and Stockholm means crossing the Gulf of Latvia and the Baltic, over waters that are currently being patrolled by Russian naval trawlers …”
Barbara nodded and then sighed, laying her head back on the pillow and clutching the sheet to her chest.
Seržants Aleksejs Jansons sat up in his chair next to the bed and looked at the very pretty, very vulnerable girl under the white sheet, and the sight tugged at his heartstrings. She was like a bird, a strong bird, that had suffered an injured wing somewhere along the way. She should be soaring, not struggling from day to day, spending her life moving virtually naked from one perilous situation to another. He vowed to get her out of here, and he rested his hopes on Alfrēds Krūmiņš. Surely, he would know someone at the docks, and just maybe there would be a Swedish trade boat bringing wood and pulp into Riga, if indeed the Russians still allowed that after their alleged recent bombing of Luleå.
“Is Barbara Mohr your real name?”
Barbara laughed. “Yes, of course it is. My father is the well know German Industrialist and entrepreneur Joachim Mohr.”
Nodding, he rubbed his tired eyes. It wasn’t her answers that were persuading him she was genuine … he was a man of instinct.
The pair stopped talking and then Jansons began to laugh.
“What’s the matter?” She asked.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” he said at last, bringing himself under control. “Nothing funny. It’s just that after being a man afraid to take risks of any sort, I have put myself and my family in great danger for the sake of a girl, albeit a very, very pretty girl.”
Barbara studied his face. There were lines around his eyes and he looked drawn like a man who bore a great weight on his shoulders, and suddenly he too seemed very vulnerable.
“How old are you?” she asked. Jansons looked at her as if not understanding the question.
“Forty-one,” he said finally. Barbara nodded then added, “Are you married?”
“No, I am not. But if I am discovered helping you then my Mother and Father, brother and nieces and nephews will all be in danger.
Suddenly Barbara realised what was at stake for this man, and in truth, she had no idea why he had risked it all for her. Although the fact was that a very pretty girl in his words, and one who was naked, might just have influenced his actions.
Barbara sensed the trepidation in his trembling fingers as she allowed him to pull back the cover and expose her denuded body. She let him take off his own clothes in silence and then slip between the sheets. She kissed his face.
“It’s just you and me, for a few hours at least,” she said, her own mind a confused myriad of emotions. Relieved to be free of the NKVD and the Nazi’s but now thrust into a world of uncertainty.
“And so, for now we have nothing to worry about.”
Her fingers closed over his growing erection, and he gasped. Barbara moved her hand back and forth, and he grew hard and long in her grip. Then she swung a leg over him and gently guided his cock inside her. As she sank down on his flesh, his lips went to her breasts and he groaned. It had been a long, long time since he had last been with a woman, and suddenly he remembered everything, the feminine smell and taste, the excitement growing in his groin, the feel of soft lips on his body.
An hour later, back in his chair, with Barbara fast asleep in the bed, he closed his own eyes and prayed for sweet dreams.
Cabinet War Rooms, located beneath the Treasury building Whitehall, Westminster, London, 7:05 am, Tuesday, 16th January 1940.
“He’s sleeping and it’s more than my life’s worth to wake him at this hour. I will pass on a message, who do you say you are?” Jock Colville, Churchill’s private secretary answered the phone after the call had been transferred to the War Rooms from the Operation Centre in Westminster.
“My name is Alfrēds Krūmiņš, I am the manager of the Opera Hotel in …”
“Who is it man? And you don’t need to wake me because I’m already awake.” Churchill’s gregarious voice preceded him as he wandered into theoak panelled underground office puffing on his first Romeo y Julieta of the day, despite the early hour.
“Sir, the doctor had already told you that you need to cut down on smoking those, otherwise …” Collville admonished his boss, and First Lord of the Admiralty, Winston Churchill.
“Oh poppycock man, I am ready to meet my Maker whenever he deems it appropriate. Whether my Maker is prepared for the great ordeal of meeting me is another matter. Now give me that phone." Fastening his morning-robe a little more tightly around his hefty stomach, Churchill took the phone from his man.
“Churchill …” he growled into the speaker.
“Sir, my name is Alfrēds Krūmiņš, I am the manager of the Opera Hotel in Riga, and …”
“Wonderful hotel. Had a fantastic night in ’17, just before the outbreak of that squalid war, what can I do for you man.”
Krūmiņš could hardly believe that he was speaking with Churchill himself. “Sir, I have a message from one of your children. Little Barbara says she is sorry that she has been away so long, but she will be home soon and just needs you to make sure that your friends in Sweden knows she is planning to visit them imminently.”
Churchill nodded, impressed by the way this man had put his message across.
“It will be a delight to see my Barbara again, how will she be travelling into Sweden?”
“Oh she said she was hoping to secure a ticket on a trade boat today.”
“Very well, and thank you. I hope to see you again when this unnecessary war is over.”
The call ended and Churchill took a large puff on his cigar, turned to Colville and said, “Get me Anders Hallgren on the phone now, while I make myself a cup of tea.”
The docks at Riga, Latvia, 7:30 am, Tuesday, 16th January 1940.
Barbara was shivering due to the ridiculous cold, even with the warm coat on. The man Krūmiņš had come good, and as well as well as providing her with a skirt and blouse, an overcoat and boots (underwear would have been nice too but alas no such luck), he had secured her passage on a wood pulp trawler returning to Stockholm. She just hoped that he had also been able to get a message back to London for her.
Seržants Aleksejs Jansons had accompanied her as far as he dare, pointing out the trawler berth where her boat would be moored, but then saying that he needed to stay hidden for fear of discovery. So far there was only Krūmiņš and Barbara herself who knew what he had done and it needed to stay that way.
“Barbara …” he said, looking into her eyes as she readied herself to walk as confidently as she could to where she needed to be. He was going to kiss her and so Barbara quickly put her fingers to his lips and smiled. “Go, now please and take care. Thank you for all you have done, I will never be able to repay you …” Although in truth Barbara knew that she had already repaid him many fold, in bed last night.
She turned to walk the few hundred metres from the shadowy alley in which she and Seržants Aleksejs had been ensconced, to RPB 22, which she presumed stood for Riga Port Berth number twenty two.
She covered the first hundred metres without problem, and then, with the berth and the boat in sight she saw a group of what she assumed to be Russian Soldiers patrolling the area she was now in.
“Shit!” Barbara uttered to herself and stepped up her pace. She couldn't believe her bad luck that a group of soldiers would turn up just when she had been about to leave. She was pretty sure she didn't have anything to hide that they could find, but it didn't matter; she would need a story to explain why she was even here.
Thankfully, though, it seemed like the soldiers hadn't noticed her and she was going to be able to slip away unnoticed.
Or maybe not. She gasped with concern as she noticed one of the men started walking straight towards her. He wasn't in uniform but he had arrived with the soldiers, and something about the expression on his face told her that it wasn't a good thing that he seemed to be taking an interest in her.
Perhaps it was the rifle strapped to his back that worried her, or the nasty looking handgun that he was carrying pointed at the ground.
Oh, God.
He was a Latvian State Police Officer, and seemed that the Police service here was already being controlled by their Russian neighbours.
Barbara tried not to look terrified as the man stalked towards her, but it wasn't so easy. He certainly didn't look very friendly. He slowed to a halt about ten feet in front of her, motioned to her with his gun for her to come to him.
She didn't move. He started speaking to her in his language, and her heart started pounding wildly. She was pretty sure he wanted her to go over to him, but she couldn't get her legs to work.
He looked unamused as he continued his advancement on her.
“Nāc šurp …” he growled angrily as she started backing away, eyes darting about for any hope of a means of escape. No chance. Barbara yelped as he reached out and grabbed her by the hair none too gently, his gun coming to rest at the bottom of her jaw. She froze, her hands instinctively coming up to try to push him away but not daring to touch him.
The man didn't say anything for a while as he stood holding his fistful of lustrous dark hair. He seemed to be studying her face, enjoying her look of panic as he pressed the muzzle of his gun into her throat. He was tall, a part of her brain noticed, as he used the gun to tilt her head back so that she had to look up into his eyes, and she didn't dare break his stare.
His eyes were dark brown, and he had a scar over the left eye that left a distinct gap through his eyebrow.
"You're not from this country," he said softly, letting the gun trail down to her collarbone. "What are you doing here?"
Barbara had trouble understanding what he meant.
“Es tut mir leid, dass ich das nicht verstehe …“ She resorted to German in order to say that she did not understand.
Suspicions confirmed, the man tightened his grip in the girl's hair and pulled her closer, letting his thigh touch one of hers. "German?" he said in English, then shook his head at her silence.
"Not American, you don't talk enough. English?"
She nodded almost imperceptibly.
"Why are you here?" he asked, watching her reaction to his leg touching hers. She flinched, tried to pull away, but she was trapped between his gun and the hand in her hair. His accent was pretty strong, but his English pretty good. Barbara could understand him fine, but she didn't think it best to tell him why she was here, and kept up her pretence of only speaking her home tongue.
He was holding her close on purpose, the intention was to be threatening and he was certainly succeeding in that. She gasped softly as he let the gun play against the neckline of her coat, its barrel rubbing the top of one of her breasts for a moment. He smiled menacingly, enjoying her fear.
The girl was terrified, that much was obvious. Tough. He wanted answers from her regardless, and her fear turned him on.
Barbara whimpered as he leaned in and slid his mouth against her ear, the gun sliding down to rest against her thigh.
"One of two things can happen from here," he growled in English. "You answer my questions, or we play rough. I'm happy either way, but you won't be." He turned so that his unshaven face rubbed against her smooth cheek as he let himself smell her hair.
She smelled clean – she had bathed in the hotel last night - and feminine and utterly desirable. He smiled as she shuddered against him in response to his touch.
The man repeated his earlier question, and Barbara figured she had to say something in response. "I'm on holiday," she said, finally giving up and speaking a little English in response.
He snorted at that. "Of course you are," he replied sarcastically. "Why would anyone not want to come out here and visit hell on earth?" He leaned back a little and stared down at the shivering girl coldly.
"What is your name?"
Barbara didn't answer. After all she had been through, she would not give this man any information would endanger the person who had just helped her get this far. He sighed in annoyance at her refusal to answer his questions, then put his gun away, concealed somewhere behind his back.
"Do you have papers?" he asked, sliding his free hand over her hips in search of pockets.
Fuck! That question again.
He didn't find anything, so he searched higher, grinning at her moan of despair as his hand brushed the underside of her breasts. He felt the outline of something concealed in an inner pocket and slid his hands to the buttons of the coat, unfastening them without ceremony.
"Please don't!" she whispered as his hand slid inside, but he found nothing.
The cold was cutting in through her open coat, and her shivering increased in intensity. Barbara then gasped as he began pushing her towards a cold brick wall, at the mooring berth, and didn't stop until he was pressing into her from chest to thigh.
Barbara moaned softly as the man set himself against her and pinned her to the wall. She could feel solid muscle against her chest and was mortified to feel her cold-hardened nipples jutting into him through her thin layer of clothing.
"Last chance," he growled, his hand sliding under her coat to rest on her ribs. "Tell me why you're here, or we will start getting very friendly." To make certain that she understood the threat, he slid his palm against one of her breasts and stroked for a moment. The fabric of his leather gloves felt warm against her freezing skin.
Barbara's breath caught in her throat as the man used his palm to cup her breast and slid his thumb over her nipple. She shuddered in fear at the sensation and then whined in pain as he squeezed her teat so hard that it would have drawn blood had he used his teeth.
"So, you had better start to talk, because," he growled softly, his hand moving back down to rest on her hip. "I have some big bad soldiers here threatening to rape this pretty little girl, and she still doesn't want to say why she's here. Must be very important, don't you think?"
“Hey!” The shout came down from the boat at RPB 22.
“The Police Officer stopped what he was doing and looked up.”
“I’m sorry officer, she is my German niece and I said that I would take her with me to Sweden when I returned, I am so sorry that she had caused you trouble. Here see my papers please, I am a Swedish national and so I am very keen to leave and cause you no further trouble.”
Barbara looked up at the large, bearded man in the woolly hat and thick sweater and she could have hugged him.
TBC
Hotel Opera, Raiņa bulvāris, Riga, Latvia 9:55 pm, Monday, 15th January 1940.
“I’m sorry but I have nothing more for you to wear,” Seržants Aleksejs Jansons said to his pretty companion, a girl he sympathised with but didn’t know well enough to trust.
“It’s fine, “Barbara replied, sitting huddled naked under the sheet in the tiny single bedded closet room they had managed secure at the Hotel Opera.
Jansons knew the manager here, Alfrēds Krūmiņš, from their time together at the University of Latvia where they were roommates for two of their years there. Through that contact, his clandestine arrival with the mysterious Fräulein late into the day, had not been questioned and this small, out of the way room provided for the night.
“Can you tell me who you actually work for Fräulein Mohr? You say the British but your name …?”
“It doesn’t matter what I do, Sir,” she replied, “… please just trust me when I say that I have to get to allied controlled territory as quickly as I can, and I can’t thank you enough for everything you have done me already, but …”
“… but you don’t have much time?” Jansons finished off her sentence.
“I do not. I was being held as the plaything of Commissar Popov when I escaped, and by now my description will be at every border control, and so crossing quickly from Latvia into Sweden is my only hope.”
Jansons sighed. “You know that the border between Riga and Stockholm means crossing the Gulf of Latvia and the Baltic, over waters that are currently being patrolled by Russian naval trawlers …”
Barbara nodded and then sighed, laying her head back on the pillow and clutching the sheet to her chest.
Seržants Aleksejs Jansons sat up in his chair next to the bed and looked at the very pretty, very vulnerable girl under the white sheet, and the sight tugged at his heartstrings. She was like a bird, a strong bird, that had suffered an injured wing somewhere along the way. She should be soaring, not struggling from day to day, spending her life moving virtually naked from one perilous situation to another. He vowed to get her out of here, and he rested his hopes on Alfrēds Krūmiņš. Surely, he would know someone at the docks, and just maybe there would be a Swedish trade boat bringing wood and pulp into Riga, if indeed the Russians still allowed that after their alleged recent bombing of Luleå.
“Is Barbara Mohr your real name?”
Barbara laughed. “Yes, of course it is. My father is the well know German Industrialist and entrepreneur Joachim Mohr.”
Nodding, he rubbed his tired eyes. It wasn’t her answers that were persuading him she was genuine … he was a man of instinct.
The pair stopped talking and then Jansons began to laugh.
“What’s the matter?” She asked.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” he said at last, bringing himself under control. “Nothing funny. It’s just that after being a man afraid to take risks of any sort, I have put myself and my family in great danger for the sake of a girl, albeit a very, very pretty girl.”
Barbara studied his face. There were lines around his eyes and he looked drawn like a man who bore a great weight on his shoulders, and suddenly he too seemed very vulnerable.
“How old are you?” she asked. Jansons looked at her as if not understanding the question.
“Forty-one,” he said finally. Barbara nodded then added, “Are you married?”
“No, I am not. But if I am discovered helping you then my Mother and Father, brother and nieces and nephews will all be in danger.
Suddenly Barbara realised what was at stake for this man, and in truth, she had no idea why he had risked it all for her. Although the fact was that a very pretty girl in his words, and one who was naked, might just have influenced his actions.
Barbara sensed the trepidation in his trembling fingers as she allowed him to pull back the cover and expose her denuded body. She let him take off his own clothes in silence and then slip between the sheets. She kissed his face.
“It’s just you and me, for a few hours at least,” she said, her own mind a confused myriad of emotions. Relieved to be free of the NKVD and the Nazi’s but now thrust into a world of uncertainty.
“And so, for now we have nothing to worry about.”
Her fingers closed over his growing erection, and he gasped. Barbara moved her hand back and forth, and he grew hard and long in her grip. Then she swung a leg over him and gently guided his cock inside her. As she sank down on his flesh, his lips went to her breasts and he groaned. It had been a long, long time since he had last been with a woman, and suddenly he remembered everything, the feminine smell and taste, the excitement growing in his groin, the feel of soft lips on his body.
An hour later, back in his chair, with Barbara fast asleep in the bed, he closed his own eyes and prayed for sweet dreams.
Cabinet War Rooms, located beneath the Treasury building Whitehall, Westminster, London, 7:05 am, Tuesday, 16th January 1940.
“He’s sleeping and it’s more than my life’s worth to wake him at this hour. I will pass on a message, who do you say you are?” Jock Colville, Churchill’s private secretary answered the phone after the call had been transferred to the War Rooms from the Operation Centre in Westminster.
“My name is Alfrēds Krūmiņš, I am the manager of the Opera Hotel in …”
“Who is it man? And you don’t need to wake me because I’m already awake.” Churchill’s gregarious voice preceded him as he wandered into theoak panelled underground office puffing on his first Romeo y Julieta of the day, despite the early hour.
“Sir, the doctor had already told you that you need to cut down on smoking those, otherwise …” Collville admonished his boss, and First Lord of the Admiralty, Winston Churchill.
“Oh poppycock man, I am ready to meet my Maker whenever he deems it appropriate. Whether my Maker is prepared for the great ordeal of meeting me is another matter. Now give me that phone." Fastening his morning-robe a little more tightly around his hefty stomach, Churchill took the phone from his man.
“Churchill …” he growled into the speaker.
“Sir, my name is Alfrēds Krūmiņš, I am the manager of the Opera Hotel in Riga, and …”
“Wonderful hotel. Had a fantastic night in ’17, just before the outbreak of that squalid war, what can I do for you man.”
Krūmiņš could hardly believe that he was speaking with Churchill himself. “Sir, I have a message from one of your children. Little Barbara says she is sorry that she has been away so long, but she will be home soon and just needs you to make sure that your friends in Sweden knows she is planning to visit them imminently.”
Churchill nodded, impressed by the way this man had put his message across.
“It will be a delight to see my Barbara again, how will she be travelling into Sweden?”
“Oh she said she was hoping to secure a ticket on a trade boat today.”
“Very well, and thank you. I hope to see you again when this unnecessary war is over.”
The call ended and Churchill took a large puff on his cigar, turned to Colville and said, “Get me Anders Hallgren on the phone now, while I make myself a cup of tea.”
The docks at Riga, Latvia, 7:30 am, Tuesday, 16th January 1940.
Barbara was shivering due to the ridiculous cold, even with the warm coat on. The man Krūmiņš had come good, and as well as well as providing her with a skirt and blouse, an overcoat and boots (underwear would have been nice too but alas no such luck), he had secured her passage on a wood pulp trawler returning to Stockholm. She just hoped that he had also been able to get a message back to London for her.
Seržants Aleksejs Jansons had accompanied her as far as he dare, pointing out the trawler berth where her boat would be moored, but then saying that he needed to stay hidden for fear of discovery. So far there was only Krūmiņš and Barbara herself who knew what he had done and it needed to stay that way.
“Barbara …” he said, looking into her eyes as she readied herself to walk as confidently as she could to where she needed to be. He was going to kiss her and so Barbara quickly put her fingers to his lips and smiled. “Go, now please and take care. Thank you for all you have done, I will never be able to repay you …” Although in truth Barbara knew that she had already repaid him many fold, in bed last night.
She turned to walk the few hundred metres from the shadowy alley in which she and Seržants Aleksejs had been ensconced, to RPB 22, which she presumed stood for Riga Port Berth number twenty two.
She covered the first hundred metres without problem, and then, with the berth and the boat in sight she saw a group of what she assumed to be Russian Soldiers patrolling the area she was now in.
“Shit!” Barbara uttered to herself and stepped up her pace. She couldn't believe her bad luck that a group of soldiers would turn up just when she had been about to leave. She was pretty sure she didn't have anything to hide that they could find, but it didn't matter; she would need a story to explain why she was even here.
Thankfully, though, it seemed like the soldiers hadn't noticed her and she was going to be able to slip away unnoticed.
Or maybe not. She gasped with concern as she noticed one of the men started walking straight towards her. He wasn't in uniform but he had arrived with the soldiers, and something about the expression on his face told her that it wasn't a good thing that he seemed to be taking an interest in her.
Perhaps it was the rifle strapped to his back that worried her, or the nasty looking handgun that he was carrying pointed at the ground.
Oh, God.
He was a Latvian State Police Officer, and seemed that the Police service here was already being controlled by their Russian neighbours.
Barbara tried not to look terrified as the man stalked towards her, but it wasn't so easy. He certainly didn't look very friendly. He slowed to a halt about ten feet in front of her, motioned to her with his gun for her to come to him.
She didn't move. He started speaking to her in his language, and her heart started pounding wildly. She was pretty sure he wanted her to go over to him, but she couldn't get her legs to work.
He looked unamused as he continued his advancement on her.
“Nāc šurp …” he growled angrily as she started backing away, eyes darting about for any hope of a means of escape. No chance. Barbara yelped as he reached out and grabbed her by the hair none too gently, his gun coming to rest at the bottom of her jaw. She froze, her hands instinctively coming up to try to push him away but not daring to touch him.
The man didn't say anything for a while as he stood holding his fistful of lustrous dark hair. He seemed to be studying her face, enjoying her look of panic as he pressed the muzzle of his gun into her throat. He was tall, a part of her brain noticed, as he used the gun to tilt her head back so that she had to look up into his eyes, and she didn't dare break his stare.
His eyes were dark brown, and he had a scar over the left eye that left a distinct gap through his eyebrow.
"You're not from this country," he said softly, letting the gun trail down to her collarbone. "What are you doing here?"
Barbara had trouble understanding what he meant.
“Es tut mir leid, dass ich das nicht verstehe …“ She resorted to German in order to say that she did not understand.
Suspicions confirmed, the man tightened his grip in the girl's hair and pulled her closer, letting his thigh touch one of hers. "German?" he said in English, then shook his head at her silence.
"Not American, you don't talk enough. English?"
She nodded almost imperceptibly.
"Why are you here?" he asked, watching her reaction to his leg touching hers. She flinched, tried to pull away, but she was trapped between his gun and the hand in her hair. His accent was pretty strong, but his English pretty good. Barbara could understand him fine, but she didn't think it best to tell him why she was here, and kept up her pretence of only speaking her home tongue.
He was holding her close on purpose, the intention was to be threatening and he was certainly succeeding in that. She gasped softly as he let the gun play against the neckline of her coat, its barrel rubbing the top of one of her breasts for a moment. He smiled menacingly, enjoying her fear.
The girl was terrified, that much was obvious. Tough. He wanted answers from her regardless, and her fear turned him on.
Barbara whimpered as he leaned in and slid his mouth against her ear, the gun sliding down to rest against her thigh.
"One of two things can happen from here," he growled in English. "You answer my questions, or we play rough. I'm happy either way, but you won't be." He turned so that his unshaven face rubbed against her smooth cheek as he let himself smell her hair.
She smelled clean – she had bathed in the hotel last night - and feminine and utterly desirable. He smiled as she shuddered against him in response to his touch.
The man repeated his earlier question, and Barbara figured she had to say something in response. "I'm on holiday," she said, finally giving up and speaking a little English in response.
He snorted at that. "Of course you are," he replied sarcastically. "Why would anyone not want to come out here and visit hell on earth?" He leaned back a little and stared down at the shivering girl coldly.
"What is your name?"
Barbara didn't answer. After all she had been through, she would not give this man any information would endanger the person who had just helped her get this far. He sighed in annoyance at her refusal to answer his questions, then put his gun away, concealed somewhere behind his back.
"Do you have papers?" he asked, sliding his free hand over her hips in search of pockets.
Fuck! That question again.
He didn't find anything, so he searched higher, grinning at her moan of despair as his hand brushed the underside of her breasts. He felt the outline of something concealed in an inner pocket and slid his hands to the buttons of the coat, unfastening them without ceremony.
"Please don't!" she whispered as his hand slid inside, but he found nothing.
The cold was cutting in through her open coat, and her shivering increased in intensity. Barbara then gasped as he began pushing her towards a cold brick wall, at the mooring berth, and didn't stop until he was pressing into her from chest to thigh.
Barbara moaned softly as the man set himself against her and pinned her to the wall. She could feel solid muscle against her chest and was mortified to feel her cold-hardened nipples jutting into him through her thin layer of clothing.
"Last chance," he growled, his hand sliding under her coat to rest on her ribs. "Tell me why you're here, or we will start getting very friendly." To make certain that she understood the threat, he slid his palm against one of her breasts and stroked for a moment. The fabric of his leather gloves felt warm against her freezing skin.
Barbara's breath caught in her throat as the man used his palm to cup her breast and slid his thumb over her nipple. She shuddered in fear at the sensation and then whined in pain as he squeezed her teat so hard that it would have drawn blood had he used his teeth.
"So, you had better start to talk, because," he growled softly, his hand moving back down to rest on her hip. "I have some big bad soldiers here threatening to rape this pretty little girl, and she still doesn't want to say why she's here. Must be very important, don't you think?"
“Hey!” The shout came down from the boat at RPB 22.
“The Police Officer stopped what he was doing and looked up.”
“I’m sorry officer, she is my German niece and I said that I would take her with me to Sweden when I returned, I am so sorry that she had caused you trouble. Here see my papers please, I am a Swedish national and so I am very keen to leave and cause you no further trouble.”
Barbara looked up at the large, bearded man in the woolly hat and thick sweater and she could have hugged him.
TBC
Saved by the captain? That’s 2 episodes in a row now with Barb fully clothed at the beginning and end, and only giving up her body one time, and basically consensual? Have I accidentally swapped to a soft porn episode?
Great installment, @Fossy . I was breathless fearing Barb was on the verge of being handed over to the Russians again… Im unsure the next visit with Popov would be survivable at all.
But she’s by no means out of the woods… there’s still the Nazis after her as well!
Great installment, @Fossy . I was breathless fearing Barb was on the verge of being handed over to the Russians again… Im unsure the next visit with Popov would be survivable at all.
But she’s by no means out of the woods… there’s still the Nazis after her as well!