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Sexpionage II
- Thread starter Fossy
- Start date
old slave
FELIS RESPICIENS
Do you remember, as a kid, @Fossy that you tended to look at the pictures first, then read the article?
I must be regressing, since that was what I did when I saw this:
and I instantly thought "Suspicious Russian guy" before reading anything.
An excellent choice of subject for that composition; is he a known "suspicious guy"?
I must be regressing, since that was what I did when I saw this:
and I instantly thought "Suspicious Russian guy" before reading anything.
An excellent choice of subject for that composition; is he a known "suspicious guy"?
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
He is now Old One ...
movement.
It is a very very erotic detail to show her scars, This is a big part of why Kat’s my favourite, scarred from torture is hot to this perverted little slave…
Sharkman
Governor
Lion, I prefer it flawless, untainted, perfect. Maybe too much old fashioned, But not once in a Fossy story miracles perform. Hope Tomorrow Never Dies. And so it's always a thrill when reading this hot perfect slave Kat gets more and more flaws and stains. Knowing this satisfy her craving and perfection is only for phantasts.
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
The Safe House (4)
Grace Miller’s apartment, Tower Hamlets, London
She feels him only a second before it happens. It’s subtle, just a slight displacement of air behind her, an awareness of something not being right … a sense of sudden danger. The hairs on the back of Grace Miller’s neck rise, but it’s too late. One moment, she’s standing by the sink, and the next, a big hand is covering her mouth as a large, hard body traps her against the counter from the back.
“Don’t scream,” a deep male voice whispers in her ear, and something cold and sharp presses against her throat. “You don’t want my blade to slip.”
She doesn’t scream. Not because it’s the smart thing to do, but because she can’t make a sound. She’s frozen in place with cold steel pressing hard into her throat, utterly and completely paralysed. All of her muscles have locked, including her vocal cords, and her lungs have ceased to function.
“I’m going to remove my hand from your mouth,” he murmurs into her ear, his breath warm on her perspiring skin. “And you’re going to stay silent. Got it?”
Grace can’t so much as whimper, but she somehow manages a faint nod. He lowers his hand, his arm looping around her ribcage instead, and her lungs choose that moment to resume working. Without meaning to, she pulls in a wheezing breath. Immediately, the blade presses deeper into her skin, and the Special Agent holds perfectly still as she feels the heavy razor-sharp indentation against her jugular.
“I’m going to die. Oh God, I’m going to die here, in my own kitchen” her thoughts add to the growing fear she feels, confusing her thoughts about what to do next as she tries so hard to remain calm and figure a way out of this very precarious situation.
“I need you to listen to me, Grace Miller.” The intruder’s voice is soft, belying the knife digging into her throat. “If you cooperate, you’ll live. If you don’t, you’ll be leaving here in a body bag. It’s your choice.”
Live? A spark of hope cuts through the haze of panic in her brain, and she realises that his accent his most definitely Russian.
Russian. Fuck.
“What do you want?” Grace speaks clearly as the initial shock and panic begins to dissipate.
“Just a few answers,” he says, and the knife retreats slightly. Without the cold steel cutting into her skin, more of Grace’s panic subsides, and other details register, like the fact that her assailant is at least a head taller than she is and packed with muscle. The arm around her ribcage is like a steel band, and there’s no give in the large body pressing against her back, no hint of softness anywhere.
Grace is of average height for a woman, tall-ish even, but she’s slim and small-boned, and if he’s as muscular as she suspects, he must be almost double her weight. Even if he didn’t have the knife, she wouldn’t be able to get away.
“What kind of answers?” Her voice is a little steadier this time. Maybe he’s just here to rob her and all he needs is the whereabouts of her cards and purse … but, fuck no, he knew her name!
“We know that it was you who killed Colonel Tretykov, and we know why. But it is the bitch Novikova that we really want. So, I want you to tell me about your pretty little friend. Specifically, I need to know her location.”
“Kat?” Grace’s mind goes blank as a new fear bites into her. “W-what … why?”
The blade presses in. “I’m the one asking questions.”
“P-please,” she chokes out. She can’t think, can’t focus on anything but the knife. And then damn tears slide down her face, and she’s suddenly shaking all over.
“Please, I don’t …”
“Just answer my question. Where is Ekaterina Novikova?”
“I …” Oh God, what do I tell him? He must be SVR, working for Andreytov. Her heart is beating so fast she’s hyperventilating. “Please, I don’t… I haven’t …”
“Don’t lie to me, Grace. I need her location. Now.”
“I don’t know it, I swear. Please, we’re …” her voice cracks.
“They don’t tell me. I mean why would they? Please …” The arm around her ribcage tightens, and the knife digs in a fraction deeper.
“Do you want to die?”
“No. No, I don’t. Please …” She’s shaking harder now. After the time in Aleppo, there were days when Grace thought that she wanted to die, when the painful memories were overwhelming, but now that this blade is at her throat, she wants to live. She wants it so badly.
“Then tell me where she is.”
“I don’t know!” Her knees are threatening to buckle, but she can’t betray Kat like this. She can’t expose her to this monster and his colleagues back in Moscow.
“You’re lying.” Her assailant’s voice is pure ice. “I’ve read your messages. You know exactly where she is.”
“No, I …” Grace desperately tries to think of a plausible lie, but she can’t come up with one, and now she wishes that her friend, lover and former colleague had not broken protocol to get a message to her about her location. An encoded text on a burner phone …
Panic is acrid on her tongue as frantic questions plague her mind. How could he have read her messages? When? How long has he, have they, been monitoring her? Is he really one of them… SVR?
“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The knife presses in a hair’s breadth deeper, and Grace squeezes her eyes shut, her breath coming in sobbing gasps. Death is so close she can taste it, smell it … feel it with every fibre of her being.
To Be Continued …
Grace Miller’s apartment, Tower Hamlets, London
She feels him only a second before it happens. It’s subtle, just a slight displacement of air behind her, an awareness of something not being right … a sense of sudden danger. The hairs on the back of Grace Miller’s neck rise, but it’s too late. One moment, she’s standing by the sink, and the next, a big hand is covering her mouth as a large, hard body traps her against the counter from the back.
“Don’t scream,” a deep male voice whispers in her ear, and something cold and sharp presses against her throat. “You don’t want my blade to slip.”
She doesn’t scream. Not because it’s the smart thing to do, but because she can’t make a sound. She’s frozen in place with cold steel pressing hard into her throat, utterly and completely paralysed. All of her muscles have locked, including her vocal cords, and her lungs have ceased to function.
“I’m going to remove my hand from your mouth,” he murmurs into her ear, his breath warm on her perspiring skin. “And you’re going to stay silent. Got it?”
Grace can’t so much as whimper, but she somehow manages a faint nod. He lowers his hand, his arm looping around her ribcage instead, and her lungs choose that moment to resume working. Without meaning to, she pulls in a wheezing breath. Immediately, the blade presses deeper into her skin, and the Special Agent holds perfectly still as she feels the heavy razor-sharp indentation against her jugular.
“I’m going to die. Oh God, I’m going to die here, in my own kitchen” her thoughts add to the growing fear she feels, confusing her thoughts about what to do next as she tries so hard to remain calm and figure a way out of this very precarious situation.
“I need you to listen to me, Grace Miller.” The intruder’s voice is soft, belying the knife digging into her throat. “If you cooperate, you’ll live. If you don’t, you’ll be leaving here in a body bag. It’s your choice.”
Live? A spark of hope cuts through the haze of panic in her brain, and she realises that his accent his most definitely Russian.
Russian. Fuck.
“What do you want?” Grace speaks clearly as the initial shock and panic begins to dissipate.
“Just a few answers,” he says, and the knife retreats slightly. Without the cold steel cutting into her skin, more of Grace’s panic subsides, and other details register, like the fact that her assailant is at least a head taller than she is and packed with muscle. The arm around her ribcage is like a steel band, and there’s no give in the large body pressing against her back, no hint of softness anywhere.
Grace is of average height for a woman, tall-ish even, but she’s slim and small-boned, and if he’s as muscular as she suspects, he must be almost double her weight. Even if he didn’t have the knife, she wouldn’t be able to get away.
“What kind of answers?” Her voice is a little steadier this time. Maybe he’s just here to rob her and all he needs is the whereabouts of her cards and purse … but, fuck no, he knew her name!
“We know that it was you who killed Colonel Tretykov, and we know why. But it is the bitch Novikova that we really want. So, I want you to tell me about your pretty little friend. Specifically, I need to know her location.”
“Kat?” Grace’s mind goes blank as a new fear bites into her. “W-what … why?”
The blade presses in. “I’m the one asking questions.”
“P-please,” she chokes out. She can’t think, can’t focus on anything but the knife. And then damn tears slide down her face, and she’s suddenly shaking all over.
“Please, I don’t …”
“Just answer my question. Where is Ekaterina Novikova?”
“I …” Oh God, what do I tell him? He must be SVR, working for Andreytov. Her heart is beating so fast she’s hyperventilating. “Please, I don’t… I haven’t …”
“Don’t lie to me, Grace. I need her location. Now.”
“I don’t know it, I swear. Please, we’re …” her voice cracks.
“They don’t tell me. I mean why would they? Please …” The arm around her ribcage tightens, and the knife digs in a fraction deeper.
“Do you want to die?”
“No. No, I don’t. Please …” She’s shaking harder now. After the time in Aleppo, there were days when Grace thought that she wanted to die, when the painful memories were overwhelming, but now that this blade is at her throat, she wants to live. She wants it so badly.
“Then tell me where she is.”
“I don’t know!” Her knees are threatening to buckle, but she can’t betray Kat like this. She can’t expose her to this monster and his colleagues back in Moscow.
“You’re lying.” Her assailant’s voice is pure ice. “I’ve read your messages. You know exactly where she is.”
“No, I …” Grace desperately tries to think of a plausible lie, but she can’t come up with one, and now she wishes that her friend, lover and former colleague had not broken protocol to get a message to her about her location. An encoded text on a burner phone …
Panic is acrid on her tongue as frantic questions plague her mind. How could he have read her messages? When? How long has he, have they, been monitoring her? Is he really one of them… SVR?
“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The knife presses in a hair’s breadth deeper, and Grace squeezes her eyes shut, her breath coming in sobbing gasps. Death is so close she can taste it, smell it … feel it with every fibre of her being.
To Be Continued …
So you’re in the secret service, and your colleague sends you an encrypted message to tell you her whereabouts and even if she doesn’t say why, you know that the SVR is after her. And decide to leave yourself vulnerable enough that a single assailant can catch you out in the kitchen? Lucky Grace isn’t in intelligence because clearly she doesn’t have any!
Great episode, @Fossy - clearly poor Kat can’t make any good choices, despite my suggestions… I’m learning in a @Fossy story there’s no correct choices, just worse and worst ones.
I have no idea if you really wrote this chapter after my suggestion but it is flattering to think so, thus I’m going to believe I helped inspire you!
Now, what suggestion do I need to make to inspire you to share a full frontal render of Kat’s scarred body again? Mmmmm, I can just imagine that! Sorry, I seem to, er…, I have to go now!!!
Great episode, @Fossy - clearly poor Kat can’t make any good choices, despite my suggestions… I’m learning in a @Fossy story there’s no correct choices, just worse and worst ones.
I have no idea if you really wrote this chapter after my suggestion but it is flattering to think so, thus I’m going to believe I helped inspire you!
Now, what suggestion do I need to make to inspire you to share a full frontal render of Kat’s scarred body again? Mmmmm, I can just imagine that! Sorry, I seem to, er…, I have to go now!!!
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
There will be plenty more examples of Ekaterina's gorgeous and scarred body before we are through will this take my friendSo you’re in the secret service, and your colleague sends you an encrypted message to tell you her whereabouts and even if she doesn’t say why, you know that the SVR is after her. And decide to leave yourself vulnerable enough that a single assailant can catch you out in the kitchen? Lucky Grace isn’t in intelligence because clearly she doesn’t have any!
Great episode, @Fossy - clearly poor Kat can’t make any good choices, despite my suggestions… I’m learning in a @Fossy story there’s no correct choices, just worse and worst ones.
I have no idea if you really wrote this chapter after my suggestion but it is flattering to think so, thus I’m going to believe I helped inspire you!
Now, what suggestion do I need to make to inspire you to share a full frontal render of Kat’s scarred body again? Mmmmm, I can just imagine that! Sorry, I seem to, er…, I have to go now!!!
Sharkman
Governor
All again balanced on a knife-edge ... and weekend is coming. Perfect match. Special security team is looking after our beloved scratched Kat. Hope she isn't teasing them. And unspoiled easy-going Grace gets her first Russian knife scratching. Or did I miss a detail again? Where is SM-dino R. Moore again?
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Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
Moore is retired Shark' - he knows nothing about what is going on ...
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
The Safe House (5)
Grace Miller’s apartment, Tower Hamlets, London
It’s the metallic tang of blood and the cold sweat running down her back, the roar of her pulse in her temples that causes the aching tension in Grace’s quivering muscles. She’s convinced that he’ll nick her jugular, and she will bleed out, right here on her own kitchen floor.
Is this what she deserves? Is this how she atones for her sins?
“If I tell you my name then you know that I can never let you go Grace Miller.” He pauses and then adds, “Should I tell you? All you need to do is give me Novikova’s location and I will let you go, I promise.”
“Go to hell.”
Another pause, and then … “My name is Nikolay Dimitriev. There, now we both know who the other is.”
Grace clenches her teeth to prevent them from chattering, and then hears her attacker sigh. In the next instant, the knife is gone and she’s flipped over across the kitchen worktop. Her back hits the hard granite, and her head flops backwards into the sink, neck muscles screaming from the strain.
Gasping, Grace kicks out and tries to punch him, but he’s too strong and fast. In a flash, he leaps onto the counter and straddles her, pinning her in place with his weight. He secures her wrists with something hard and unbreakable, a cable tie, before gripping them with one hand, and no matter how hard the hapless girl struggles, she can’t do anything to get free. Her heels slide uselessly on the sleek surface, and her neck aches from holding such a strenuous position. She’s helpless, pinned down, and a new kind of panic washes over her.
Please, God, no. Anything but rape. It had taken so long to get over what happened in Aleppo, if it happened again …
“We’re going to try something different,” he says, and a piece of cloth drops over her face. “See if you’re truly willing to die for that bitch.”
Panting, Grace twists her head from side to side, trying to throw off the cloth, but it’s too long and wide, and she can barely breathe underneath it. Is he trying to suffocate her? Is that the plan? Then the water tap outlet twists and squeaks, and everything becomes clear.
“No!” she struggles harder, but he grips her hair with his free hand, holding Special Agent Miller under the faucet with her head arched back. The initial shock when the water hits isn’t so bad, but within seconds, the flow travels up her nose. her throat clenches, her lungs seize, and Grace’s whole body heaves as she gags and chokes. The panic is instinctive, uncontrollable. The rag is like a wet paw clamped over her nose and mouth, squeezing them shut.
The water fills her nostrils, it’s in her throat. She’s suffocating, drowning … can’t breathe, can’t breathe… The tap turns off, and the cloth is yanked off her face. Coughing and spluttering, she sucks in air, sobbing and wheezing. Her whole body is a gasping, trembling mess, and white spots dance through her vision.
Before she can recover, the cloth is slapped over her face again, and the water is turned back on. This time, it’s even worse. Her nasal passages burn, and her lungs scream for air. Grace is heaving and gagging, choking and crying. She really can’t breathe.
‘Oh, God, I’m dying …’ a single thought in her otherwise addled mind. In the next instant, the cloth is gone, and she is convulsively dragging in air.
“Tell me where Novikova is, and I’ll stop.” His voice is a dark whisper above her.
“I don’t know! Really. Please!” Grace can taste the vomit in her throat, and she knows that he will do it again.
It was easy to be brave with the knife, but not this. Despite her training and experience Grace does not want to die like this.
“Last chance,” her tormentor says softly, and the wet cloth drops over her face once more. The tap begins to squeak as he slowly turns it and the flow begins to slowly drip.
“Stop! Please!” The scream is wrenched out of Grace’s throat. “I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you.”
The water turns off, and the cloth is pulled off her face.
“Speak.”
Grace is sobbing and coughing too hard to form a coherent sentence, so he pulls her away from the counter to the floor and crouches so that he can encircle her in his arms. To someone looking in, it might’ve seemed like a consoling embrace or a lover’s protective hold … it was anything but that. Adding to the illusion, her torturer’s voice is soft and gentle as he croons into her ear, “Tell me, Grace. Tell me what I want to know, and I’ll leave.”
“She’s …” The Special Agent stops a second from blurting out the truth. The instinct inside her demands survival at all costs, but she can’t do this. She can’t lead this monster to Kat.
“She’s abroad on a secret mission, even I don’t know where …” Grace chokes out. It’s a lie, and apparently not a good one, because the arms around her body tighten, nearly crushing her bones.
“Don’t fucking bullshit me.” The soft lilt in his voice is gone, replaced by biting rage. ‘Where is she hiding?”
“I …I don’t …” Her assailant rises to his feet, pulling her up with him, and she struggles as he drags her back toward the sink.
“No! Please, no!” Grace writhes for all she is worth as he lifts her onto the granite, her bound hands swinging as she tries to claw at his face. Her heels drum on the worktop as he straddles her, pinning her in place again, and bile rises in her throat as he grips her hair, pulling her head back into the sink.
“Stop!”
“Tell me the truth, and I’ll stop.”
“I … I can’t. Please, I can’t!” The wet cloth slaps over Grace’s face covering her pretty features, and her throat seizes in panic. The water is still off, but in her head, she is already drowning.
“Fuck!” She’s abruptly yanked off the counter and onto the floor, where she collapses in a shaking heap. Only this time, there are no arms to restrain her, and Grace gradually realises as he steps away that she should get up and run. But her hands are tied and she can’t make her legs function. All she can manage is a pathetic roll to the side, followed by an attempt at a crawl. The fear is blinding, disorienting, and Grace can’t see anything clearly.
Run, she wills her limp, shaking muscles. Get up and run. Sucking in air, she grabs at something … a countertop corner, and pulls herself up to her feet. Only it’s too late; he’s already on her, the hard band of his arm wrapping around her ribcage as he grabs his victim from behind.
“Let’s see if this works better,” he whispers, and something cold and sharp stabs grace in the neck. A needle, she realises with a jolt of terror as her consciousness fades away.
To Be Continued …
Grace Miller’s apartment, Tower Hamlets, London
It’s the metallic tang of blood and the cold sweat running down her back, the roar of her pulse in her temples that causes the aching tension in Grace’s quivering muscles. She’s convinced that he’ll nick her jugular, and she will bleed out, right here on her own kitchen floor.
Is this what she deserves? Is this how she atones for her sins?
“If I tell you my name then you know that I can never let you go Grace Miller.” He pauses and then adds, “Should I tell you? All you need to do is give me Novikova’s location and I will let you go, I promise.”
“Go to hell.”
Another pause, and then … “My name is Nikolay Dimitriev. There, now we both know who the other is.”
Grace clenches her teeth to prevent them from chattering, and then hears her attacker sigh. In the next instant, the knife is gone and she’s flipped over across the kitchen worktop. Her back hits the hard granite, and her head flops backwards into the sink, neck muscles screaming from the strain.
Gasping, Grace kicks out and tries to punch him, but he’s too strong and fast. In a flash, he leaps onto the counter and straddles her, pinning her in place with his weight. He secures her wrists with something hard and unbreakable, a cable tie, before gripping them with one hand, and no matter how hard the hapless girl struggles, she can’t do anything to get free. Her heels slide uselessly on the sleek surface, and her neck aches from holding such a strenuous position. She’s helpless, pinned down, and a new kind of panic washes over her.
Please, God, no. Anything but rape. It had taken so long to get over what happened in Aleppo, if it happened again …
“We’re going to try something different,” he says, and a piece of cloth drops over her face. “See if you’re truly willing to die for that bitch.”
Panting, Grace twists her head from side to side, trying to throw off the cloth, but it’s too long and wide, and she can barely breathe underneath it. Is he trying to suffocate her? Is that the plan? Then the water tap outlet twists and squeaks, and everything becomes clear.
“No!” she struggles harder, but he grips her hair with his free hand, holding Special Agent Miller under the faucet with her head arched back. The initial shock when the water hits isn’t so bad, but within seconds, the flow travels up her nose. her throat clenches, her lungs seize, and Grace’s whole body heaves as she gags and chokes. The panic is instinctive, uncontrollable. The rag is like a wet paw clamped over her nose and mouth, squeezing them shut.
The water fills her nostrils, it’s in her throat. She’s suffocating, drowning … can’t breathe, can’t breathe… The tap turns off, and the cloth is yanked off her face. Coughing and spluttering, she sucks in air, sobbing and wheezing. Her whole body is a gasping, trembling mess, and white spots dance through her vision.
Before she can recover, the cloth is slapped over her face again, and the water is turned back on. This time, it’s even worse. Her nasal passages burn, and her lungs scream for air. Grace is heaving and gagging, choking and crying. She really can’t breathe.
‘Oh, God, I’m dying …’ a single thought in her otherwise addled mind. In the next instant, the cloth is gone, and she is convulsively dragging in air.
“Tell me where Novikova is, and I’ll stop.” His voice is a dark whisper above her.
“I don’t know! Really. Please!” Grace can taste the vomit in her throat, and she knows that he will do it again.
It was easy to be brave with the knife, but not this. Despite her training and experience Grace does not want to die like this.
“Last chance,” her tormentor says softly, and the wet cloth drops over her face once more. The tap begins to squeak as he slowly turns it and the flow begins to slowly drip.
“Stop! Please!” The scream is wrenched out of Grace’s throat. “I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you.”
The water turns off, and the cloth is pulled off her face.
“Speak.”
Grace is sobbing and coughing too hard to form a coherent sentence, so he pulls her away from the counter to the floor and crouches so that he can encircle her in his arms. To someone looking in, it might’ve seemed like a consoling embrace or a lover’s protective hold … it was anything but that. Adding to the illusion, her torturer’s voice is soft and gentle as he croons into her ear, “Tell me, Grace. Tell me what I want to know, and I’ll leave.”
“She’s …” The Special Agent stops a second from blurting out the truth. The instinct inside her demands survival at all costs, but she can’t do this. She can’t lead this monster to Kat.
“She’s abroad on a secret mission, even I don’t know where …” Grace chokes out. It’s a lie, and apparently not a good one, because the arms around her body tighten, nearly crushing her bones.
“Don’t fucking bullshit me.” The soft lilt in his voice is gone, replaced by biting rage. ‘Where is she hiding?”
“I …I don’t …” Her assailant rises to his feet, pulling her up with him, and she struggles as he drags her back toward the sink.
“No! Please, no!” Grace writhes for all she is worth as he lifts her onto the granite, her bound hands swinging as she tries to claw at his face. Her heels drum on the worktop as he straddles her, pinning her in place again, and bile rises in her throat as he grips her hair, pulling her head back into the sink.
“Stop!”
“Tell me the truth, and I’ll stop.”
“I … I can’t. Please, I can’t!” The wet cloth slaps over Grace’s face covering her pretty features, and her throat seizes in panic. The water is still off, but in her head, she is already drowning.
“Fuck!” She’s abruptly yanked off the counter and onto the floor, where she collapses in a shaking heap. Only this time, there are no arms to restrain her, and Grace gradually realises as he steps away that she should get up and run. But her hands are tied and she can’t make her legs function. All she can manage is a pathetic roll to the side, followed by an attempt at a crawl. The fear is blinding, disorienting, and Grace can’t see anything clearly.
Run, she wills her limp, shaking muscles. Get up and run. Sucking in air, she grabs at something … a countertop corner, and pulls herself up to her feet. Only it’s too late; he’s already on her, the hard band of his arm wrapping around her ribcage as he grabs his victim from behind.
“Let’s see if this works better,” he whispers, and something cold and sharp stabs grace in the neck. A needle, she realises with a jolt of terror as her consciousness fades away.
To Be Continued …
Fantastic waterboarding scene, I can feel that damp cloth against my face with my hands tied and held firmly under the faucet! I’ll give Grace fair measure for bravery although I thought she was a better fighter? And then the sting of a syringe to her neck… what can I say? Oh I know:
“No worries, Ekaterina, you can relax and be unguarded in the safe house. Relax, girl, sleep in that flimsy gossamer negligee at peace. Nothing’s going to happen, especially given Grace will also be watching out for your welfare after your clever text!”
“No worries, Ekaterina, you can relax and be unguarded in the safe house. Relax, girl, sleep in that flimsy gossamer negligee at peace. Nothing’s going to happen, especially given Grace will also be watching out for your welfare after your clever text!”
Wow! I’ll never look at a granite kitchen countertop in quite the same way again!!!
Sharkman
Governor
Fossy, you know most of all accidents occur in the kitchen ... and even R. Moore has to eat it.
... I know as always in these romance stories ... after dinner they change to the bedroom. The Spy Who Loved Me (1977).
That's why I'm very eager to read next what you have in store for us.
... I know as always in these romance stories ... after dinner they change to the bedroom. The Spy Who Loved Me (1977).
That's why I'm very eager to read next what you have in store for us.
Sharkman
Governor
Batb, you never tried to rest on a granite kitchen countertop with a wet cloth over ypur face? Seems to be and old Russian tradition.
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
The Safe House (6)
In the basement of the Zima Russian Restaurant, Soho London
Special Agent Grace Miller tried to move and failed. A wave of nausea came over her and she was sick. The thin liquid splashed down onto her chest and the girl moved a hand to wipe herself, but failed. She was bound to a chair. Spitting to clear her mouth, vomit remained in her nasal passage, and the smell made her gag again.
This time, unlike when she had been surprised in her apartment, her training kicked in, and Grace regulated her breathing, working around the panic and concentrating on longer, slower breaths, feeling her heart-rate slowing as she did. The thudding in her chest receded, allowing her mind to assess her situation rationally.
She’d been taken by Dimitriev. Even knowing his abilities as she now did, Grace was surprised at how easily he’d done it. She surveyed her surroundings. A basement, which, apart from a pile of large white containers in one corner, was empty of everything save the chair she was on and an old, stained wooden table … she had no idea of the time.
Special Agent Miller looked down to examine herself. She was seated on a heavy chair, and bound so firmly that she knew there was little point in straining against her bonds.
Secured for interrogation. It was the secret nightmare of every agent, to find the tables turned, to be the interrogated instead of the interrogator, the accused instead of the accuser. It was a situation that Special Agent Grace Miller had the misfortune to be very familiar with.
Grace felt the panic threaten once more, and forced herself to change her thinking, to consider every option for escape, no matter how small. She needed to believe it was possible to reason with Dimitriev, he hadn’t covered her head or gagged her. It was a good sign – a sign that he wanted to talk, at least for now.
Then her abductor re-appeared with a kit bag and a bucket of water. He cleaned her face with a damp cloth, then wiped the vomit from her blouse.
“Now we talk.” His tone was distant, clinical.
“How did you find me?” she asked, hoping to begin a conversation, a link, any connection to her would-be interrogator, her potential executioner.
“Very easily.” He answered, in matter-of-fact tone. Dimitriev unzipped the kit bag revealing pliers, a chisel, a scalpel, the handgrip of what looked like a Glock pistol, and a what appeared to be a sort of battery … an electricity generator. Fuck!
“I want to know the whereabouts of Ekaterina Novikova. She has been taken to a safe house and I need to know where. You will tell me Grace.”
“I don’t know, really I don’t.”
“You should know better than to try and evade my questions, Miss Miller. Tell me what I need to know and and make this easier for both of us.”
“You’ll kill me afterwards.”
“Yes. But tell me quickly and your death will be swift and painless, that much I promise you.”
Grace felt nauseous. He was bluffing. They were on UK soil, he wouldn’t kill her … couldn’t kill her … could he?
“The real truth is I don’t know the answer to your question.”
“Where is she?”
“Really … I don’t have an answer for you, I swear,” Grace said quietly.
“Don’t make this difficult,” he repeated, his voice lower, menacing. Dimitriev took the scissors from his bag. She closed her eyes, preparing for the first cut, but he only cut away her shirt, discarding it on the floor, exposing her naked breasts and hardening nipples to his gaze.
“A victim who is naked is more likely to comply, right?” Grace said, citing an interrogation fact well known to her assailant. “Do you really think that being naked will worry me? After all the training I was given, and what I’ve been through?”
“Your body is still very beautiful. It will be a shame to disfigure it,” he replied, taking a packet of Lambert and Butler cigarettes and a box of matches from his kit bag. He lit a smoke and, she noticed, inhaled deeply. He was steadying his nerves for what he was about to do. Maybe he really didn’t want to hurt her anymore. That was important to know, it could save her life. Grace had to change his mind now. Once the torture began, she was more likely to end up dead. A tortured victim becomes less than human in her captor’s eyes, easier to kill.
“This is your last chance to die cleanly,” he said, seizing her hair suddenly, the speed of his hand and the power of his grip as shocking as it was painful. He was close to her now, close enough that if she were to attempt an escape, now was the time, but Dimitriev’s face and neck were out of her reach and any attempt to bite him would have been fruitless, merely angering him. He brought the cigarette close to her breasts. She could feel the first prickling of the heat on her skin, a sensation that would soon be amplified a thousand times.
“Torture me and I’ll give you locations, all sorts of locations, as many as you want Mister Dimitriev, but they won’t be the right ones. I really don’t have the answer you seek.”
They were brave words, and the man nodded stepping away and throwing the cigarette aside. Reaching into his bag he pulled out the pistol – a Glock as she’d thought – and held it to her temple.
“Tell me or don’t tell me, it’s up to you. Either way, you’re going to die. Tell me and I’ll shoot you in the head. Don’t tell me and I’ll begin to use these tools. It’s up to you.”
Then, before Grace could even react, his mobile phone rang.
To Be Continued …
In the basement of the Zima Russian Restaurant, Soho London
Special Agent Grace Miller tried to move and failed. A wave of nausea came over her and she was sick. The thin liquid splashed down onto her chest and the girl moved a hand to wipe herself, but failed. She was bound to a chair. Spitting to clear her mouth, vomit remained in her nasal passage, and the smell made her gag again.
This time, unlike when she had been surprised in her apartment, her training kicked in, and Grace regulated her breathing, working around the panic and concentrating on longer, slower breaths, feeling her heart-rate slowing as she did. The thudding in her chest receded, allowing her mind to assess her situation rationally.
She’d been taken by Dimitriev. Even knowing his abilities as she now did, Grace was surprised at how easily he’d done it. She surveyed her surroundings. A basement, which, apart from a pile of large white containers in one corner, was empty of everything save the chair she was on and an old, stained wooden table … she had no idea of the time.
Special Agent Miller looked down to examine herself. She was seated on a heavy chair, and bound so firmly that she knew there was little point in straining against her bonds.
Secured for interrogation. It was the secret nightmare of every agent, to find the tables turned, to be the interrogated instead of the interrogator, the accused instead of the accuser. It was a situation that Special Agent Grace Miller had the misfortune to be very familiar with.
Grace felt the panic threaten once more, and forced herself to change her thinking, to consider every option for escape, no matter how small. She needed to believe it was possible to reason with Dimitriev, he hadn’t covered her head or gagged her. It was a good sign – a sign that he wanted to talk, at least for now.
Then her abductor re-appeared with a kit bag and a bucket of water. He cleaned her face with a damp cloth, then wiped the vomit from her blouse.
“Now we talk.” His tone was distant, clinical.
“How did you find me?” she asked, hoping to begin a conversation, a link, any connection to her would-be interrogator, her potential executioner.
“Very easily.” He answered, in matter-of-fact tone. Dimitriev unzipped the kit bag revealing pliers, a chisel, a scalpel, the handgrip of what looked like a Glock pistol, and a what appeared to be a sort of battery … an electricity generator. Fuck!
“I want to know the whereabouts of Ekaterina Novikova. She has been taken to a safe house and I need to know where. You will tell me Grace.”
“I don’t know, really I don’t.”
“You should know better than to try and evade my questions, Miss Miller. Tell me what I need to know and and make this easier for both of us.”
“You’ll kill me afterwards.”
“Yes. But tell me quickly and your death will be swift and painless, that much I promise you.”
Grace felt nauseous. He was bluffing. They were on UK soil, he wouldn’t kill her … couldn’t kill her … could he?
“The real truth is I don’t know the answer to your question.”
“Where is she?”
“Really … I don’t have an answer for you, I swear,” Grace said quietly.
“Don’t make this difficult,” he repeated, his voice lower, menacing. Dimitriev took the scissors from his bag. She closed her eyes, preparing for the first cut, but he only cut away her shirt, discarding it on the floor, exposing her naked breasts and hardening nipples to his gaze.
“A victim who is naked is more likely to comply, right?” Grace said, citing an interrogation fact well known to her assailant. “Do you really think that being naked will worry me? After all the training I was given, and what I’ve been through?”
“Your body is still very beautiful. It will be a shame to disfigure it,” he replied, taking a packet of Lambert and Butler cigarettes and a box of matches from his kit bag. He lit a smoke and, she noticed, inhaled deeply. He was steadying his nerves for what he was about to do. Maybe he really didn’t want to hurt her anymore. That was important to know, it could save her life. Grace had to change his mind now. Once the torture began, she was more likely to end up dead. A tortured victim becomes less than human in her captor’s eyes, easier to kill.
“This is your last chance to die cleanly,” he said, seizing her hair suddenly, the speed of his hand and the power of his grip as shocking as it was painful. He was close to her now, close enough that if she were to attempt an escape, now was the time, but Dimitriev’s face and neck were out of her reach and any attempt to bite him would have been fruitless, merely angering him. He brought the cigarette close to her breasts. She could feel the first prickling of the heat on her skin, a sensation that would soon be amplified a thousand times.
“Torture me and I’ll give you locations, all sorts of locations, as many as you want Mister Dimitriev, but they won’t be the right ones. I really don’t have the answer you seek.”
They were brave words, and the man nodded stepping away and throwing the cigarette aside. Reaching into his bag he pulled out the pistol – a Glock as she’d thought – and held it to her temple.
“Tell me or don’t tell me, it’s up to you. Either way, you’re going to die. Tell me and I’ll shoot you in the head. Don’t tell me and I’ll begin to use these tools. It’s up to you.”
Then, before Grace could even react, his mobile phone rang.
To Be Continued …