Iranian Captive (7)
The home of Omid Nazari, Darbandsar, Rudbar-e Qasran District, Tehran, Iran
The Bedroom …
“Come Stefani, your little girl awaits, and my men are more than ready to accommodate her. You and I will have ringside seats to watch how this bitch is abused for our pleasure.”
“But Omid can’t you let them have another, a different girl maybe. My bosses have paid you a lot of money for the Spy slut.” Grace knew that suggesting a different girl in Cat’s place wasn’t the most moralistic thing to do but she needed to try and get her colleague out of this final, horrific, gang-abuse.
But it was to no avail.
“No, the deal is done Stefani, now come.”
“You go. I will join you in a few minutes. I am not quite ready.” Grace’s authentic Germanic-Turkish accent was perfect and she had long since established the trust of Omid Nazari.
“If you have not joined me in ten minutes you will unite with the western bitch in servicing my men.” Nazari grinned … Grace knew that this heartless monster was only half joking.
The Basement …
Seven of them. Cat’s mind could not quite wrap itself around what was about to happen. She had barely recovered from the heartless whipping in the snow, and she certainly didn’t have enough holes to satisfy all of these men, certainly not with her hands shackled at the small of her back and in the position she maintained currently.
Nazari’s men didn’t waste any time in educating Cat as to what they had planned. They were to take it in turns, lining up waiting patiently, each of the seven men stroked their erections. She was given every opportunity to look at each one, their varying sizes, colours, thicknesses; some with a foreskin, some without. It made her shudder and cringe to know that shortly she would be entertaining each and every one of them.
The Bedroom …
In addition to rescuing Catherine Lavigne, Grace had a second objective on her mission. The initial transmission of data by Agent Cat from Azerbaijan had been undermined when her cover was blown and the information sent was incorrect. Grace was now at the top of the chain of Terrorist command having infiltrated Nazari’s very own home and she was determined to rectify the initial misleading communication.
“Come on, fucking hell phone, come on.” Special Agent Miller cursed in well spoken tones as she waited for her phone to initialise the 5G secure hotspot that she could connect her nano-stick device to. Over the past week Grace had several opportunities to check Nazari’s phone. For such an important man his ego really did rule him, because he thought nothing of taking a long sniff of white powder after sex and flaking out for several hours, leaving his clothes and phone for Grace to rifle through undetected.
And so now she had a wealth of information about this bastard’s human trafficking network and also his funding of Terrorist activity, particularly how he aimed to facilitate Iranian movements around the enclave of Nagorno-Karabakh.
“Yes!” her word of triumph was quiet as the network kicked in and the all important data began its transmission back to HQ.
The Basement …
The first man was short, stumpy almost. He stepped forward; a fist wrapped around his less than impressive length, but what he lacked in that respect he made up for in girth. Cat, now positioned face down, felt an oily liquid poured over her asshole and then a warm hand rubbed vigorously; a perfunctory action to be sure, not meant for pleasure but to ensure coverage of the lubricant they had applied. The short man thrust in, hands gripped her hips and with a grunt he began to pound Cat with a surprising urgency.
“Pl … please …” The bound Agent begged quietly.
Her face grated against the wooden top of the table to which she was bound and in moments the motion caused a sheen of perspiration to coat her still scarred skin, sweat that trickled in places, sliding down in rivulets leaving wet tracks in their wake.
Another of the monsters, the hapless captive presumed, since Stumpy already had his hands full, pushed the tip of a plug at her tight puckered opening and with every thrust, stretched the constricted hole until the thick width had passed the first ring of her ass-muscle and its tapered neck and base sat neatly in place.
Cat began to groan, each sound punctuating the slap of flesh on flesh. Her eyes closed, adjusting to the sensation of being so filled was no mean feat and the plug burned while stretching her with every single thrust of Stumpy’s groin. The man’s movements altered, becoming more frenetic and uneven, indicative of his release just a few moments later.
Cat, of course, had yet to achieve any kind of climax but as she had already been taught, several times over the past week, that her incarceration was not meant to be pleasurable, it was designed to gratify others. She was a tool, a device, albeit a living one, to provide men with hot, wet, open holes to use and abuse.
As he pulled away, Stumpy’s cock was replaced by another. This time Cat did not see to whom it belonged but it was far longer, bringing tears to her eyes on his first energetic thrust. His heavily calloused hands, gripped her hips and tugged the bound girl back toward him. Cat could hear sounds of others around her, their breathing ragged and uneven, sniffles, moans, and grunts of appreciation with murmurs of encouragement.
Not that this second man needed any. This one behaved as though he was a well-greased piston, no erratic jerking motions, all smoothness and slick with oil, and no doubt Cat’s own personal lubrication was causing her unwitting but ever-rising arousal.
Agent Lavigne’s eyes rolled within their sockets leaving only the whites visible, her orgasm, whilst close, seemed to be held at bay and she groaned, the noise cushioned by the tight ball-gag, while she undulated, incapable of stillness.
“Look at the slut, she wants it, she wants more.” The owner of that voice was Nazari himself, who was close enough that Cat could feel his breath against her torso while hands, presumably his, groped and mauled at her breasts, tweaking, twisting and pulling on the nipples until the delicate nubs became stretched uncomfortably.
“Ah, Stefani, you are here I was beginning to get worried …” Nazari spoke again making it clear that Grace Miller had entered the room. And that’s when Cat’s orgasm hit hard, strong, and fast, triggering muscle spasms that contracted tightly around the embedded plug and the thick cock impaling her pussy. This, in turn, appeared to summon her tormentor’s release because within moments his creamy load joined the first and began spilling down Agent Cat’s slender inner thighs refreshing his predecessor’s donation.
Another cock, this one smaller but no less effective, drove quickly home.
The bound girl’s orgasm, not yet complete, seemed never-ending. One hand slapped against her wet pussy, the other gripped her flank enabling the long, rigid shaft to smoothly slide into her clenching canal.
Fingers deftly unbuckled the gag, its ball popping free permitting Cat to lick her lips, jaw aching from having been held open for even this short duration. All the while the thick length maintained a steady rhythm, not urgent, a slow easy tempo that deliciously elongated her climax, seamlessly merging it with another leaving the bound girl mindless with feral lust.
Another of the bastards sat in front of her, unceremoniously shoving her face down to where his tumescent cock, still dripping with cum was, slapped against her cheek.
“Open.”
She did, and his dripping tip pushed into her mouth replacing the ball gag and slid all the way back to immediately trigger Cat’s gag reflex. It came as no surprise to the hapless Agent Lavigne to feel the plug being wiggled free of its tight confines then replaced with a warm human version that slid home with relative ease.
Outside the home of Omid Nazari, Darbandsar, Rudbar-e Qasran District, Tehran, Iran
“We must do business again sometime Miss Grabowski, this past week has been delicious.”
Fuck you, you ass-hole … were the words that stayed inside Grace’s head. What she actually said was,
“We must Omid, and we will.” Moving to him she wrapped her arms his neck and kissed him long and hard. His hand slipped down to cup Special Agent Miller’s firm ass, but she gripped his wrist and moved it away.
“I really do have to go Omid.” Grace was driving the black SUV that had arrived for her, supposedly from her ‘bosses’, but in reality, courtesy of MI6, the 340 kilometres to the Iranian Port of Behsahr, whereupon she and Cat would be collected by a small modernised Israeli Frigate flying under the flag of Azerbaijan, and taken to safety.
As Grace approached the SUV, she looked through the tinted window onto the back seat. Agent Catherine Lavigne, freshly abused and gang-raped, lay in a welcome, and hopefully restorative, stupor. The Special Agent had watched helplessly on as her colleague had been taken by all of Nazari’s guards, many more than once. But she had survived, the desired intelligence had been sent back home, and it would not be long now before they were back in the realms of safety.
To be concluded in the Epilogue PARTS I and II …
