That's the spirit, Grace! You tell him!
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Sexpionage IV
- Thread starter Fossy
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Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
Coming Apart (2)
A little further back in time, before Chapter 01 …
The one-bedroom apartment of Grace Miller, Hospital Lane, Canterbury, Kent, UK …
SEVEN MONTHS and almost one week after Jase had left Grace, and his family, behind in the UK to be with CIA Agent Barbara Moore in the US … (see Crucifying an Angel).
“He’s mine now, Grace …” The smiling, smug face of Barbara Moore grinned at Grace Miller, an expression which pushed her over the edge. She moved as if to raise her fist and punch the American whore who had stolen her husband, but her arms wouldn’t move.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
“No, fuck, nooooo stop! Grace looked down as nails were being hammered through her hands, securing her to the large wooden chair with the spiked seat, and suddenly she discovered that she was bare ass naked.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
“Please … stop! STOPPPPPPPP!”
Grace awoke, braced for impact … but found that she was in her own bed. The nightmare ended, but the KNOCKING continued … the sound coming from her front door. It was still dark; 5:35 AM showed on the nightstand clock as she gripped the Glock G17 pistol beside it.
Upon immediate reflection, if this was danger then the would-be assassin surely wouldn’t knock.
She padded barefoot out of the bedroom, through the living area and into the small reception hall, wearing nothing but a cropped white vest over a pair of tight pink panties.
The peephole confirmed her assumption. She unlocked and opened the door to a man.
“Time for us to talk again,” he said, barging past her.
“Yes, it is. Because I asked you never to come here, and maybe I need to re-affirm that, Caddis.” Grace spoke in the clipped tones reflective of her upper-class upbringing. Stephen Caddis, former gang leader and drug dealer and now MI6 Off-The-Grid Handler, entered Grace’s apartment uninvited. Fit and toned, with short hair, he wasn’t unattractive, but he was rough and ready and ridiculously socially inept. He wore a black leather jacket, over a white button-down shirt and jeans.
Many women found him attractive. Grace wasn’t one of them.
“This is my home. My private life. I didn’t agree to invasions of either.”
“You agreed to serve me,” Caddis said.
“I agreed to serve my country.” Grace replied.
“As far as you’re concerned, I am your country now. That’s the brief I have from Chief Moore.”
Grace entered her small but neat and tidy kitchen and flipped on the light. When she opened the refrigerator and bent to retrieve a bottle of water, she sensed Caddis contemplating her nudity under the thin tank-top.
“I would offer to make you coffee,” she said. “But you might stay longer than absolutely necessary.” Grace paused and stood upright to take a long drink from the open bottle. “You know that I can pick the phone up to Roger Moore at any time, don’t you?”
Caddis grinned shaking his head. “That was the old Special Agent Grace Miller. You’re working off the grid now Miss Miller and that means that Roger Moore is obligated to keep his distance from you at all times. Your only lifeline is me.” His grin just got wider.
Grace sighed. “So, this couldn’t be done during normal working hours.”
“Semper Occultus,” Miller, ‘always in secret’, he said somewhat cryptically.
“Fucking hell, Caddis, don’t start pretending to be educated!”
Caddis sat at the kitchen table, took out and lit a cigarette.
“No, really; it’s fine,” she said. “Go ahead and smoke in my house. I don’t mind.” She threw open the window over the sink, retrieved a saucer from a cupboard, and tossed it on the table for ashtray duty, before muttering, “Fucking asshole.”
Caddis opened his briefing wallet, removed a tablet, and placed it on the table.
“Your first mission …”
Grace smirked, and uttered a sardonic chuckle. “Yeah right …” she muttered. It was indeed her first assignment as an Off the Grid Agent working on black ops for MI6, but of course she was a very experienced Agent from times gone by.
“You leave for Budapest on the five thirty BA flight from Heathrow.” he said, as he opened a folder on the tablet’s desktop and a man’s unflattering headshot photo appeared.
“You mean tonight?”
He nodded.
Realising that was all he was going to say, Grace turned her attention back to the screen. “Ugh. Who’s the pretty boy?”
“That fat snake is Mr. Grzegorz Barta. We will discuss him in a moment.”
“Can’t wait. Ok, I’m going to Budapest. What’s my cover?”
Caddis grinned. “Hooker, stripper, prostitute.”
Grace shook her head with a resigned sigh. “Saying that turns you on doesn’t it, you fucking animal.”
“Now, now Miss Miller,” … off the grid operatives were not officially classified as Agents …
“… what else could you be working as in one of the sex capitals of Eastern Europe, and …”
Grace exhaled, before cutting in. “… and this fat pig is a disgusting whore-monger who spends most of his time in strip clubs and lap dancing bars.”
Stephen Caddis took a long final drag on his cigarette, before stubbing it out on the saucer. “You’re good Miller, very good. That is precisely what he does.”
Caddis blew out the residual smoke and continued. “… and that is how you will make contact with him. Barta not only frequents those places he actually owns one, the biggest one.”
Caddis let the screen transition. “The Leopard V is officially for strippers and lapdancing, but it’s also a well known brothel, one that operates under the noses of the local police.”
“Most likely because most of the high up coppers over there are customers.” Grace rolled her eyes.
“Probably,” Caddis agreed, then added, “… and it’s a cover for drugs and trafficking.”
He swiped the tablet to a new page showing several more photos. “You will be provided with a small apartment located near The Leopard V. Fully, but sparsely, furnished. Fitting for a slutty whore.”
He grinned at Grace, who simply muttered, “Pig.”
“Can I take my Glock?”
It was now Caddis’ turn to exhale. “We didn’t have time to obtain a concealed weapons license for you. Therefore, you can, but I would not recommend getting frisked by any local authorities.”
Grace grinned, knowing how intrusive a frisking can be. “I wouldn’t recommend that either.”
“The apartment also contains an encrypted cell phone for secure communications. Also, eight million Hungarian Forint in cash.”
Grace laughed, “Oooh, I’m a millionaire!”
“It’s around twenty-two grand in sterling Miller,” her handler replied, stony faced.
“Yes Caddis, I have a degree from Oxford University, I know how much it’s really worth. I guess that’s to cover everything expense wise, is it?”
“Well, once you get yourself into the club, you can earn …”
“Wait … what? You mean you haven’t set the job up already for me?”
Caddis laughed, “We couldn’t Miller, authenticity is required. You need to get yourself an audition and put on a slutty show for the management. It’ll be fine, you’re a natural!” As he said this his eyes lasered in on her braless breasts and the points of her nipples pushing at the thin white fabric.
“Okay, now tell me the interesting part.” Grace, sticking her chest out to provoke Caddis just that little bit more, swiped the tablet back to the man’s photo. “Who is he, and why am I making contact with him?”
“He is an enemy of the State.”
“Can you be a little more vague, please?”
“Barta is a people trafficker. He has several ‘cargo’ flights scheduled from a private airfield in Budapest, plus … and this we’re not absolutely certain about, he is planning to route several Tomahawk surface-to-air missiles from the US, through Budapest and onto Moscow. I don’t need to spell out why this cannot be allowed to happen.”
“And what’s my job? Bring him in, or …”
“Execute him Miller. Without him and his contacts the deal will fall flat.”
“Can’t we just ask the US authorities to pick him up and hold him for us?”
“Significant American friends of ours do not wish Mr. Barta’s existence to even be acknowledged, and so we have agreed to be the providers of his ‘execution’. Plausible deniability for them, and nothing for you to concern yourself with Miss Miller.”
Grace sighed. “So, I need to get to this guy, gain his trust, get him alone and kill him?”
“That’s about it, Miller, yes, and how you do that is entirely up to you, within the confines of your cover of course.” His lascivious grin was back.
“Questions?” Caddis said. “Would you like me to go over it again?” Grace caught him lusting at her bare legs.
“No questions. Looks like everything I need is here. You can leave. I know you’re a man with much to do, even at this ungodly hour of the morning.”
Her handler consulted his watch. “Nope, plenty of time. I could stay for a while if you wish.”
“Erm, no, that’s ok.” Grace pulled her vest down in a wasted attempt to cover more of her thighs and yawned.
“I want to go back to bed.”
Caddis’ libidinous grin grew wider.
“On my own.” Grace added.
To Be Continued …
A little further back in time, before Chapter 01 …
The one-bedroom apartment of Grace Miller, Hospital Lane, Canterbury, Kent, UK …
SEVEN MONTHS and almost one week after Jase had left Grace, and his family, behind in the UK to be with CIA Agent Barbara Moore in the US … (see Crucifying an Angel).
“He’s mine now, Grace …” The smiling, smug face of Barbara Moore grinned at Grace Miller, an expression which pushed her over the edge. She moved as if to raise her fist and punch the American whore who had stolen her husband, but her arms wouldn’t move.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
“No, fuck, nooooo stop! Grace looked down as nails were being hammered through her hands, securing her to the large wooden chair with the spiked seat, and suddenly she discovered that she was bare ass naked.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
“Please … stop! STOPPPPPPPP!”
Grace awoke, braced for impact … but found that she was in her own bed. The nightmare ended, but the KNOCKING continued … the sound coming from her front door. It was still dark; 5:35 AM showed on the nightstand clock as she gripped the Glock G17 pistol beside it.
Upon immediate reflection, if this was danger then the would-be assassin surely wouldn’t knock.
She padded barefoot out of the bedroom, through the living area and into the small reception hall, wearing nothing but a cropped white vest over a pair of tight pink panties.
The peephole confirmed her assumption. She unlocked and opened the door to a man.
“Time for us to talk again,” he said, barging past her.
“Yes, it is. Because I asked you never to come here, and maybe I need to re-affirm that, Caddis.” Grace spoke in the clipped tones reflective of her upper-class upbringing. Stephen Caddis, former gang leader and drug dealer and now MI6 Off-The-Grid Handler, entered Grace’s apartment uninvited. Fit and toned, with short hair, he wasn’t unattractive, but he was rough and ready and ridiculously socially inept. He wore a black leather jacket, over a white button-down shirt and jeans.
Many women found him attractive. Grace wasn’t one of them.
“This is my home. My private life. I didn’t agree to invasions of either.”
“You agreed to serve me,” Caddis said.
“I agreed to serve my country.” Grace replied.
“As far as you’re concerned, I am your country now. That’s the brief I have from Chief Moore.”
Grace entered her small but neat and tidy kitchen and flipped on the light. When she opened the refrigerator and bent to retrieve a bottle of water, she sensed Caddis contemplating her nudity under the thin tank-top.
“I would offer to make you coffee,” she said. “But you might stay longer than absolutely necessary.” Grace paused and stood upright to take a long drink from the open bottle. “You know that I can pick the phone up to Roger Moore at any time, don’t you?”
Caddis grinned shaking his head. “That was the old Special Agent Grace Miller. You’re working off the grid now Miss Miller and that means that Roger Moore is obligated to keep his distance from you at all times. Your only lifeline is me.” His grin just got wider.
Grace sighed. “So, this couldn’t be done during normal working hours.”
“Semper Occultus,” Miller, ‘always in secret’, he said somewhat cryptically.
“Fucking hell, Caddis, don’t start pretending to be educated!”
Caddis sat at the kitchen table, took out and lit a cigarette.
“No, really; it’s fine,” she said. “Go ahead and smoke in my house. I don’t mind.” She threw open the window over the sink, retrieved a saucer from a cupboard, and tossed it on the table for ashtray duty, before muttering, “Fucking asshole.”
Caddis opened his briefing wallet, removed a tablet, and placed it on the table.
“Your first mission …”
Grace smirked, and uttered a sardonic chuckle. “Yeah right …” she muttered. It was indeed her first assignment as an Off the Grid Agent working on black ops for MI6, but of course she was a very experienced Agent from times gone by.
“You leave for Budapest on the five thirty BA flight from Heathrow.” he said, as he opened a folder on the tablet’s desktop and a man’s unflattering headshot photo appeared.
“You mean tonight?”
He nodded.
Realising that was all he was going to say, Grace turned her attention back to the screen. “Ugh. Who’s the pretty boy?”
“That fat snake is Mr. Grzegorz Barta. We will discuss him in a moment.”
“Can’t wait. Ok, I’m going to Budapest. What’s my cover?”
Caddis grinned. “Hooker, stripper, prostitute.”
Grace shook her head with a resigned sigh. “Saying that turns you on doesn’t it, you fucking animal.”
“Now, now Miss Miller,” … off the grid operatives were not officially classified as Agents …
“… what else could you be working as in one of the sex capitals of Eastern Europe, and …”
Grace exhaled, before cutting in. “… and this fat pig is a disgusting whore-monger who spends most of his time in strip clubs and lap dancing bars.”
Stephen Caddis took a long final drag on his cigarette, before stubbing it out on the saucer. “You’re good Miller, very good. That is precisely what he does.”
Caddis blew out the residual smoke and continued. “… and that is how you will make contact with him. Barta not only frequents those places he actually owns one, the biggest one.”
Caddis let the screen transition. “The Leopard V is officially for strippers and lapdancing, but it’s also a well known brothel, one that operates under the noses of the local police.”
“Most likely because most of the high up coppers over there are customers.” Grace rolled her eyes.
“Probably,” Caddis agreed, then added, “… and it’s a cover for drugs and trafficking.”
He swiped the tablet to a new page showing several more photos. “You will be provided with a small apartment located near The Leopard V. Fully, but sparsely, furnished. Fitting for a slutty whore.”
He grinned at Grace, who simply muttered, “Pig.”
“Can I take my Glock?”
It was now Caddis’ turn to exhale. “We didn’t have time to obtain a concealed weapons license for you. Therefore, you can, but I would not recommend getting frisked by any local authorities.”
Grace grinned, knowing how intrusive a frisking can be. “I wouldn’t recommend that either.”
“The apartment also contains an encrypted cell phone for secure communications. Also, eight million Hungarian Forint in cash.”
Grace laughed, “Oooh, I’m a millionaire!”
“It’s around twenty-two grand in sterling Miller,” her handler replied, stony faced.
“Yes Caddis, I have a degree from Oxford University, I know how much it’s really worth. I guess that’s to cover everything expense wise, is it?”
“Well, once you get yourself into the club, you can earn …”
“Wait … what? You mean you haven’t set the job up already for me?”
Caddis laughed, “We couldn’t Miller, authenticity is required. You need to get yourself an audition and put on a slutty show for the management. It’ll be fine, you’re a natural!” As he said this his eyes lasered in on her braless breasts and the points of her nipples pushing at the thin white fabric.
“Okay, now tell me the interesting part.” Grace, sticking her chest out to provoke Caddis just that little bit more, swiped the tablet back to the man’s photo. “Who is he, and why am I making contact with him?”
“He is an enemy of the State.”
“Can you be a little more vague, please?”
“Barta is a people trafficker. He has several ‘cargo’ flights scheduled from a private airfield in Budapest, plus … and this we’re not absolutely certain about, he is planning to route several Tomahawk surface-to-air missiles from the US, through Budapest and onto Moscow. I don’t need to spell out why this cannot be allowed to happen.”
“And what’s my job? Bring him in, or …”
“Execute him Miller. Without him and his contacts the deal will fall flat.”
“Can’t we just ask the US authorities to pick him up and hold him for us?”
“Significant American friends of ours do not wish Mr. Barta’s existence to even be acknowledged, and so we have agreed to be the providers of his ‘execution’. Plausible deniability for them, and nothing for you to concern yourself with Miss Miller.”
Grace sighed. “So, I need to get to this guy, gain his trust, get him alone and kill him?”
“That’s about it, Miller, yes, and how you do that is entirely up to you, within the confines of your cover of course.” His lascivious grin was back.
“Questions?” Caddis said. “Would you like me to go over it again?” Grace caught him lusting at her bare legs.
“No questions. Looks like everything I need is here. You can leave. I know you’re a man with much to do, even at this ungodly hour of the morning.”
Her handler consulted his watch. “Nope, plenty of time. I could stay for a while if you wish.”
“Erm, no, that’s ok.” Grace pulled her vest down in a wasted attempt to cover more of her thighs and yawned.
“I want to go back to bed.”
Caddis’ libidinous grin grew wider.
“On my own.” Grace added.
To Be Continued …
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Hooker, stripper, prostitute??? How low can they expect her to go?
That’s telling him … smarmy little pervert!!!
Who would ever want to punch out as sweet a face as mine? Come on Grace. Get over it. He’s mine now!
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
Coming Apart (3)
A few months prior to Chapter 02 …
Luke Miller’s four bedroomed detached home in Sevenoaks, Kent, UK
THREE MONTHS after Jase had left Grace, and his family, behind in the UK to be with CIA Agent Barbara Moore in the US … (see Crucifying an Angel).
Luke was going over some notes on the kitchen table. It was after ten, his fiancée Alex was in their bed asleep, and his sister Grace wasn’t home yet.
He had read the first page at least ten times. Actually, that was a lie. He had never reached the end of the sheet. He would get halfway, sometimes a quarter of the way, and then his mind would wander and he’d go back to the beginning.
He recalled how Grace looked, when she turned up just a few short weeks ago, tears in her eyes. He had welcomed her into his home and let her pour her heart out to him.
The Miller family had always been close. Both Grace and Luke had been exemplary students, with Grace ending up at Oxford to secure a ‘First’ degree in Mandarin and Arabic, and Luke graduating Cambridge with a ‘First’ in Business Finance.
He had moved away to live in New Zealand for a number of years, working his way through the banking system there and making his fortune as a Hedge Funds Trader for ANZ, the same bank he now worked for here in the City of London.
He had met the beautiful Alex over there, and they had made a life together. Mr and Mrs Miller had been delighted to see their son return with his gorgeous fiancée, but they had grown progressively concerned about the welfare of their daughter Grace. She, in turn, believing that her parents must be so disappointed in her compared to her successful older brother, had more or less stopped communicating with them, for a reason that the anxious parents could not fathom.
That was why Grace had turned to Luke and not her parents when finally, after the drinking binges and the whore-ish behaviour (see Dirty Little Lost Girl), she realised that she needed to be with someone after Jase had left her.
Luke heard the automatic garage door begin its metal churn and his worry instantly clicked to anger. His sister had been out for hours. He knew she would have been drinking because that’s what she did, and now she had driven home. Screw the notes, he needed no prop in the face of his sudden anger.
He pushed back his chair and marched towards the utility room, waiting for her to emerge from the garage entrance.
Grace’s only redeeming chance right now would be if someone else entered with her after offering to drive the car home. Though in truth he knew that his sister had no friends and preferred her own company … she entered the utility room alone.
“Hi,” Luke immediately said.
Grace’s head shot up and she placed a hand to her chest. She burst into a giggle. “Oh my God, Luke, you scared me.”
She was drunk.
“Grace, what the hell?”
She swayed as she took off her coat and hung it on one of the hooks lining the wall. She turned back around and the coat slid off the hook and onto the floor. She didn’t notice.
“What?” she asked.
“You’re drunk, and you fucking drove.”
“I’m not drunk,” she said. She did not look concerned by his accusation and her reply was spoken as innocently as could be imagined.
“Yes, you are. I thought you were just going to eat and ‘think’? That’s what you said.
“I did, both those things.” She spoke this with an air of certainty, as if somehow it all made perfect sense, “… I just added ‘drink’ to the list brother of mine.”
“You should have called me,” he said. “Why didn’t you call me to come and get you?”
Grace just shrugged. This was happening more and more frequently … his little sister’s drinking, and it concerned him greatly. He knew she had been through a lot, though in truth he hardly knew ten percent of what his sister had suffered on all fronts over the past few years.
But Luke was angry. Yes, Grace had the grief card to play, Jason had left her less than a year into their marriage, but …
“Look, I know I fucked up,” she said candidly. And then she shrugged, having nothing more to add. “I just fucked up. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again, okay?”
Luke stared at her. She stared back defiantly. “Okay?” she said again, her eyes still frustratingly insolent.
Her brother shook his head and said, “I’m going to bed.” He left the kitchen and headed upstairs.
A Disused Market Warehouse, District XIII (Józsefváros), Budapest, Hungary
EIGHT MONTHS after Jase had left Grace, and his family, behind in the UK to be with CIA Agent Barbara Moore in the US … (see Crucifying an Angel).
"You were right," the dark tee shirted man was saying, over the inhuman howling sounds,
"She screams beautifully."
"Yes," his colleague agreed, "But by God, I've never had one screaming like this. Those things are wicked!"
"And I've hardly started yet," The first voice spoke again, his eyes devouring the twisting, writhing body of the girl, who seemed to be nearly out of her mind with torment. Chained arms high in the run-down room, her straining limbs pulling frantically against the ropes that held her helpless body stretched tightly from the ceiling hook. She was, of course, still naked, with two long needles embedded into her breasts, one in each nipple teat, pushed directly into her milk ducts until only the small white bobble on the end was exposed.
Grace had screamed herself hoarse, but still she went on yelling, pausing only when lack of oxygen made her gasp desperately for air, choking and sobbing. In one of these intervals the first man, the one who had penetrated one of her most sensitive parts with these little sharp devils, aroused by her suffering, took a fistful of her long dark hair into his fist. Bending her head back forcefully so he could reach his captive, he leaned in to plaster his mouth onto hers. He wanted to taste her, to enjoy her lips, twisted as they were with the agonies of her torture.
After several minutes he lifted his head, but kept his hold on her hair. Looking down into
Grace’s wild, pain-fogged eyes, stepping to her front he deliberately pressed his body close to hers, crushing her tortured breasts, pushing her impaled nipple ends hard against his chest.
The poor girl began to scream again, but the man simply smiled and held himself in the same position for several long moments, watching the eyes of his captive.
When she paused for breath again, his fist still pulling at her hair, he said, "I want you to kiss me, little bitch. I want you to kiss me nicely, like you mean it, because if you don't, I'm going to put more needles in your breasts. Do you understand me?"
Grace made a tormented, mewling sound, as the same mouth ravaged her lips once again. She was gasping, crying and moaning, but she did her best to comply with his demand, forcing her panting, quivering mouth to press itself to his and meet his probing tongue with her own, trying her best to please him through her pain and terror, crying into his mouth, her breath rasping loudly through her nostrils.
He kissed her for a long moment, occasionally touching his body to hers, pressing against her breasts to make Grace scream down his throat, until finally he stepped back, his own breathing none too steady now.
The poor captive girl was sobbing and gasping. "Please. Take them out," she babbled. "Please. Please take them out. My God, it hurts. Please. Please take them out. Please."
Both men looked at her.
“Who do you work for?” they questioned her yet again.
Silence, save for Grace’s incoherent babbling.
"Oh, the poor suffering little cunt,” the same man said.
"Put the others in," his colleague instructed.
And seconds later, once again, Grace screamed.
To Be Continued …
A few months prior to Chapter 02 …
Luke Miller’s four bedroomed detached home in Sevenoaks, Kent, UK
THREE MONTHS after Jase had left Grace, and his family, behind in the UK to be with CIA Agent Barbara Moore in the US … (see Crucifying an Angel).
Luke was going over some notes on the kitchen table. It was after ten, his fiancée Alex was in their bed asleep, and his sister Grace wasn’t home yet.
He had read the first page at least ten times. Actually, that was a lie. He had never reached the end of the sheet. He would get halfway, sometimes a quarter of the way, and then his mind would wander and he’d go back to the beginning.
He recalled how Grace looked, when she turned up just a few short weeks ago, tears in her eyes. He had welcomed her into his home and let her pour her heart out to him.
The Miller family had always been close. Both Grace and Luke had been exemplary students, with Grace ending up at Oxford to secure a ‘First’ degree in Mandarin and Arabic, and Luke graduating Cambridge with a ‘First’ in Business Finance.
He had moved away to live in New Zealand for a number of years, working his way through the banking system there and making his fortune as a Hedge Funds Trader for ANZ, the same bank he now worked for here in the City of London.
He had met the beautiful Alex over there, and they had made a life together. Mr and Mrs Miller had been delighted to see their son return with his gorgeous fiancée, but they had grown progressively concerned about the welfare of their daughter Grace. She, in turn, believing that her parents must be so disappointed in her compared to her successful older brother, had more or less stopped communicating with them, for a reason that the anxious parents could not fathom.
That was why Grace had turned to Luke and not her parents when finally, after the drinking binges and the whore-ish behaviour (see Dirty Little Lost Girl), she realised that she needed to be with someone after Jase had left her.
Luke heard the automatic garage door begin its metal churn and his worry instantly clicked to anger. His sister had been out for hours. He knew she would have been drinking because that’s what she did, and now she had driven home. Screw the notes, he needed no prop in the face of his sudden anger.
He pushed back his chair and marched towards the utility room, waiting for her to emerge from the garage entrance.
Grace’s only redeeming chance right now would be if someone else entered with her after offering to drive the car home. Though in truth he knew that his sister had no friends and preferred her own company … she entered the utility room alone.
“Hi,” Luke immediately said.
Grace’s head shot up and she placed a hand to her chest. She burst into a giggle. “Oh my God, Luke, you scared me.”
She was drunk.
“Grace, what the hell?”
She swayed as she took off her coat and hung it on one of the hooks lining the wall. She turned back around and the coat slid off the hook and onto the floor. She didn’t notice.
“What?” she asked.
“You’re drunk, and you fucking drove.”
“I’m not drunk,” she said. She did not look concerned by his accusation and her reply was spoken as innocently as could be imagined.
“Yes, you are. I thought you were just going to eat and ‘think’? That’s what you said.
“I did, both those things.” She spoke this with an air of certainty, as if somehow it all made perfect sense, “… I just added ‘drink’ to the list brother of mine.”
“You should have called me,” he said. “Why didn’t you call me to come and get you?”
Grace just shrugged. This was happening more and more frequently … his little sister’s drinking, and it concerned him greatly. He knew she had been through a lot, though in truth he hardly knew ten percent of what his sister had suffered on all fronts over the past few years.
But Luke was angry. Yes, Grace had the grief card to play, Jason had left her less than a year into their marriage, but …
“Look, I know I fucked up,” she said candidly. And then she shrugged, having nothing more to add. “I just fucked up. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again, okay?”
Luke stared at her. She stared back defiantly. “Okay?” she said again, her eyes still frustratingly insolent.
Her brother shook his head and said, “I’m going to bed.” He left the kitchen and headed upstairs.
A Disused Market Warehouse, District XIII (Józsefváros), Budapest, Hungary
EIGHT MONTHS after Jase had left Grace, and his family, behind in the UK to be with CIA Agent Barbara Moore in the US … (see Crucifying an Angel).
"You were right," the dark tee shirted man was saying, over the inhuman howling sounds,
"She screams beautifully."
"Yes," his colleague agreed, "But by God, I've never had one screaming like this. Those things are wicked!"
"And I've hardly started yet," The first voice spoke again, his eyes devouring the twisting, writhing body of the girl, who seemed to be nearly out of her mind with torment. Chained arms high in the run-down room, her straining limbs pulling frantically against the ropes that held her helpless body stretched tightly from the ceiling hook. She was, of course, still naked, with two long needles embedded into her breasts, one in each nipple teat, pushed directly into her milk ducts until only the small white bobble on the end was exposed.
Grace had screamed herself hoarse, but still she went on yelling, pausing only when lack of oxygen made her gasp desperately for air, choking and sobbing. In one of these intervals the first man, the one who had penetrated one of her most sensitive parts with these little sharp devils, aroused by her suffering, took a fistful of her long dark hair into his fist. Bending her head back forcefully so he could reach his captive, he leaned in to plaster his mouth onto hers. He wanted to taste her, to enjoy her lips, twisted as they were with the agonies of her torture.
After several minutes he lifted his head, but kept his hold on her hair. Looking down into
Grace’s wild, pain-fogged eyes, stepping to her front he deliberately pressed his body close to hers, crushing her tortured breasts, pushing her impaled nipple ends hard against his chest.
The poor girl began to scream again, but the man simply smiled and held himself in the same position for several long moments, watching the eyes of his captive.
When she paused for breath again, his fist still pulling at her hair, he said, "I want you to kiss me, little bitch. I want you to kiss me nicely, like you mean it, because if you don't, I'm going to put more needles in your breasts. Do you understand me?"
Grace made a tormented, mewling sound, as the same mouth ravaged her lips once again. She was gasping, crying and moaning, but she did her best to comply with his demand, forcing her panting, quivering mouth to press itself to his and meet his probing tongue with her own, trying her best to please him through her pain and terror, crying into his mouth, her breath rasping loudly through her nostrils.
He kissed her for a long moment, occasionally touching his body to hers, pressing against her breasts to make Grace scream down his throat, until finally he stepped back, his own breathing none too steady now.
The poor captive girl was sobbing and gasping. "Please. Take them out," she babbled. "Please. Please take them out. My God, it hurts. Please. Please take them out. Please."
Both men looked at her.
“Who do you work for?” they questioned her yet again.
Silence, save for Grace’s incoherent babbling.
"Oh, the poor suffering little cunt,” the same man said.
"Put the others in," his colleague instructed.
And seconds later, once again, Grace screamed.
To Be Continued …
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
Coming Apart (4)
A few months before Grace’s meeting at her home with MI6 ‘Handler’, Stephen Caddis
Luke Miller’s four bedroomed detached home in Sevenoaks, Kent, UK
THREE MONTHS after Jase had left Grace, and his family, behind in the UK to be with CIA Agent Barbara Moore in the US … (see Crucifying an Angel).
Grace woke just before noon the next day.
Her head throbbed and her mouth was dry and feeling gross. The sheets clung to her heated and sweaty skin and her body seemed to get hotter and sweatier with each wave of nausea that washed over her.
She rolled to one side and glanced at the clock on her night stand. 11:54 A.M.
She sat bolt upright in bed, threw off the bed sheets and stood.
The room swayed and her stomach was suddenly in her throat. She felt the horrible pooling of saliva in her mouth that meant only one thing … Grace was about to puke, and she needed to hurry.
******
Sitting slumped over the kitchen table, her throbbing head propped up with one hand, Grace was already drinking her second cup of black coffee with the other. A silent mantra of “never again” played repeatedly inside her head, its threatening promise bringing zero relief each time her stomach hitched and she felt another session with the toilet bowl may be in order.
She had screwed up. Boy, had she screwed up.
Last night was fuzzy, but the big parts, the serious parts, carried unavoidable clarity. Getting wasted was no big deal. Everyone’s done it. Driving home while wasted?
Fuck him. Fuck her smug big brother.
Pushing back her chair, Grace walked into the living room. Her cell phone sat charging on the coffee table. She stared at it, unable to recall anything about when she left it there.
Luke was clearly not in the house by the time Grace woke, a situation for which she was grateful. But Alex was, his more-beautiful-than-beautiful-can-be fiancée.
When they crossed paths in the kitchen, Alex smiled a ‘Good morning, how are you feeling’ kind of smile towards her future sister-in-law.
All very innocent, except Grace felt anything but cordial and she did not even respond, merely flashing Alex a look that burned.
“Suit yourself,” Alex muttered.
That was it.
Grace marched up to the shocked girl, grabbed her by the hair and slammed her face first, into the hard white surface of the fridge-freezer.
“So fucking smug aren’t you, you little cunt. Well, I’ve seen you watching me in the bathroom, your eyes looking at my tits and my pussy. Do you want me huh Alex, do you want to ‘do’ the sister and the brother huh? Maybe you’d like a threesome with us both …?”
“GRACE!!!! What the fuck, please let me go.”
Alex’s pure femininity was no physical match for Grace’s military training, and so Luke’s fiancée could do nothing about it when, with one arm twisted up her back, she felt her yoga pants being pulled down.
Grace’s hand slipped purposefully inside Alex’s pants and panties and parted her thighs.
“God, Grace, what are you do …” But the words were cut short when Alex felt her face smashed into the fridge freezer again.
So it was with a mumbled groan that Luke’s fiancée felt her pussy lips opened and intrusive fingers invading her body. One then two …
“You want this Alex, you know you do.”
“Grace please …” But her pleas were less now, the desire greater.
Fuelled by lust, bodies twisted, and mouths met. Alex did want this; Grace had been right …
“Oh fuck Grace, we shouldn’t, you’re …”
“Shut the fuck up Alex,” as Grace said this she once again gripped the other girl’s hair and twisted her head, stretching her slender neck so that it could be devoured.
“Don’t … leave … any … marks … please, Luke will …”
“I said shut the fuck up!”
******
Alex lay naked on the leather couch, as Grace walked past her pulling her case.
“Tell, him I’ve gone. Have a nice life together Alex.”
“Grace, please, you don’t have to leave …”
But by the time the words had been said, Former Special Agent Grace Miller was out of the door.
The rented one-bedroom apartment of Grace Miller, Hospital Lane, Canterbury, Kent, UK
FIVE DAYS LATER
“I need my old job back Roger.”
“I can’t Grace. You’re too …”
“Broken?” Grace cut in.
“I was going to say compromised, Grace. I can’t take you back as an Agent, fuck you couldn’t even get an office job here anymore. I’m sorry I just …”
“I once saved your daughter’s life Roger.” (see ‘Italian Torment’) Grace stated in a simple matter-of- fact kind of way.
“Oh Grace … I … well … there is one thing.”
“Anything Roger. What is it.”
“An Off-The-Grid operative …”
OtG Ops. This already excited Grace. It would allow her to be reckless, and care free, just what she needed after fucking every other part of her life up.
“Yes.” Grace said without Moore needing to say anything else.
Silence.
“Roger?”
“Report to the former Cold War bunker in Haringey at 10 AM the day after tomorrow. You will be met by Stephen Caddis. He will be your OtG Handler.”
“Thank you, Roger, I won’t let you d …”
Moore cut back in. “Grace, you know this means constant black ops, complete deniability by the Government, including me. You are part of a team that is used in the field without support of any kind.”
“Yes … Sir, I know.”
“Good luck Grace.”
The call ended.
To Be Continued …
A few months before Grace’s meeting at her home with MI6 ‘Handler’, Stephen Caddis
Luke Miller’s four bedroomed detached home in Sevenoaks, Kent, UK
THREE MONTHS after Jase had left Grace, and his family, behind in the UK to be with CIA Agent Barbara Moore in the US … (see Crucifying an Angel).
Grace woke just before noon the next day.
Her head throbbed and her mouth was dry and feeling gross. The sheets clung to her heated and sweaty skin and her body seemed to get hotter and sweatier with each wave of nausea that washed over her.
She rolled to one side and glanced at the clock on her night stand. 11:54 A.M.
She sat bolt upright in bed, threw off the bed sheets and stood.
The room swayed and her stomach was suddenly in her throat. She felt the horrible pooling of saliva in her mouth that meant only one thing … Grace was about to puke, and she needed to hurry.
******
Sitting slumped over the kitchen table, her throbbing head propped up with one hand, Grace was already drinking her second cup of black coffee with the other. A silent mantra of “never again” played repeatedly inside her head, its threatening promise bringing zero relief each time her stomach hitched and she felt another session with the toilet bowl may be in order.
She had screwed up. Boy, had she screwed up.
Last night was fuzzy, but the big parts, the serious parts, carried unavoidable clarity. Getting wasted was no big deal. Everyone’s done it. Driving home while wasted?
Fuck him. Fuck her smug big brother.
Pushing back her chair, Grace walked into the living room. Her cell phone sat charging on the coffee table. She stared at it, unable to recall anything about when she left it there.
Luke was clearly not in the house by the time Grace woke, a situation for which she was grateful. But Alex was, his more-beautiful-than-beautiful-can-be fiancée.
When they crossed paths in the kitchen, Alex smiled a ‘Good morning, how are you feeling’ kind of smile towards her future sister-in-law.
All very innocent, except Grace felt anything but cordial and she did not even respond, merely flashing Alex a look that burned.
“Suit yourself,” Alex muttered.
That was it.
Grace marched up to the shocked girl, grabbed her by the hair and slammed her face first, into the hard white surface of the fridge-freezer.
“So fucking smug aren’t you, you little cunt. Well, I’ve seen you watching me in the bathroom, your eyes looking at my tits and my pussy. Do you want me huh Alex, do you want to ‘do’ the sister and the brother huh? Maybe you’d like a threesome with us both …?”
“GRACE!!!! What the fuck, please let me go.”
Alex’s pure femininity was no physical match for Grace’s military training, and so Luke’s fiancée could do nothing about it when, with one arm twisted up her back, she felt her yoga pants being pulled down.
Grace’s hand slipped purposefully inside Alex’s pants and panties and parted her thighs.
“God, Grace, what are you do …” But the words were cut short when Alex felt her face smashed into the fridge freezer again.
So it was with a mumbled groan that Luke’s fiancée felt her pussy lips opened and intrusive fingers invading her body. One then two …
“You want this Alex, you know you do.”
“Grace please …” But her pleas were less now, the desire greater.
Fuelled by lust, bodies twisted, and mouths met. Alex did want this; Grace had been right …
“Oh fuck Grace, we shouldn’t, you’re …”
“Shut the fuck up Alex,” as Grace said this she once again gripped the other girl’s hair and twisted her head, stretching her slender neck so that it could be devoured.
“Don’t … leave … any … marks … please, Luke will …”
“I said shut the fuck up!”
******
Alex lay naked on the leather couch, as Grace walked past her pulling her case.
“Tell, him I’ve gone. Have a nice life together Alex.”
“Grace, please, you don’t have to leave …”
But by the time the words had been said, Former Special Agent Grace Miller was out of the door.
The rented one-bedroom apartment of Grace Miller, Hospital Lane, Canterbury, Kent, UK
FIVE DAYS LATER
“I need my old job back Roger.”
“I can’t Grace. You’re too …”
“Broken?” Grace cut in.
“I was going to say compromised, Grace. I can’t take you back as an Agent, fuck you couldn’t even get an office job here anymore. I’m sorry I just …”
“I once saved your daughter’s life Roger.” (see ‘Italian Torment’) Grace stated in a simple matter-of- fact kind of way.
“Oh Grace … I … well … there is one thing.”
“Anything Roger. What is it.”
“An Off-The-Grid operative …”
OtG Ops. This already excited Grace. It would allow her to be reckless, and care free, just what she needed after fucking every other part of her life up.
“Yes.” Grace said without Moore needing to say anything else.
Silence.
“Roger?”
“Report to the former Cold War bunker in Haringey at 10 AM the day after tomorrow. You will be met by Stephen Caddis. He will be your OtG Handler.”
“Thank you, Roger, I won’t let you d …”
Moore cut back in. “Grace, you know this means constant black ops, complete deniability by the Government, including me. You are part of a team that is used in the field without support of any kind.”
“Yes … Sir, I know.”
“Good luck Grace.”
The call ended.
To Be Continued …
Last edited by a moderator:
An exquisitely written, breathtaking set-up chapter. Oh Grace! How low can you go? Have you hit bottom yet? How self-destructive can you be? And it’s all because of that fucking Barbara Moore!
Uh-oh....
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
Coming Apart (5)
Flight BA 870, departed London Heathrow at 17:25 pm bound for Budapest
SEVEN MONTHS and almost ONE WEEK after Jase had left Grace, and his family, behind in the UK to be with CIA Agent Barbara Moore in the US … (see Crucifying an Angel).
Grace occupied an Economy Class window seat, the best a ‘slutty whore’, as Caddis had called her, could afford.
“Pig …” she muttered to herself as the image of the handler passed through her mind’s eye.
Once they were airborne, she declined a snack and viewed the sun as it went down, over the green waters of La Manche below.
‘Slutty whore’. Fuck him, she thought. Caddis really got to her. She hated him, but he was all she had. She checked the time on her ‘Flight Mode’ phone. Right on time. The flight from Heathrow to Budapest Ferenc Liszt International Airport was scheduled to be 2 hours and thirty-eight minutes. She then had the hour to add on so it would be late when she arrived at her apartment.
Plenty of time for thinking, and maybe talking with her co-passenger, the one sitting next to her. They seemed kind and innocent, a good listener. Maybe they would understand her, because it seemed no one else did.
Grace looked out of the window again and began to speak.
“Never liked flying over water. I was always more frightened of crashing into the Sea than into the desert or the side of some mountain, the thought of drowning I guess.”
There was a silence and so Grace continued.
“My best friend died, and …” Grace paused, before adding, “… she was my lover too. She was murdered protecting her country and then her partner and me, we kind of fell in love ourselves, with each other, and …”
Another silent pause.
“… and we got married, last year, I guess over a year and a half ago now. It was a beautiful day and I had never been so happy. But he left me, for an American spy. A predatory bitch who enjoyed fucking up people’s lives. I hate her, and him. But people still blame me; for my drinking and my erratic behaviour … but I didn’t know what to do, I still don’t …”
Tears were streaming down Grace’s face now.'
“I had to move out of my beautiful Cottage, his beautiful cottage really, and hole up on my own. Oh yes, I’ve got a brother, but I fucked things up with him too, and don’t even mention my parents.”
Grace’s breathing was becoming a little irregular as she continued to share her story.
“So I think fuck them, fuck them all. I hate my life and so this job is the best thing for me. I don’t have to care about anyone, just me and that means I can …”
“Erm, excuse me miss, is everything okay?”
Grace looked up at the pretty hostess standing next to her.
There was no new friend. There was no passenger next to her. There never was.
“Oh yes, thank you,” she replied, as she sat alone. Thinking.
A single room Apartment above a taxiállomás bolt (Taxi Rank Shop) in District XXII, Budapest
Grace arrived in Budapest, cleared security and customs, despite the heavy presence of Bud Security Ltd personnel and headed for the cab rank.
Looking up she saw the sign in dual language, which was good because despite having an Oxford degree in Arabic and Mandarin, she spoke absolutely no Hungarian.
’Taxiállomási sor/Taxi Rank Queue’
The queue seemed to take an age to reach her turn and the heavily bearded driver did nothing but ogle her through his rear view mirror the whole way to her destination.
“Red light district, you hooker?” he clearly spoke a little English which he shared with Grace as she left then car.
“Dick head.” She replied, throwing money at him as she left the cab behind.
“Fuck me and you get free ride.” He shouted after her, his eyes on her firm, denim covered ass.
She turned and gave him the finger before digging in her purse for the key to her ‘accommodation’, which she had been provided with beforehand.
What a dump.
The old bed stared back at her and pretty much took up the whole room. In one corner was a fridge which, when she opened it, contained … sweet fuck all, except for the grime that accumulates over a long time without being cleaned.
This was her life now!
In the small drawer unit by her bedside Grace located her weapon. Having a “Baby Glock” 26 waiting for her, even without the proper license, was seen as the safer option as opposed to trying to get a weapon through airport security.
Alongside it she also found two boxes of ammunition. Tucking the Glock into her bag, she opened the wardrobe and found a short red dress, and matching ‘huge-inch’ heels. Her ‘interview’ clothes no doubt.
Grace yawned and was just about to strip off and collapse into bed, when the realisation that she had eaten no food at all hit her.
She had seen a corner store right next door, still lit up, Roni-ABC she thought it was called. Slipping on her trainers and taking her purse, Grace headed back down the stairs to the front door.
Outside Roni-ABC Convenience Store, Budapest, Rákóczi út 6, 1072 Hungary
The man called Gedeon pointed the grimy bone he used for a finger at Grace.
“I’ll ask you one last time. Are you ready to have some fun with us tonight, you Kurva slut?”
Grace placed her bag of ‘essentials’, if you can call Vodka essential, on the pavement, smiled, and said in her naturally polite tones, “May I ask you a question first?” She looked initially at Gedeon and then at the second guy, whose name it appeared was Bodor.
Gedeon leered. “That’s it, baby. Try to talk your way out. Beg us. Makes it better for me when they beg.”
The MI6 Off the Grid Agent smiled to herself, or was it a smirk? She needed this.
“How are you going to ask your question to the next girl you assault with your jaw wired shut?”
Gedeon stopped leering. “You’ve got a brave mouth, Kurva.” He said. “It’s going to be a pleasure choking it shut.”
“She’s only stalling,” Bodor said. “No more questions. Let’s take the bitch behind the building and do this.”
Grace was discovering first-hand how dangerous District XXII could be. The front door of her apartment building was only a few yards away, and she had literally just popped out for necessary supplies when these two animals appeared from nowhere.
“Ok, let’s go.” Gedeon took a single step toward his intended victim.
Grace clicked into gear. She sprung on him, applied a neck clinch, pulled his head down, and rammed her knee into his jaw.
It shattered. He dropped.
Bodor grabbed for her instinctively, but she gripped his wrist as it flew towards her and bent it backwards until it snapped. He screamed, fell to his knees, and grabbed for her with his left hand, but the agony in his broken wrist was too great.
Gedeon got up. He shouldn’t have. Her kick to his temple put him straight back down. The OtG operative followed with a merciless boot to Bodor’s head which silenced him.
Both men laid crumpled and semi-conscious. She grasped Gedeon under his arms, dragged him to the wall, and propped him against the brick in a sitting position, it took a little more effort, to place the larger frame of Bodor next to him.
With a gasp, her chest heaving, Grace was happy. She got what she wanted. Her lust for living on the edge was satiated ... for now.
An hour after she left them to their fate, a passer-by called the Rendőrség, and the law enforcement officers in turn called an ambulance.
When the two animals regained consciousness in the hospital, Gedeon with his jaw wired shut and Bodor with his crippled hand in a cast, they didn’t tell the police they were put there by a delicately, gorgeous young woman that they had intended to rape.
It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. They never really knew what hit them
To Be Continued …
Flight BA 870, departed London Heathrow at 17:25 pm bound for Budapest
SEVEN MONTHS and almost ONE WEEK after Jase had left Grace, and his family, behind in the UK to be with CIA Agent Barbara Moore in the US … (see Crucifying an Angel).
Grace occupied an Economy Class window seat, the best a ‘slutty whore’, as Caddis had called her, could afford.
“Pig …” she muttered to herself as the image of the handler passed through her mind’s eye.
Once they were airborne, she declined a snack and viewed the sun as it went down, over the green waters of La Manche below.
‘Slutty whore’. Fuck him, she thought. Caddis really got to her. She hated him, but he was all she had. She checked the time on her ‘Flight Mode’ phone. Right on time. The flight from Heathrow to Budapest Ferenc Liszt International Airport was scheduled to be 2 hours and thirty-eight minutes. She then had the hour to add on so it would be late when she arrived at her apartment.
Plenty of time for thinking, and maybe talking with her co-passenger, the one sitting next to her. They seemed kind and innocent, a good listener. Maybe they would understand her, because it seemed no one else did.
Grace looked out of the window again and began to speak.
“Never liked flying over water. I was always more frightened of crashing into the Sea than into the desert or the side of some mountain, the thought of drowning I guess.”
There was a silence and so Grace continued.
“My best friend died, and …” Grace paused, before adding, “… she was my lover too. She was murdered protecting her country and then her partner and me, we kind of fell in love ourselves, with each other, and …”
Another silent pause.
“… and we got married, last year, I guess over a year and a half ago now. It was a beautiful day and I had never been so happy. But he left me, for an American spy. A predatory bitch who enjoyed fucking up people’s lives. I hate her, and him. But people still blame me; for my drinking and my erratic behaviour … but I didn’t know what to do, I still don’t …”
Tears were streaming down Grace’s face now.'
“I had to move out of my beautiful Cottage, his beautiful cottage really, and hole up on my own. Oh yes, I’ve got a brother, but I fucked things up with him too, and don’t even mention my parents.”
Grace’s breathing was becoming a little irregular as she continued to share her story.
“So I think fuck them, fuck them all. I hate my life and so this job is the best thing for me. I don’t have to care about anyone, just me and that means I can …”
“Erm, excuse me miss, is everything okay?”
Grace looked up at the pretty hostess standing next to her.
There was no new friend. There was no passenger next to her. There never was.
“Oh yes, thank you,” she replied, as she sat alone. Thinking.
A single room Apartment above a taxiállomás bolt (Taxi Rank Shop) in District XXII, Budapest
Grace arrived in Budapest, cleared security and customs, despite the heavy presence of Bud Security Ltd personnel and headed for the cab rank.
Looking up she saw the sign in dual language, which was good because despite having an Oxford degree in Arabic and Mandarin, she spoke absolutely no Hungarian.
’Taxiállomási sor/Taxi Rank Queue’
The queue seemed to take an age to reach her turn and the heavily bearded driver did nothing but ogle her through his rear view mirror the whole way to her destination.
“Red light district, you hooker?” he clearly spoke a little English which he shared with Grace as she left then car.
“Dick head.” She replied, throwing money at him as she left the cab behind.
“Fuck me and you get free ride.” He shouted after her, his eyes on her firm, denim covered ass.
She turned and gave him the finger before digging in her purse for the key to her ‘accommodation’, which she had been provided with beforehand.
What a dump.
The old bed stared back at her and pretty much took up the whole room. In one corner was a fridge which, when she opened it, contained … sweet fuck all, except for the grime that accumulates over a long time without being cleaned.
This was her life now!
In the small drawer unit by her bedside Grace located her weapon. Having a “Baby Glock” 26 waiting for her, even without the proper license, was seen as the safer option as opposed to trying to get a weapon through airport security.
Alongside it she also found two boxes of ammunition. Tucking the Glock into her bag, she opened the wardrobe and found a short red dress, and matching ‘huge-inch’ heels. Her ‘interview’ clothes no doubt.
Grace yawned and was just about to strip off and collapse into bed, when the realisation that she had eaten no food at all hit her.
She had seen a corner store right next door, still lit up, Roni-ABC she thought it was called. Slipping on her trainers and taking her purse, Grace headed back down the stairs to the front door.
Outside Roni-ABC Convenience Store, Budapest, Rákóczi út 6, 1072 Hungary
The man called Gedeon pointed the grimy bone he used for a finger at Grace.
“I’ll ask you one last time. Are you ready to have some fun with us tonight, you Kurva slut?”
Grace placed her bag of ‘essentials’, if you can call Vodka essential, on the pavement, smiled, and said in her naturally polite tones, “May I ask you a question first?” She looked initially at Gedeon and then at the second guy, whose name it appeared was Bodor.
Gedeon leered. “That’s it, baby. Try to talk your way out. Beg us. Makes it better for me when they beg.”
The MI6 Off the Grid Agent smiled to herself, or was it a smirk? She needed this.
“How are you going to ask your question to the next girl you assault with your jaw wired shut?”
Gedeon stopped leering. “You’ve got a brave mouth, Kurva.” He said. “It’s going to be a pleasure choking it shut.”
“She’s only stalling,” Bodor said. “No more questions. Let’s take the bitch behind the building and do this.”
Grace was discovering first-hand how dangerous District XXII could be. The front door of her apartment building was only a few yards away, and she had literally just popped out for necessary supplies when these two animals appeared from nowhere.
“Ok, let’s go.” Gedeon took a single step toward his intended victim.
Grace clicked into gear. She sprung on him, applied a neck clinch, pulled his head down, and rammed her knee into his jaw.
It shattered. He dropped.
Bodor grabbed for her instinctively, but she gripped his wrist as it flew towards her and bent it backwards until it snapped. He screamed, fell to his knees, and grabbed for her with his left hand, but the agony in his broken wrist was too great.
Gedeon got up. He shouldn’t have. Her kick to his temple put him straight back down. The OtG operative followed with a merciless boot to Bodor’s head which silenced him.
Both men laid crumpled and semi-conscious. She grasped Gedeon under his arms, dragged him to the wall, and propped him against the brick in a sitting position, it took a little more effort, to place the larger frame of Bodor next to him.
With a gasp, her chest heaving, Grace was happy. She got what she wanted. Her lust for living on the edge was satiated ... for now.
An hour after she left them to their fate, a passer-by called the Rendőrség, and the law enforcement officers in turn called an ambulance.
When the two animals regained consciousness in the hospital, Gedeon with his jaw wired shut and Bodor with his crippled hand in a cast, they didn’t tell the police they were put there by a delicately, gorgeous young woman that they had intended to rape.
It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. They never really knew what hit them
To Be Continued …
Awwww, you do care about your pedantic travel agent readers- there really is a flight BA870 from Heathrow to BUDAPEST!
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
Of course there is Loin' ... do you think I don't research this
...
Sooooo pathetic … really well written, captures so much one wants to reach out and offer comfort. Poor Grace!
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
Coming Apart (6)
An upstairs room at the Leopard V club, District XXII, Budapest
SEVEN MONTHS and almost ONE WEEK after Jase had left Grace, and his family, behind in the UK to be with CIA Agent Barbara Moore in the US … (see Crucifying an Angel).
The man cleared his throat loudly, looking down at the girl in the short red dress on her hands and knees before him.
“Come to me,” he said simply, but assertively.
With a hard swallow, Grace carefully lowered her head and shoulders and backed up until her ass encountered his knee.
"Put your head down further, like I instructed, my pretty little Kurva," he said, mainly in English, with a heavy Eastern European accent. Grace knew enough already to know that he was calling her a whore.
When she failed to move, he lifted his foot and put it between her shoulder blades, and as he shifted his weight, her cheek sank into the deep pile of the richly patterned carpet. Grace felt the hem of her dress slide further up the backs of her thighs and the thin fabric stretch tighter across the roundness of her ass.
It had been easy getting this far …
An early evening drink at the bar, asking the young serving girl where she could find Grzegorz Barta.
Of course, she didn’t get to meet the owner, but the girl knew enough to make sure that Grace was pretty much immediately introduced to his senior goons.
"Please, sir, let me up." The OtG Agent whispered, playing the role of submissive to perfection.
After a long moment, the pressure on her body eased. Grace raised her head and sat back on her haunches. The top of her head aligned with his belt buckle, and as she tilted her head back to look up, she could see the deep scar on his left cheek. She shivered involuntarily.
The low-cut frontage of her dress soon achieved its objective as the man trained his gaze upon her cleavage. Shoulders up, chest out, she reminded herself. Let him look, and as she watched, he became visibly erect.
She felt more than a little uneasy in her submissive position, kneeling at his feet, her face just inches from his groin, but needing to ‘please’ them, she couldn't risk antagonising him. Burying her face to the carpet with her ass in the air might be the least of her worries. She let out a long sigh.
"So, tell me again little girl. Why are you here?"
"I've just moved to Budapest. I need a job … this is what I do.”
“What … do you do?” He asked, with a smirk.
“I dance and … strip …”
Grace inhaled and held her breath as she watched him grip the thick shape of his burgeoning erection through his suit pants.
“Why are you in our city?”
“I’m …” she paused in an attempt to add to the authenticity, before adding, “… running away.”
He smiled and nodded. “All you little Kurva’s are running away from something, and you always run straight into our arms.” His words were filled with salacious intent.
The man held out his hand and clicked his fingers. One of his co-goons handed him Grace’s passport. A smile broke out on his face. “Okay Miss Cassie Brown …”
He gave the passport back to the second man, who slid it into his inside jacket pocket.
“… Hands behind your back."
When Grace complied, he wrapped his large hand around both of her narrow wrists and yanked them upward. That hurt, and when she cried out, he snapped on a pair of steel handcuffs.
Lifting her to her feet he then shuffled her over to the dark, scruffy desk where the laptop sat.
He sat down at the desk and reached for a keyboard. “Okay let’s see if we can find you Miss Cassie Brown.”
She recalled the false name under which she had registered as she tried to still the shaking in her legs.
"Cassie Brown."
He typed her name and glanced at the monitor.
"You arrived from Heathrow yesterday?"
"Yes.” Her chin quivered.
She forced herself to hold his gaze, but then realised she was being too assertive and so Grace turned her face away, before eventually looking back to meet his eyes again.
"Now you will suck my dick." He stepped forward and reached out to take her breast in his hand, roughly squeezing it with no consideration for finesse at all. Grace fought the urge to pull away.
He released her to adjust his grip, then tightened his hand around the fullest part of her left breast. The girl gasped, and felt her nipples harden under the fabric. She wore no bra. He's going to make me do this, she thought, keeping the words inside her head.
He transferred his grip to her slender neck, pressing his thumb hard against her carotid artery, and in seconds Grace felt dizzy. Her legs weakened, and he pushed her back down to her knees. Pulling at his belt and zipper the man’s suit pants fell down his heavily muscled legs, the large metal buckle making a heavy sound even on the carpeted floor.
“Fuck …” Grace thought, or whispered, she wasn’t sure which.
Reaching out, he pulled the top of her dress down as far as her cuffed wrists would allow to expose her bare breasts. Then, moving behind her to release her cuffs, he completed the job of making sure she was completely topless.
He then re-cuffed her as before.
For some reason, despite all she had been through, Grace longed to cover herself with her fingers, but when she tugged involuntarily at her wrists, the cuffs only ratcheted tighter.
Scar face tugged town his underwear, freeing his cock, and Grace did a double take. He was not long, despite having more than average length, but he was so very thick!
He put his hand on the back of her neck and thrust his hips forward until her lips pushed against his shaft, flattening it to his stomach.
"Open," he commanded.
When the girl didn't immediately obey, he slapped her, reddening her cheek. His next two slaps fell on the side of her breast. "Open," he repeated.
Grace’s face stung and her breast throbbed. Reluctantly, she opened her mouth and leaned forward to take him in.
"Suck," he told her, with another slap to the breast. After a moment, she used her lips to push back his foreskin and began to alternately lick and suck the already swollen head of his cock.
He gave a sigh. As she continued, his stomach convulsed, and he pulled at her shoulders.
If Grace was doing this then she would do it right. Fleetingly she remembered her first ever blow job, with her former Oxford Professor as part of her first ever MI6 assignment, alongside her deceased former lover Ekaterina. (See Oxford, Spies and the Secret Service).
When she lifted her chin and ran her tongue along the underside of the shaft, from his balls to the tip, he put his hand behind her head, guiding her lips until she engulfed the head once more. He thrust his hips forward, surprising Grace, and when he grazed the back of her throat, Grace gagged and sat back on her heels, gulping.
"Suck it back inside," he said, and after a moment, she raised herself up onto her knees, before taking him into her mouth once more.
“Nghhhhh!” The gagged girl uttered in response mainly to the grip that was now squeezing her breasts and twisting her nipples. Feeling his lust rise Scar face took her head in both hands and thrust his cock deep, making Grace choke. With a grin he pulled himself free and looked down as his little Kurva coughed and spluttered, spitting out the thick strands of saliva as she attempted desperately to regain control of her breathing.
"No," he said, pausing to control his own breathing. "My dick stays in your mouth. But I like the spit. Do not swallow it, let it all come out." He pressed two fingers to her lips. "Open."
After a beat, she lowered her jaw a fraction. His fingertips pressed down onto her lower lip, slid across her tongue, and kept coming. When they reached the back of her throat, they activated her gag reflex again, and her jaw opened wide to expel more saliva.
He withdrew his fingers. "My dick goes to the back. To your throat, and it will stay there. You will cough and have no breath. You will feel helpless. Or," he said, "… I'll take you into another room where my men wait and take down your panties, then we'll find out how many dicks you can take."
******
When Grace left the building many hours after first arriving, she was exhausted, but her panties had at least stayed in place … she hadn’t been raped. She had no passport, they had retained that, but she did have a job.
Starting at 9 pm the following evening she would be a ‘dancer’ at the Leopard V.
Tomorrow we take a day off whilst our readers, if needed, can catch up. Then Barb will be back posting on Saturday as ‘There But for the Grace of God’ continues in PART II – ‘Missing in Action’ …
An upstairs room at the Leopard V club, District XXII, Budapest
SEVEN MONTHS and almost ONE WEEK after Jase had left Grace, and his family, behind in the UK to be with CIA Agent Barbara Moore in the US … (see Crucifying an Angel).
The man cleared his throat loudly, looking down at the girl in the short red dress on her hands and knees before him.
“Come to me,” he said simply, but assertively.
With a hard swallow, Grace carefully lowered her head and shoulders and backed up until her ass encountered his knee.
"Put your head down further, like I instructed, my pretty little Kurva," he said, mainly in English, with a heavy Eastern European accent. Grace knew enough already to know that he was calling her a whore.
When she failed to move, he lifted his foot and put it between her shoulder blades, and as he shifted his weight, her cheek sank into the deep pile of the richly patterned carpet. Grace felt the hem of her dress slide further up the backs of her thighs and the thin fabric stretch tighter across the roundness of her ass.
It had been easy getting this far …
An early evening drink at the bar, asking the young serving girl where she could find Grzegorz Barta.
Of course, she didn’t get to meet the owner, but the girl knew enough to make sure that Grace was pretty much immediately introduced to his senior goons.
"Please, sir, let me up." The OtG Agent whispered, playing the role of submissive to perfection.
After a long moment, the pressure on her body eased. Grace raised her head and sat back on her haunches. The top of her head aligned with his belt buckle, and as she tilted her head back to look up, she could see the deep scar on his left cheek. She shivered involuntarily.
The low-cut frontage of her dress soon achieved its objective as the man trained his gaze upon her cleavage. Shoulders up, chest out, she reminded herself. Let him look, and as she watched, he became visibly erect.
She felt more than a little uneasy in her submissive position, kneeling at his feet, her face just inches from his groin, but needing to ‘please’ them, she couldn't risk antagonising him. Burying her face to the carpet with her ass in the air might be the least of her worries. She let out a long sigh.
"So, tell me again little girl. Why are you here?"
"I've just moved to Budapest. I need a job … this is what I do.”
“What … do you do?” He asked, with a smirk.
“I dance and … strip …”
Grace inhaled and held her breath as she watched him grip the thick shape of his burgeoning erection through his suit pants.
“Why are you in our city?”
“I’m …” she paused in an attempt to add to the authenticity, before adding, “… running away.”
He smiled and nodded. “All you little Kurva’s are running away from something, and you always run straight into our arms.” His words were filled with salacious intent.
The man held out his hand and clicked his fingers. One of his co-goons handed him Grace’s passport. A smile broke out on his face. “Okay Miss Cassie Brown …”
He gave the passport back to the second man, who slid it into his inside jacket pocket.
“… Hands behind your back."
When Grace complied, he wrapped his large hand around both of her narrow wrists and yanked them upward. That hurt, and when she cried out, he snapped on a pair of steel handcuffs.
Lifting her to her feet he then shuffled her over to the dark, scruffy desk where the laptop sat.
He sat down at the desk and reached for a keyboard. “Okay let’s see if we can find you Miss Cassie Brown.”
She recalled the false name under which she had registered as she tried to still the shaking in her legs.
"Cassie Brown."
He typed her name and glanced at the monitor.
"You arrived from Heathrow yesterday?"
"Yes.” Her chin quivered.
She forced herself to hold his gaze, but then realised she was being too assertive and so Grace turned her face away, before eventually looking back to meet his eyes again.
"Now you will suck my dick." He stepped forward and reached out to take her breast in his hand, roughly squeezing it with no consideration for finesse at all. Grace fought the urge to pull away.
He released her to adjust his grip, then tightened his hand around the fullest part of her left breast. The girl gasped, and felt her nipples harden under the fabric. She wore no bra. He's going to make me do this, she thought, keeping the words inside her head.
He transferred his grip to her slender neck, pressing his thumb hard against her carotid artery, and in seconds Grace felt dizzy. Her legs weakened, and he pushed her back down to her knees. Pulling at his belt and zipper the man’s suit pants fell down his heavily muscled legs, the large metal buckle making a heavy sound even on the carpeted floor.
“Fuck …” Grace thought, or whispered, she wasn’t sure which.
Reaching out, he pulled the top of her dress down as far as her cuffed wrists would allow to expose her bare breasts. Then, moving behind her to release her cuffs, he completed the job of making sure she was completely topless.
He then re-cuffed her as before.
For some reason, despite all she had been through, Grace longed to cover herself with her fingers, but when she tugged involuntarily at her wrists, the cuffs only ratcheted tighter.
Scar face tugged town his underwear, freeing his cock, and Grace did a double take. He was not long, despite having more than average length, but he was so very thick!
He put his hand on the back of her neck and thrust his hips forward until her lips pushed against his shaft, flattening it to his stomach.
"Open," he commanded.
When the girl didn't immediately obey, he slapped her, reddening her cheek. His next two slaps fell on the side of her breast. "Open," he repeated.
Grace’s face stung and her breast throbbed. Reluctantly, she opened her mouth and leaned forward to take him in.
"Suck," he told her, with another slap to the breast. After a moment, she used her lips to push back his foreskin and began to alternately lick and suck the already swollen head of his cock.
He gave a sigh. As she continued, his stomach convulsed, and he pulled at her shoulders.
If Grace was doing this then she would do it right. Fleetingly she remembered her first ever blow job, with her former Oxford Professor as part of her first ever MI6 assignment, alongside her deceased former lover Ekaterina. (See Oxford, Spies and the Secret Service).
When she lifted her chin and ran her tongue along the underside of the shaft, from his balls to the tip, he put his hand behind her head, guiding her lips until she engulfed the head once more. He thrust his hips forward, surprising Grace, and when he grazed the back of her throat, Grace gagged and sat back on her heels, gulping.
"Suck it back inside," he said, and after a moment, she raised herself up onto her knees, before taking him into her mouth once more.
“Nghhhhh!” The gagged girl uttered in response mainly to the grip that was now squeezing her breasts and twisting her nipples. Feeling his lust rise Scar face took her head in both hands and thrust his cock deep, making Grace choke. With a grin he pulled himself free and looked down as his little Kurva coughed and spluttered, spitting out the thick strands of saliva as she attempted desperately to regain control of her breathing.
"No," he said, pausing to control his own breathing. "My dick stays in your mouth. But I like the spit. Do not swallow it, let it all come out." He pressed two fingers to her lips. "Open."
After a beat, she lowered her jaw a fraction. His fingertips pressed down onto her lower lip, slid across her tongue, and kept coming. When they reached the back of her throat, they activated her gag reflex again, and her jaw opened wide to expel more saliva.
He withdrew his fingers. "My dick goes to the back. To your throat, and it will stay there. You will cough and have no breath. You will feel helpless. Or," he said, "… I'll take you into another room where my men wait and take down your panties, then we'll find out how many dicks you can take."
******
When Grace left the building many hours after first arriving, she was exhausted, but her panties had at least stayed in place … she hadn’t been raped. She had no passport, they had retained that, but she did have a job.
Starting at 9 pm the following evening she would be a ‘dancer’ at the Leopard V.
Tomorrow we take a day off whilst our readers, if needed, can catch up. Then Barb will be back posting on Saturday as ‘There But for the Grace of God’ continues in PART II – ‘Missing in Action’ …
