Spycraft

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They’re playing the same video on four of the six plastic screens that make up my cell. If I stare at the ceiling, trying to ignore the flickering images, they’ll punish me by lowering the temperature. I could lay face down in my bed, but they’ll punish me by lowering the temperature. I could shut my eyes… well. You get the point. It’s hard to resist for that long, when you’re naked and alone in a little plastic cage.

It’s the same twenty or twenty five minute video, playing on repeat. It’s hard to judge time here, but I tried counting the seconds and that’s basically what I could tell. Always the same. A camera, head level, stops in front of a thick plastic door, basically identical to the one that leads into my own cell. A feminine hand, nails painted black, gently shoves it open. Inside, naked, a dark-skinned man, face down and ass up on a bed that’s twice the size of the tiny cot they gave me to sleep in.

The man’s code name is Andrew Cunningham, CIA field agent. I only know that because he, like me, is a spy.

“Andy,” an accented voice purrs, audio blasting through my cell. The plastic walls don’t just act as screens. They’ve filled the cell with speakers, as well, so I have nowhere to hide. “How are you doing today?”

“I’m fine,” replies the man, still face down, unmoving. It would be comical, if it weren’t so horrifying. He twitches minutely as the camera moves closer, the slow sound of high-heeled walking echoing off the tough plastic walls.

“And what did you want to talk about?” The voice continues. A woman’s voice, Russian, with an accent that drifts between imperial British and flat American. Her name is Vika. I only know that because, well, she’s the reason why Andrew and I are being held in this place.

The dialogue has played so many times I can repeat his next sentences word for word. Maybe that’s why they keep putting this video on for me.

“I want you to fuck me, Vika. Please. I’ll do anything you want.”

Her girlish laughter washes through my cell, filling my ears. All contempt and victory. She knows she’s won. Delight runs through her every word.

“Oh, well, Andy. What a change of heart. Is that why my big strong American spy is on the bed like this? Presenting himself, ready to be mounted?”

I can’t see Andrew’s face, but I can hear the shame and humiliation in his voice.

“Yes Vika.”

“Well, I’m hardly one to leave a gentleman waiting,” and here the camera flips- Vika passing it back to an unseen figure. When the shot refocuses, she walks into frame. She’s close to six feet, in those towering black thigh-high heels. Her dress is leather, cinched at the waist by a thick belt, and shows off every inch of her perfect hourglass frame. Light brown hair, silky and straightened, reaches around her mid-back. When she turns, delivering a saucy wink to the cameraman, the low cut of her dress shows off her honestly impressive tits. Not to mention her striking, gorgeous face. A face I’m all too familiar with.

She prowls towards the bed, catlike, moving with a liquid grace that I found impossibly sexy, the first time I met her. Now those movements fill me with a stomach-churning dread. As she reaches the bed she pauses for just a moment, undoing the belt at her waist, easily reaching behind herself to unzip that slinky black dress. It falls to the floor, and there stands Vika, wearing nothing but expensive looking underwear and improbably high boots.

Vika glides onto the bed, moving right behind Andrew, every movement measured, still flowing in slow, graceful motions. When she settles a hand on his bare ass, he jumps, startled. That just makes her laugh. The camera follows, until we get a shot from the of Vika from the side, looking ready to mount the motionless Andrew. She turns her head, winks saucily at the camera, and frees her massive cock from her lacy black thong.

This Russian bombshell, easily one of the hottest women I’ve ever met in my life- she’s a transsexual. I had no idea, when I first met her. One of the most feminine, gorgeous girls I’d ever seen, flirtatious and laughing, erotic and intelligent and magnetic. And the whole time, between her legs, a dick that’s twice the size of my own. A rock-hard, veiny shaft, ten inches long, the most improbably masculine thing, a brutal and massive thing that looks like totally out of place on to her lithe frame.

That huge shaft, the one she’s currently stretching a condom over, the one she’s working a fistful of lube onto- it points at his vulnerable ass like it has a mind of it’s own.

“Now Andy,” she purrs, teasing a finger over my friend’s bare asshole, covering it with lubrication. “Tell me what it is you want.”

“I…” he pauses. You can actually hear him swallow through the recording. His body is trembling. “I want you to fuck me.”

“Speak up, darling, say it louder,” she gets in place behind him, mounting him doggy style, that improbably huge penis lining up with his tight, virgin hole.

“I want you to fuck me!” He says, louder, more insistently.

“And do you have any last words before I take your virginity, Andy? Any last thoughts before you Ümraniye Sınırsız Escort fall in love with this cock?”

He remains silent, legs shaking.

“Ah, well,” she pushes forward, clearly entering him at least halfway in one cruel stroke. He squeals, actually squeals, both his feet shooting up, outside hers. She’s ready for him, and catches both ankles in a cruel, savage grip. He babbles incoherent nonsense as she pulls out. A heartbeat passes before she winks at the camera, before violently pushing in again.

This time he shrieks, the sound echoing through my cell. “No, Vika, it’s too big, take it out, take it out, fuck, VIKA!”

She leans forward, putting her weight in, then gently starts backing out. His whole body pulses, shaking, as she exits him.

“What’s the matter, Andy,” she croons. “I thought you Americans were tough guys. Strong guys. Say it for me. Say ‘I’m a big strong American.'”

“I’m a big strong American,” he babbles, face buried into the bed, fists balled into the sheets.

“Again!” She delivers a stinging slap to his ass.

“I’m a big strong American!”

“Again!”

“I’m a big str-” she cuts him off by entering him again, more shallowly, still hard enough to drive the wind out of him. Just as he tries another time, she rams her hips forward, savagely, tearing up his poor ass. His toes curl, raised again, brown against her black boots. He buries his face deeper into the bed, moaning, ravaged by this gorgeous woman.

She fucks him in that prone position for a few more lazy strokes, each time burying herself deeper. Mostly, she just waits inside of him, stretching him out. He stops trying to speak, whimpering incoherently with every thrust, every time she fills him.

“Andy, baby. Please. Do you want to smile for the camera?”

The camera moves position, draws closer to his face, which is still hidden into the sheets. He shakes his head violently, not willing to show his face.

“Spoilsport,” she mocks him. The camera snaps to her.

“This is to all CIA and MI-6 agents currently active in the Middle East. This is what will happen to you if you do not leave, immediately. I assure you, I will enjoy meeting every one of you in person.”

The next twenty or so minutes involve Vika fucking Andrew, pummeling his ass with that absurd cock, stretching him out, making him scream and moan and beg. He never raises his head, not even when she scrapes her fingernails down his back, not even when she slaps his ass hard enough to make him yelp. The contrast of her pale skin against his, the rhythmic slapping as her hips drive into his ass, it’s hypnotic. Her perfect body slams into his, over and over, and by the end of it the cocky agent I knew has been reduced to a mewling fucktoy, his ass blown out and ruined.

“Andrew Cunningham,” she snarls, her whole body tensing as she pumps cruelly into him. “Is that your real name?”

“No,” he pants. “No, Vika. My. Real. Name. Is. Greg. Portugal.”

Every word is gasped out, timed with her powerful thrusts. It’s like she’s fucking the words out of him.

“Mm,” she ponders, pretending to consider this. “I think we’ll stick with Andy. You’re going to make a real pretty girl, Andy, do you know that?”

The muscular, all-American party animal just mewls, unable to form coherent sentences as she violates him.

At the end of it, she says something loudly in Russian, grabbing his hips in both hands, drilling him deeply and savagely. Her entire body shakes, and I swear I can see her dick pulse as she cums deep inside of Andrew, painting his insides with her seed. She’s marked him as her bitch. When she pulls out, the camera moves in, and focuses on the gaping wreck of Andrew’s virgin ass, leaking what seems like an impossible amount of bright white semen.

Vika, recovering, runs her fingers through her perfect hair. She’s breathing hard, but when she looks at the camera and speaks again I swear she’s looking straight into my soul.

“Remember, Samuel. You’re next.”

The video cuts. There’s a two minute delay before the entire thing starts again.

*

Maybe I should back up for a moment.

I first met Andrew in a hotel bar on the European side of Istanbul, near the water. We both had to pretend not to know each other, of course. Maintaining cover and all that. But I assumed that CIA had briefed him in virtually the same way that MI-6 had briefed me, and that our two cover stories had to mesh in some way. I didn’t expect to actually like the man. Andrew Cunningham, real name Greg Portugal, every inch the brash American. Tall, handsome, always dressed in floral shirts and khakis. The Turks didn’t know what to do with him, especially because his Turkish was, shockingly, quite good. He posed as a financial consultant, which particularly impressed me because the man came across more like a movie star than a numbers guy. But when we mixed with a group of tourists who pressed him on his work, he was more than able to hold his own.

Andrew was staying at a much nicer hotel, just a few streets down from mine. This meant that, when I wanted Ümraniye Suriyeli Escort to, I could wander over to his streets and have a raucous time in any of the ten-or-so nearby bars he haunted. He’d always attract girls- locals, tourists, you name it. Andrew had his arm around a different woman virtually every time I saw him. Just one of those guys, I suppose.

For my part, well, I did not live that life. I was also pretending to be a consultant- it’s a cliché, I know. But unlike Andrew, my profile was kept considerably lower. I didn’t really party. Didn’t go out much. Just sat in the hotel, went to the office (an MI-6 safehouse, disguised as a boutique strategic consultancy), and went home. I certainly didn’t spend all of my time meeting girls. Istanbul is a beautiful city, and the food is phenomenal. But I didn’t really want to risk getting involved with any distractions. It’s unprofessional. Other than Andrew, my only other real friends were the street cats.

Things went smoothly, for a few weeks, until I saw Vika in my hotel gym.

Nobody used my hotel gym. It’s one of those Turkish ones where someone’s grandfather bought the equipment in roughly 1950, then never maintained it. The treadmill barely works. The weight plates are mismatched and rusted. The floor seems permanently damp, which is always a mystery. But it’s quiet, and it gives me an opportunity to keep fit. It was always empty, for me.

I heard the treadmill going inside, before I even opened the door. That asthmatic wheezing noise was unmistakable. I’ve tried running on it a few times, but the only settings are either painfully slow or psychopathically fast. Someone else using the gym didn’t bother me much. I’m not one of those people who gets weird over their spaces.

When I entered, and saw Vika from behind, I almost had a heart attack. She was stunning. I mean that. Really, absolutely stunning. Long, coltish legs, wrapped in light grey leggings that perfectly accentuated her ass. A few inches of exposed back, then a light grey sports top, clinging to her tight musculature. She turned her head when I entered. She smiled, warmly, and I tried not to fall over. Her face was gorgeous. Heart-stopping. I’m by no means bad with people, but it’s not an exaggeration to say that my brain just shut down when I thought of something charming to say.

Instead, I just awkwardly ignored her, trying not to stare at this goddess who, for whatever reason, was using my gym. Her feet slammed down on the treadmill at what I thought was a breakneck pace. I wandered over to the weights, doing my very best to not look at her in any of the dirty, cracked mirrors. Ten minutes later, when she finished her run, she toweled herself off, smiled at me, and left.

She stayed in my thoughts the whole rest of the workout. The gorgeous mystery woman of my shitty little hotel gym. Maybe I’d tell Andrew about it.

*

I did tell Andrew about it. He did not believe me for a second. Called me a liar, a clinical exaggerator, then a thirsty virgin, all in about a minute. I nursed my bottle of Efes, crouching over the bartop while Andrew turned back to chum with his new friends. A tourist couple, from America like him, who like everyone else was drawn to the man’s sheer magnetism. The bartender looked at me, then shrugged sympathetically. Awkward, and accidentally excluded from the conversation about American pop culture, I awkwardly fiddle with the bottle label and scan the rest of the room. A lot of commercial travelers- bored businessmen unwinding for the night. It’s a beautiful evening, but we’re all stuck in here, stuck in our shared boredom.

When the mystery gym woman stepped confidently into the place, I physically felt my pulse spike. Anyone with half a pulse stopped and glanced at her, as she slinked over the bar and slid onto an empty barstool. She smiled at the bartender and I swear I saw him stagger, every so slightly, as he made his way over to her.

All my intelligence training- it just fizzled away. All the things I was told to be on the look for. The dangers of drinking too much when in the field. The idea that coincidences aren’t nearly as common as you’d expect. The cooling effect you need to treat yourself with, when you’re thinking with your dick. I gawked at her, one hand on my beer, until she snapped her eyes up to me, irritated by my staring.

A look of adorable realization splashed across her face. She tilted her head, made a little hand gesture.

May I come over?

I made a beckoning motion with my full hand, trying to remember how to be cool. She does so, and my heart skips a beat. I feel daggers from the other single men in the bar, each of whom was working up the courage to talk to her.

“Viktoria,” she says, her English lightly accented. “But my friends call me Vika.” Her hand is soft, but her grip is surprisingly strong. I realize that I’m holding onto it for far too long, and drop it, embarrassed. She smiles at me, all charm.

“And you are…” she continues gently, waiting for my response. Fuck. Right. Normal people also give their own names when they meet other Ümraniye İranlı Escort people.

“I’m, um, Samuel. White” I say, trying to sound cool. Samuel White, my field name. An alias. My real name is Martin Smith- but of course you can imagine, I’d never disclose that to a stranger. Or anyone. For any reason.

“Well, ‘um Samuel’,” she smirks. “Care to buy me a drink?”

She’s just so stunningly pretty. I turn, regretfully breaking eye contact with this beauty, and receive a look at hateful admiration from the bartender. He’s about to take my order, when:

“Whoa whoa whoa WHOA.”

The perfect moment is shattered with an American accent. “Samuel! My man! Where did you get this beautiful lady from?”

He slaps my back, hard and manly and dominant. Andrew, then. Good old Andrew, always the party boy. He swoops in from behind me, moving with at flank speed. Within the space of half a breath he’s beside me, outshining me, offering his hand to Vika. She frowns, then tilts her head quizzically at him.

“Andrew Cunningham! Financial Consultant! Numbers guy!” He says, each of these phrases apparently deserving their own exclamation.

“Viktoria,” she says, slightly colder. She glances over at me, and I smile awkwardly. “Andrew is a friend of mine,” I say, half apologizing. “He’s the one to go to if you’d like to party in Istanbul.”

“Is that so,” she says, giving away nothing. “Well, I have very little to do this evening. So if you two gentlemen were planning on doing something interesting, I’m all ears.”

Andrew looks at me like I’ve discovered the holy grail. His grin is so wide I’m afraid he’s going to hurt himself.

*

YOU

LOVE

GIVING

HEAD

YOU

NEED

TO

The images splash, once every half second, on every wall of my cell.

Like I said before. Every wall is a screen, floor-to-ceiling. Something thick and plastic that feels weirdly warm, when I press my hands against it. Tough enough that I can’t crack it with my fists, or scratch it with my fingernails. They- that is, my captors- use the screens to project whatever they want into my cell. Sometimes, like before, a video. Sometimes, like now, just endlessly scrolling pictures.

SUCK

A picture of some porn star, her tongue out, licking a massive dick with a lusty stare in her eyes.

COCK

A burly man, his body totally shaved, his erection jutting towards the camera (almost as big as Vika’s).

YOU

A blonde bimbo with huge tits, sitting with her hands in her lap, pouting, surrounded by a number of naked men, all pointing their cocks at her.

WANT

A redheaded woman, mascara running down her face, saliva dripping down her mouth, deepthroating a dick that’s almost the same size as her mouth.

And so on and so on.

What’s most impressive about the shots is how rarely they repeat. What kind of fucking place am I in, anyway? I’ve been staring at these shots for what seem like days. If I ever look away for too long, a warning flashes on the screen. If I don’t look back in time, the temperature in my cell starts lowering. Sometimes it doesn’t return even when I look back. I still don’t have any clothes. I don’t know how long I sleep, because there are no clocks in here. Food seems to arrive randomly, tiny meals that barely satisfy my permanent hunger.

In that constantly churning pornography, I swear I see a flash of Andrew, dressed like a Playboy bunny, on his knees and winking at a camera. One of his gloved hands is wrapped around another man’s thick, bulging cock.

Flash, just like that. Gone. Did I imagine it? I stare at the wall, trying to will it to change back. Just more of the same. Hardcore porn. Blonde bimbos getting gangbanged, heads thrown back in surrender. They want me to watch this shit, I’ll watch this shit.

And, again. Andrew? Is it Andrew? The same dark skin, gone in a flash. A playboy bunny, kneeling demurely between two semi-hard cocks.

Am I hallucinating?

When did I last sleep?

When was the last time I drank anything?

WEAR

GIRLY

CLOTHES

Again- again! That looks exactly like Andrew! His outfit changed, this time. Some kind of pink lingerie set.

BE

SLUTTY

I stare at the wall for hours. I don’t know when I fell asleep.

*

A box arrives, at some point. Bleary, delirious, I make my way on shaky feet over to it. On the screens all around me, a video plays of a tiny man with cat-eye eyeliner and a blonde wig, getting ploughed remorselessly by some hulking figure who’s twice his size. The feminine man’s mouth is wide open, his hands tangled furiously into the bedsheets, his legs wrapped around the broad shoulders of his partner.

With shaking hands, I open the box. I blink for a few moments, not understanding what I’m seeing.

Lingerie?

Lingerie.

Fuck.

It’s all straps and white fabric. Something complicated and presumably sexy, if a women were to wear it. I have no idea why they’ll think it’ll fit on me. The bra cups are tiny, A-Cup, but there’s no way that that is fitting around my chest. There’s a matching set of panties, then some complex arrangement that looks like it clips into a set of white lacy stockings. They’ve packed a pair of white high heels in here- at least they got my fucking shoe size right. A thick white collar with a tiny gold bell on it rounds off the whole outfit.

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