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The Spying Slave No.1
Published by Lot’s Cave
The Spying Slave No.1
Svetlana's Submission, © 2018, by Kristine Lichtlider
Cover by Morgaine Wrightman
All Rights Reserved
All Characters In This Book Are Age 18 Or Older
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the Lot’s Cave website and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
A Lot’s Cave Novel
“Tell me about your dreams, Lana,” the doctor says, looking over her notepad with cold gray eyes.
“I don't see how that's relevant,” I say, digging in my jeans pocket for the half empty pack of cigarettes I'm suddenly craving. I'm having a hard time because the jeans are so tight, which isn't surprising because they're not mine. I know about the pack of cigarettes because I saw Jeanette—at least I think her name was Jeanette—stow them away the previous evening. On her, the jeans hadn't fit so snugly, but she was petite and I'm an athlete. A smile crosses my face as I think about peeling the jeans off of her...
“I don't know that I'd be smirking,” the doctor says, putting down my file and pursing her lips. Her regal bearing and slight London accent mark her as upper crust. The décor in here isn't all that imaginative, possibly because she's a dreary Brit. Wood panel walls—why do head shrinkers always go for wood panel?—soft carpet, a finely wrought mahogany desk positioned so when you sat down across from her, you could still see her many degrees hanging on the wall..
Only one window, which today, as usual had the curtains drawn tight. There wasn't much to see on the other side, anyway. Just an empty parking lot on the east side of New Jersey.
“I wasn't smirking,” I say, letting a little harshness creep into my tone. “I was thinking of something pleasant. The exact opposite of my current situation. Can I smoke in here?”
“No,” she says, returning to my file. Her hands shake slightly, and she clears her throat several times before continuing. What does she have to be nervous about? I'm the one they're worried is crazy. “Now, about your night terrors-”
“I don't have night terrors!” I snap, rising to my feet. The borrowed jeans shift lower on my hips and I hitch the blue denim back into place. Having the seamed crotch against my nether lips would normally feel nice, but I'm on the verge of panic. Having your sanity questioned is the most terrifying thing I've ever endured, and I've been fired at with automatic weapons.
“I'm not your enemy, Lana,” she says, licking her lips and staring at the way my body strains against the tight denim. I'm uncertain whether she's offended by my attire or aroused.
“Of course you are,” I say, putting my hands on my hips and staring down at her. It's hard to keep looking regal when you're being stared down by a nearly six foot tall woman who's been trained to kill with her bare hands, but somehow she manages it.
The doctor is a lovely woman, at least on the outside. Dark hair spills down her shoulders in curly waves, framing her almond shaped eyes. I think I detect some Haitian heritage in the upward pull of her nose and her pouty lips, as well as her mocha skin. But I don't want to be distracted at the moment.
“You are my enemy,” I say, mostly to break the awkward silence. She'd been staring at me as intently as I scanned her. “You're the one who can decide that I'm too crazy to work in the field.”
“No one thinks you're crazy, Lana,” the doctor says, folding her hands in front of her on the desk. The dark blue blazer she wears draws attention to both her narrow waist and generous bosom. She knows how to dress, I'll give her that. “But there are concerns. Some of your co-workers have said that you often wake up in a screaming fit, or sob uncontrollably while you slumber.”
“That stupid training exercise,” I mumble. “I told them I wanted my own tent.”
“Look, Lana,” the doctor says. I really wish I'd paid more attention when introduced herself. “I'm on your side. I want what's best for you and Guignol Enterprises.”
Guignol Enterprises were our employers. A private security and mercenary firm with branches in every continent except Antarctica, they engaged in everything but blatantly illegal activities. Keeping in mind that just because it isn't illegal doesn't mean it's nice…
I wasn't keen on signing up with Guignol in the first place, but the Kremlin had shelved me after I'd turned the last mission into a bloodbath. But I had good reasons, believe me. I needed to eat and a place to live, and all I knew was soldiering and roaching and slitting throats. It's kind of a unique skill set, and I just couldn't stand to be the person who asks if you want fries with your Big Jac.
Guignol treated me well enough; ninety thousand a year plus expenses, full medical and retirement plan, the whole corporate works. The doctor clears her throat after my minor reverie and I return to the matter at hand.
“Sure,” I say, pursing my lips. “Right now you're judging me for dressing like this at the office. Well, I had no idea I was going to be called in to answer an Inquisition.”
She laughs softly, and stares at the drawn curtains.
“I haven't chained you to the wall yet, Lana,” she says.
“I'm not drunk enough for that yet, doctor,” I say.
“Ahem, well...” she says, having the decency to blush. “I'm not judging your attire, though the pants do seem a bit small.”
“Are you checking out my ass, doctor?” I ask sweetly. I thrust my hips out and bite my finger while staring at her under my bangs. I didn't have time to braid my long hair, and it keeps falling in my face like a yellow curtain but my blue eyes still peek out between the strands.
“Miss Brown,” she says, coughing again. “I don't think that's appropriate dialogue, or an appropriate, um….hip configuration.”
Sweat stands out on her forehead, her cheeks flush with color. Her hands fidget with a ballpoint pen, spinning it about in jerky rotations.
“Well, what do I have to do to get out of your hair, then?” I ask, folding my arms over my chest. “Just point out the hoops and I will jump through them, doctor….what was your name again?”
She laughs, hands drumming lightly on her smoothly polished desk.
“Doctor Ramon,” she says “but you can call me Mariah. There's no jumping through hoops. All you have to do is talk to me about these dreams that are disrupting the sleep of your team. Maybe we can work through them together.”
I sit back into the chair and hold my head in my hands. There's no way I want to talk about my dreams at all, but I might be able to play along and 'pretend' to have an epiphany.
The problem is Dr. Ramon has falsified information in that binder. I've always kept a few identities on the side in case I needed to bail out of the 'life'. A lot of people in the spy trade do so. We're not as fatalistic as you might think.
She has no idea I'm the only woman to ever earn a red Spetsnaz cap. She has no idea about the times I've went undercover to investigate human trafficking rings and been subjected to nightmarish abuses at the hands of sociopaths.
So I decide to tell the 'truth'. Let her think I've got some hangups and nothing more. She'll prescribe some sleeping pills and I'll be on my way.
“Are you sure you want to hear this, Mariah?” I ask bluntly. When I say her name, her eyes light up a little. I'm beginning to think she's taken with me. Convenient, if I can use her affection to my advantage.
Or maybe I just want to think she wants me. I'm only thirty five, but due to my fitness regimen I could pass for someone in their twenties. Or so I like to tell myself. Maybe she's out of my league.
I'm so far off in my own mind that I don't hear her at first.
“I'm sorry,” I say “what was that?”
“I'm sure,” Ramon says. “I want to hear it.”
I suck in a heavy breath through my nose and then let it out in a sigh.
“I'm walking down the street,” I say, closing my eyes because this is going to hurt. A lot.
“Is it day or night?” she asks gently.
“Night,” I say. “It's been raining. Leaves are strewn on the street, while bare branches cast shadows onto the concrete as they rustle under the light of the moon.”
“Are you alone?” she asks.
“No,” I say “there are people all around. It's a festival. A Halloween festival, I think.”
“I see,” Mariah says. I can hear her scribbling something on her notepad. Oh, lady, is my story about to get a lot more fucked up. I hope you can keep up.
“Then it happens,” I say, my voice tight. The memory is still surprisingly fresh. “These two men corner me in an alley and push me against a wall.”
I'm leaving out the part that I was offering myself up as bait for the human trafficking ring, and that I allowed myself to be captured.
“Do they hurt you?” Mariah asked.
“Yes,” I say. “One of them punches me in the stomach. Hard. I—it came out of nowhere. And then he stuffed a bar towel in my mouth, so deep I was gagging on it. He used duct tape and wrapped it around my head, and the other man...the other man tied me up with those plastic ziptie things.”
My native Russian accent is creeping out, but I think—I hope—Dr. Ramon chalks up my change in voice as being on the verge of tears.
“Then what happens, Lana?” she asks. Her voice is tight, but eager. She's really into this story.
My eyes open, locking on her own. I've found my angle, how I'm going to get back into field work.
“They bound me with my hands behind my back,” I say, pantomiming the position. I make sure to thrust my breasts out, and allow the jeans to slide downward enough to expose just the top of my strip of pubic hair. “Then they….they pull of my pants, and…and I was raped, while the festival is going on.”
“That's….that's not pleasant,” she says. Ramon blots the sweat from her face and mumbles something about the thermostat before continuing. “And of course you were gagged, and could not call for help.”
“Yes,” I say, leaning forward. “Have you ever been tied up and gagged before, Mariah?”
“I—why, of course not,” she says quickly. “I've never done field work, or, or what have you.”
“It's strange,” I say “once you realize that you're helpless, that you can't get out of your restraints, there's a kind of calm that comes over you. It's like, no matter what happens next, it's not your fault. So you don't feel guilty about the times your rapist made you orgasm.”
Dr. Ramon drops her clipboard, and quickly picks it up, fussing all the while.
“I'm sorry, Lana,” she says, straightening her skirt, trying to find the pen she still grips in her left hand. “I shouldn't be shocked, that was unprofessional of me-”
As she bends over to search under her desk once more, I rise up and walk around to her side. When she stands up, our chests bump together, faces mere inches apart.
“Oh!” she says, looking up at me. “Ah...you're tall.”
“So,” I say, taking her notepad in my hand and putting it carefully on the desk. “Do you think you can help with my condition, doctor?”
“Well, ah,” Mariah said “why don't you go sit down and we'll discuss it.”
“I'm comfortable right here,” I say, looking at her with half lidded eyes. At least I'm seducing someone attractive for once. “Go on and tell me.”
“Well, ah,” Mariah says, eyes darting everywhere. She doesn't want to look me in the eye, but if she looks down my breasts take up her field of vision, and if she stares anywhere else it will be noticeably strange. Finally she meets my gaze. “Lana, I think you may be suffering from PTSD, and maybe you need ongoing therapy.”
Shit. She must be a better shrink than I gave her credit for, because she nailed it right on the head. The only problem is, I don't want to be put on desk jockey duty for the six months or however long it would take for therapy to really take hold.
“It must be hard for you, Doctor Ramon,” I say, brushing her hair away from her face. She flinches a bit at my touch but doesn't put her hand in the way or try to move.
“Hard?” she asks, no longer able to meet my gaze. She's staring at the file on my desk, even though it's closed.
“Yes,” I say “always being in charge, making all these decisions about people's lives. Sometimes you wish you could just let it all go.”
“Let...let what all go?” Mariah asks, moving away from me to stand on the other side of her chair. “Lana, I don't think….you should sit down.”
“I don't think I should sit down either,” I say, moving the chair aside. “Let it all go. Let go of your control. Let someone else be in charge.”
I step in close to her, my belly warm against her own. My lips brush her cheek, and her mouth opens slightly.
“No,” she says “this is wrong. I'm your doctor.”
“Shh,” I say, putting my hand over her mouth. “You're giving up your worries, your cares. You're giving up your control, to me.”
I pull my hand away, and before she can protest I kiss her deeply. My tongue finds its way past her lips and I taste her sweet breath. Cinnamon and nutmeg, from the bagel she had for lunch. She melts against me, and I brush her hair with long strokes of my hand.
We pull apart, and I glance about. A golden sash holds the curtains drawn. I whip it off and look her dead in her lovely umber eyes. Without speaking I pull her hands up before her and lash them together with the sash. She's got the blazer's sleeves for protection from rope burn, so I make the bindings extra tight. Something tells me she'll get a kick out of that.
“What are you doing?” she whispers as I finish the last knot.
“You're not allowed to speak,” I say with a coy, smoldering smile. A gray blob sits on her desk, a silicone orb with corn syrup inside—her stress ball, as it were. I take it and put it up to her mouth. “Open up.”
Reluctantly, she parts her lips and I shove the stress ball inside. It squishes between her teeth, and then expands outward. She could probably pick it out if she really tried, but the good doctor just stares at me, weakly pulling at her bonds.
“Turn around, doctor,” I say, spinning her about. A gasp escapes her gagged mouth, and her limbs are shaking. Reaching down, I hike up her skirt until it's around her hips. Doctor Ramon doesn't wear hose, and she prefers see through lace thongs. They're pretty little panties, but I don't respect them at all. With one swipe, I tear them off of her trembling body.
That does it. Doctor Mariah Ramon comes hard at the sudden exposure, going down on one knee, though she has the good sense not to move her hands from the desk top.
“Stand up,” I say, slapping my hand on her ass. I slide it downward as she rises, spreading her ass cheeks and fingering the moist, fat lips on her twat. “The next time you cum, it will be as I spank you.”
I slap her ass hard, making her shapely cheek dance. My other hand plumbs the depths of her pussy. Gently, I work all four fingers of my hand between her inner lips, because in spite of what men thinks a single finger is no real pleasure.
I keep spanking her, her ass cheek turning scarlet, as I worm my hand in deeper. My fingertips reach in so far I can tickle her g spot with my middle digit. The spanking intensifies as I get her off. Dr. Mariah Ramon screams around the stress ball in her mouth, squirming on the desk top as I keep drilling with one hand and slapping with the other. I get her to cum again, and one more time, before I stop both activities.
Dr. Ramon is weeping gently, sniffling and muttering behind the stress ball. I gently pry it out of her mouth, then get her to stand up.
“Shh,” I say, brushing her hair and embracing her tightly. “It's all right.”
“I'm going to get fired,” she says.
“Why?” I ask. For a moment, the plan to blackmail her flashes through my mind, but I force it away. She just seems too pathetic. Damn it, Svetlana, you've finally gone soft. Maybe that last mission did fuck me up for good...
“Oh god,” she says, stiffening up against me “you're going to tell them, aren't you? Unless I clear you for field duty-”
“Shh,” I say, silencing her with a kiss. After a moment she returns it, bound hands clenching my shirt. “Nothing like that will happen.”
I untie her wrists and she shimmies her skirt back down to decent length.
“But...” she says “I don't understand. If you weren't trying to get me to sign off on your case, why?”
“Because you're beautiful,” I say truthfully “and you wanted to understand.”
“That story was true, wasn't it?” she asks, biting her lip.
“Yes,” I say “but I'd appreciate it if you didn't let that into the official record.”
“Lana,” she says, hands going before her mouth. “I've failed you. I've completely failed you.”
Shit. She has a conscience. Now what do I do?
“Hey,” I say, coming over and embracing her. “Shh.”
“This is weird,” Ramon says, pushing away and staring at me. “I don't go around just...with my patients. I don't know why I let this happen, and I'm sorry.”
“Ah, look,” I say “what if you clear me for field duty, and I keep coming to you for therapy? You know, for my PTSD. Would that clear your conscience?”
“You do need recurrent therapy,” she says frankly “I'm not kidding about that. The night terrors are a sign of a deeper problem.”
“So help me,” I say.
“Well….” Dr. Ramon closes her eyes and sighs. At last, she melts against me. “All right. But during your next therapy session, there are to be no shenanigans.”
“Shenanigans?” I ask, incredulously. My hand slaps her ass hard.
“Ow!” She says, whole body jerking. “I'm not kidding. When it's therapy time, it's going to be for real. For that hour every two weeks you're not in charge, I am.”
“And the rest of the time,” I purr, clenching her buttock tightly “you do what I say. Like go to dinner with me tonight.”
“I have a lot of paperwork to file-”
My lips crush atop hers, and silence her as effectively as any gag.
Sometimes, if I drink enough vodka, I don't have to worry about the 'night terrors'. It's not that I don't still have them, I just don't have any recollection which is almost as good.
My head pounds with every thunderous pulse of my heart. Every sound in my modest studio apartment seems magnified to the nth degree, like the slow drip of the sink I haven't hassled the super into fixing.
I don't want him just fumbling about in my apartment. There are too many goodies stashed away, like the Steyr Aug automatic rifle hanging on hooks under my coffee table. Or the glass bong which usually sits on top of the same table.
Another hit fills my lungs with sweet burning cannabis, and the headache lessens. I blow the smoke out slowly, staring at the resulting tumultuous cloud. When not acted upon by outside forces like wind, smoke behaves like a fractal. Boris used to say that.
My mood sours instantly. Any memories of Boris are always tied up in the misery of my personal, botched mission. Boris, my former lover and partner in Russian Intelligence, had went undercover to investigate the human trafficking ring and then he'd 'gone native.' Tainted by all the debauchery and lack of morals, he'd become one of the abusers.
Now I couldn't think about loving him without the thought of all the horror I'd endured in that mission. That was why I'd sent the doctor home in a taxi last night. I don't want another relationship, period. Svetlana Breshnev is a solo act.
Putting her out of my mind is difficult. The second time we'd had sex had been more conventional, even sweet. My fingertips could still almost feel the curves of her body…
No. Bad Svetlana. Stop thinking about her. Get up, make some coffee. Go to the gym. The firing range. Go eat a tub of Ben and Jerry's-
My phone rings, cutting off the line of thought. I can't see it, but it's somewhere in my kitchenette area. When I spot the overpriced device, it's just about to vibrate off the counter. My hand shoots out and cradles it just before it pitched off the precipice.
It's work. My dispatcher is this little prick named Milo. He's former CIA, got a commendation from the President for his work in Syria, and that prestige got him a cushy desk job. No more getting shot at for Milo. He has people like me for that.
“Hello,” I say, trying to sound neutral. I hate it when he calls when I'm stoned.
“Lana,” he says “it's Milo.”
“I know it's you, Milo,” I say. “I recognize your voice. Well, what did the shrink say?”
“That you have to keep going for therapy, but you're cleared for field work,” he says. “And not a moment too soon. I need someone for a tough assignment.”
“How tough?” I ask, a little unsettled.
“I'm not going to lie,” Milo says “It's going to be long term, deep cover, and you'll be cut off from any support for most of the duration.”
“Just give me a rifle and three good people and I'll get the job done, sir,” I say.
“Lana...” he says tightly. I hear him sigh. “It's a Code Crimson assignment. You DID sign up for those, as is reflected in your salary.”
“I see.” My voice is taut with trepidation, and I'm certain he notices. “Yes, I did.”
“If you don't want to,” he says “there are other possible candidates, but, well...I'll be frank, Lana. You've impressed a lot of people here. No one would have given a shit if you had bad dreams in the field because you were so damn good at the job.”
“I...that's good to know, Milo.”
“Indeed,” he says “the fact is, the big dogs want to move you into management. Bigger pay, bigger perks, and no field work.”
“I'm not the management type, Milo,” I say.
“That's not for me to say,” he said. “They want to elevate you, and they wanted to make sure you were mentally sound for the job. That's why you got psyched. Don't blame me, because I know you think I ordered it.”
That takes me aback. I HAD blamed Milo for the psych evaluation.
“I see, Milo.” I take a deep breath. “And if I do this mission, I'm a shoo in? Is that the bullshit you're trying to spoon feed me?”
“If you do this for the company, it is going to make you a shoo in,” Milo said. He laughed. “You'll be giving me orders. I know we've never gotten on like old friends, but I hope you know I always respected your abilities.”
“I...thanks, Milo,” I say.
“So, I need your answer now,” Milo says. “I'm afraid it's time sensitive and it can't wait.”
“Alright,” I say “I will do it. Who's the mark and how far past seventy is he?”
“For that, you'll have to come in,” he says.
My heart sinks. I'd hoped to not go outside today. I was in one of those kind of moods.
“Very well,” I say “just give me an hour-”
“No, not today,” he says “I'm still in Tokyo. Tomorrow morning at ten sharp.”
“Aye aye, sir,” I say. “I can't believe you called me in for a Code Crimson. Jessica La Reux has a bigger bust, and she's ten years younger.”
“She said no,” Milo replied. “See you at ten.”
“Little prick,” I say, though I have the presence of mind to wait for the call to end first. Damn him, taking what little bit of a boost I might have received from this assignment.
Of course Jessica wasn't going to do this mission. I should have asked if she'd refused before or after hearing the details. I ran over a thousand 'worst case' scenarios in my mind. Perhaps I was to seduce a paraplegic or a burn victim. No, Milo said the mission was dangerous, not just unpleasant.
Then I thought perhaps I was to seduce another woman. That might give a newbie like Jessica cause to bow out. I filed the possibility under maybe.
The most likely of all scenarios would be if I were to attach myself to someone in a high risk profession, like a mobster or a drug dealer. It seemed logical that they would have me seducing a criminal of some sort. That would explain both the deep cover and being cut off from agency assistance.