"Darling," Stasya purrs, taking my hand and leading me up the narrow stairs to the small, cramped East Berlin apartment. I don't really feel like it's me walking along beside her. I can feel the intoxicating closeness of her body, weaving a little bubble of intimacy around us that shuts out the scents of boiling cabbage and the sounds of crying babies and everything normal about the world, and it seems to fill me up with her presence until I'm just a passenger in my own body. It's someone else intertwining her flushed, trembling fingers into Stasya's dry, cool grip. It's a stranger who fantasizes with every step about the moment we get away from prying eyes and she can cover every inch of me with hot, tingling kisses. I'm there, but I'm not really there.
If I was present, really present and aware in the moment instead of simply floating along behind Stasya like a balloon on the end of a string, I'd have to admit that what I was doing was a betrayal. I'd have to accept that all of my carefully placed rationalizations and justifications collapsed weeks ago, and now I'm simply following Stasya's orders because it feels too good to stop. If I thought about why I'm here, genuinely thought about it instead of letting my wet, sticky pussy do all the thinking for me, I wouldn't be able to hide the truth from myself any longer.
So I don't think about it. It's surprisingly easy when I can think about Stasya's kisses instead. She gives me my first as soon as we get inside, brushing aside a strand of my long dark hair and pressing her soft, red lips against mine while her jade green eyes bore into me. Stasya never closes her eyes when we kiss. She always challenges me with her stare, dares me to keep looking into her warm, sensual gaze even as my mind softens and my will slowly collapses into arousal. I've never won that challenge once. I'm never going to. And as my eyelids slowly, lazily sink shut, I find myself retreating into the comfort of memories of a time when I was still in control. It's not an escape; I already know I'm going to surrender to her sweetness. But at least when I think of the past, I don't have to be aware of my subjugation in the present.
"Her name is Anastasiya Klarovna Kozlov, but she goes by Stasya," the station chief said, sliding a photo across to me of a pale woman with high cheekbones, blonde hair, full lips and green eyes that stared enigmatically into the surveillance camera as if she knew it was there. I studied it carefully, trying to glean every detail I could from her expression and body language even before I knew what the assignment was. It was less than eight weeks before I would commit treason just to feel her lips on my clit, and she was just a face on a piece of stiff paper to me.
"She's currently attached to the Russian Embassy in East Berlin, officially in her capacity as wife to a minor functionary but unofficially as a deniable drop for sensitive information delivered by intelligence assets in the field. She sleeps around on her husband a lot, and although we don't have proof that she isn't just bored and horny, the list of her lovers and the list of suspected Soviet spies has a pretty suspicious amount of overlap."
He spun the photo around and glanced at it with a shrug. "Her cover story would make a lot more sense if you saw her husband. Anyway, we've got reliable intel from one of our people inside the embassy that she's just bored enough with her 'work' to find herself some lovers on the side, not her officially unofficial partners but some genuine affairs. We think there may be an opportunity to get someone close to her, possibly peel her off from her handlers or at the very least get something on her we can use to compromise her if we have to. And Agent Blackwood..." He spun the photo back around to me. I suspected he arranged the whole thing just to get to the dramatic pause. "You are just her type."
I was far too practiced at deception to allow my boss to notice my forced and frozen smile, but it wasn't easy to pretend that I was happy about this. My bisexuality was exactly the kind of open secret that the CIA loved to make use of as long as it was convenient, but I knew even two months ago that it would someday be used to destroy me. Seducing another woman in order to tease vital military secrets out of her? A proud, albeit classified service to my country. Seducing another woman because she's funny and beautiful and she makes shivers run down my spine every time she smiles? Grounds for summary dismissal from the service. It was a dangerous contradiction even before I met Stasya.
"She'll be attending an embassy function in three days," my boss continued, oblivious to my irritation. "You've been given a cover story and a temporary attachment to the diplomatic corps in East Berlin. Your job is to stay there as long as it takes to either co-opt, subvert, or eliminate Stasya. Use any means you need to in order to get close to her. Don't get prudish, here. By all accounts, Madame Kozlov has some highly unusual appetites, and the wilder you get with her, the more she's going to like it."
He paused. "Oh, and Clarice? Don't let it get personal. I know she's your type too."
I frowned, my personal feelings matching my carefully planned expression. "I never let it get personal," I said, sliding the photo into a folder of data to study later. I wasn't lying. But no plan survives contact with the enemy.
Stasya undoes the clasp on my bra with the patience of a safecracker, her hands slipping into my half-removed blouse and unhooking the stays to expose my pale, broad nipples to her kisses. I've lost track of everywhere her lips have brushed against my hot, tingling skin; there's a line of sensual warmth all the way down my throat and across my chest, and it's all I can do to stay on my feet now as she purses her lips around the flesh of my tits and suckles fiercely at me. "Guh... ggggg... good," I whimper, my dark brown eyes rolling all the way back in my head behind eyelids that resolutely refuse to open any longer.
She breaks the seal with a pop, then kisses me savagely with smiling lips. "Of course it's good, Clarice," she says, her Russian accent thick and heady in my ears. "It's always so good when I kiss your will away, isn't it? It's always so good to feel the pleasure pounding in your veins, sapping your resistance, melting you into my obedient little slut." I can feel her fingers under my skirt, rubbing my clit through my panties, but nothing feels quite so wonderful as those soft, warm lips nuzzling my skin.
"But you know what you have to do to get more." There's nothing cold or cruel to her voice; every whisper is a promise, every syllable an enticement. But I understand that the carrot is even more powerful than the stick. She could torture me for hours, days even, and I'd never surrender a tenth as much as she can draw out of me with a single kiss. Originally I told myself I was feeding her tidbits to gain her trust, slipping her little morsels of information so that she would feel comfortable responding with feasts of sensitive intelligence someday. But now I know better. I'm telling her everything she wants to know so that she'll keep fucking me like this. And I still can't stop.
"Muriel Boyd," I moan, as Stasya's lips return to my heavy tits. "W-wife of, of the Senator from Kentucky. She... she goes along with him on state trips, and finds girls for them to enjoy... together." I know far too much about the lesbian and bisexual women in Washington. And Stasya is going to draw them out of me one kiss at a time.
I was much more confident when I first met Stasya that night in the American embassy ballroom. That confidence lasted until the end of our first sentences to each other. "Hello, Miss-er, Madame Kozlov," I stammered, presenting myself as every inch the uncertain and shy 'new girl' at the embassy. "I'm Major Clarice Blackwood, I'm the new Information Technology Coordinator. And you, you're the..." I paused, as if mentally scanning through a vast list of strangers that I had expertly but only recently memorized. "You're the wife of Ambassador Kozlov, right? How are you finding Berlin?"
She glanced me over before speaking. I could feel her gaze traveling over every inch of my alabaster skin, my dark brown eyes, my long black hair... it was the most smoldering, lascivious stare I've ever experienced, a blatant and unmistakable hunger glittering in her eyes as she looked at me. "Better all the time, thank you. And you must be the American woman who's here to fuck me, yes?"
I was a good spy, but nobody is that good. She burst into rich, full-throated laughter at my look of shock. "Oh, don't be too surprised, dear. All of your 'reliable intelligence' about my habits in the bedroom came from me. I wanted to see if the noble, patriotic and intensely heterosexual Americans would really send a woman to seduce and beguile me, simply because they heard it could be done. I must say, if I knew they were going to send you I'd have leaked something much sooner."
She took my hand in hers and raised it to her lips in a gesture of stunning, immediate intimacy that made me blush and glance from side to side to see if anyone had noticed. I couldn't imagine that anyone understood the erotic power I felt in that brief, brushing kiss, but at the same time I felt naked in a way that I'd never been even with my clothes off. My entire body was hot and flushed, and I noticed a liquid rush of arousal between my legs that I couldn't ignore no matter how hard I tried.
"Of course you have to know that I'm going to try just as hard to seduce you," she murmured softly, her lips pressing against each of my fingers in turn. "Oh, we could almost certainly just steal away and fuck each other like wildcats every few nights, file meaningless status reports charting the progression of our efforts and ask for just a little more time together while we secretly lusted for one another." My index finger slipped into her mouth, her tongue rolling around it like a serpent on a caduceus as I savored the sudden warm wetness.
"But neither of us would be able to trust the other, would we?" she asked, releasing my finger with a sly smile. "We would lie in bed each night, our bodies cooling with mingled sweat and musk, wondering when the inevitable betrayal would come. No, better to simply trust our instincts and our skills, and let our struggle for domination add spice to our sex." She locked fingers with me and nodded to the exit. "I believe there's a closet a few hallways down that's not in use. Do you want to go there and let me eat your pussy for a few hours?"
I should have spotted the danger signs then and there, but it was already too late by then. It had possibly been too late even before I first met Stasya; she was telling the absolute truth when she said that she leaked just enough information to make the CIA think she could be turned with sexual favors. She set herself out as bait, and if it hadn't been me that took it, it would have been someone else. I tell myself that sometimes, late at night when I'm masturbating to sleep thinking of her kisses. Nobody could have resisted her. Nobody.
But at the time, I wasn't really thinking at all. Oh, I thought I was thinking; I ran through a series of plausible rationalizations and justifications, convincing myself that of course it was a good idea to let Stasya think that she could lure me into sexual situations. I told myself that whatever she might think she was doing, I was getting just as close to her as she was to me, and I could turn this to my advantage so long as I kept my head and didn't let her manipulations get to me. It all seemed like thought, but beneath it all was the pounding, throbbing pulse in my clit, feeding me any excuse I needed to get into the closet and get right of my infuriatingly constrictive panties. My cunt was doing all the thinking for me. And it wanted to be fucked.
And she was happy to fuck me. Stasya pulled up my little black cocktail dress all the way up to my armpits and kissed her way down my breasts and belly until I was trembling with desire. She whispered to me in the darkness between each kiss, her breath brushing against my skin as she murmured, "Aren't my kisses so addictive, Miss Blackwood? Don't they make you so wet? Wouldn't you do just anything to feel my lips on that pretty little clit of yours?" And then she kissed a little lower, and a little lower still.
It was just part of my plan, I told myself, when I whispered, "Y-yes, please, yes, anything," in breathless whimpers that sounded for all the world like I'd forgotten my allegiances and my goals and even my own name in my urgent need to feel her mouth against my pussy. I was lulling her into a sense of false confidence, making her think that her sexual skills were so potent that she could reduce me to a moaning, shuddering puddle of lust with just her kisses. It would, it would build her trust in me if she thought I was easily controlled like this. I needed to make it convincing. So convincing I believed it myself.
"Of course you would," Stasya purred, her lips close enough to my slick and sensitive labia now that every word teased them with kisses. I didn't remember where my panties had gone; the warm, wet lust that pounded in my brain simply seemed to swallow vast stretches of time, leaving me lost in a fog of unquenchable desire. I should have noticed that I couldn't think anymore, that her sweet and silvery voice slipped away into the back of my head without any real critical analysis on my part. But if I could have noticed, I wouldn't have needed to. Stasya had already done her work well.
All that was left for her to do now was the easiest part of all. She spread my labia with her thumbs and nuzzled every inch of my slick flesh, finding my clit and drawing it between her soft, pillowy lips to suckle at it like a newborn. My whole body caught fire with arousal, as though I was literally burning alive with desire and didn't want to stop; I could hear my voice, high and keening, begging her to keep eating my pussy. She didn't disappoint. Even when she paused for a moment, it was only to remind me that there was always more pleasure, always more sensation, always more utter and consuming bliss. I only needed to ask.
She gave freely that night, leaving me sweaty and shaking on the closet floor while she stroked my hair and reminded me what a good girl I was, and how wonderful it felt to give in to the pleasure only Stasya could offer. I didn't understand what had happened to me, and I assumed the weakness was mine; it terrified me, how easily she'd slipped past all my defenses and emptied out the store of willpower I thought was practically endless. I knew that no matter my assignment instructed, I needed to stay clear of her, or I would be the one turned by her seductive wiles. I couldn't see Stasya again. I simply couldn't.
That... hasn't worked as well as I hoped.
She's given up all pretense of subtlety now, tracing my fiercely throbbing clit with her lipstick as I lay on the bed with my legs spread and my whole body heaving with drugged ecstasy. I can hear her purring, "That's my good girl. That's my good, empty, obedient little traitor," and even though I want to struggle against the undertow of her words, the chemicals in her special cosmetics have done their work too well. The suggestions she slipped to me that first night before I knew what I was facing have eroded my resistance from within, convincing my unconscious mind that I'm addicted to her seductive kisses. That echo in the deepest recesses of my thoughts always drags me back to her. And when I'm with her, she programs me deeper still.
I know there must be an antidote-if there wasn't, she wouldn't be able to wear her lipstick to our assignations-but she's programmed me not to seek it out. And so naturally, I can't. She's imprisoned me in a cage of thoughts, a web of suggestions that constantly wraps around my mind and fogs over my thoughts with pleasure until I convince myself that I'm doing exactly what I should be doing. Even as my betrayals grow more significant, more blatant, I can find ways to justify every one.
Someday, I know, I'll be caught. Stasya's manipulations have turned me into a willing co-conspirator against myself, and even despite my own considerable skills at deception, I'm certain that she's going to keep using me until I finally can't hide my treason any longer. When that day comes, when I'm no longer useful to her as a spy or an asset, will she keep me as a pet? Will she paint my nipples with her hypnotic lipstick and program me to lick her pussy as eagerly as she licked mine?
I have to believe she will. Even if it's just my drugged, mesmerized brain tricking itself, I can't escape that fantasy any longer. I love her... and I have to imagine that in her own twisted, possessive way, she loves me back. It may be a lie, but it's the only thing I have left to believe in anymore.