Loinclothslave
slave to the whip
Lower than your waist, at least?
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It Ended in Moscow
- Thread starter Barbaria1
- Start date
Loinclothslave
slave to the whip
So for my jape you lower my britches loincloth and strike me? Inconsistent reward for the confected outrage, much? I was only quoting the rules!
Chapter 22
Onboard a Swedish ‘Statens Järnvägar’ night train, Stockholm to Alvesta, with connection to Karlskrona, 01:46 am, Wednesday, 17th January, 1940.
So, the chicken has outfoxed the fox, Elena Aleksandrovna Anosova told herself triumphantly, recalling a childhood memory of a peasant tale oft told in her native Russian village.
Pressing the muzzle of her Tokarev TT-33 hard against the base of Swedish General Security Service agent Sune Ivarsson’s skull, she guided him back to where they had been originally seated, across the aisle from one another, before he had engaged her.
“Sit!” She hissed in his ear.
He complied.
Now what? She asked herself. If I pull the trigger the gunshot report will awaken the entire train, and my mission will be over. That would have to be a last resort, which of course I must not hesitate to take should the situation demand it. On the other hand, I can hardly allow him to arrive along with me a few hours from now when the train pulls into Karlskrona.
Sune, for his part, eyed her warily as she sat down alongside him on the bench and repositioned the threatening muzzle of her gun from the back to the side of his head. Yes, he’d really fucked up this time, he chided himself ruefully.
They sat for a while in silence, until suddenly, having made a decision, she ordered him to his feet and shepherded him down the aisle to the rear of the coach, and on into the enclosed boarding and departing space beyond.
Together they stood silently for a time, facing the outside door, her gun pressed against his back, while a wall of snow-covered conifers whizzed past the small door panel window.
Then as the train slowed, as it often did to snatch the evening mailbag as it passed through a small settlement, she ordered him to try the door latch.
He did, and it moved in his hand, the door opening a crack.
The train slowed further, rounding a bend.
“Now!” She hissed. “Jump!”
And he did.
Rail station, Furuby, Sweden, 4:50 am
Sune Ivarsson had lain sprawled in a snowdrift for quite some time before eventually sitting up and taking stock. No broken bones. Wet, cold and in a state of shock, he concluded. But otherwise alright.
Picking himself up, he mounted the railbed and began trudging south knowing that, before he jumped, the train had been slowing for a mail pickup, which meant some kind of settlement lay not far ahead. And, after about a quarter of an hour, he found himself standing outside a dark little railside station. The sign alongside the tracks said he had reached a place of obvious little consequence called Furuby.
Leaving the station he trudged into the sleeping settlement that lay beyond and began pounding on doors until a light went on in one of the dwellings and a man in his nightclothes came to the door.
Flashing his service badge in the man’s face, Sune announced his urgent need to find a telephone.
Onboard the Swedish trade boat “Kalmar”, steaming westward somewhere off the southern tip of Öland, 5:45 am, Wednesday, 17th January 1940.
Barbara stirred in response to a gentle nudge, and opened her eyes.
Standing over her, a proffered steaming hot cup of coffee in his hand, was the ‘Kalmar’s’ Master, Stig Hallgren,
“You should be getting yourself up and ready now, Fräulein Mohr,” he said softly. “We’ve made good time during the night and should be docking within a couple hours from now. My instructions are to hand you over as soon as we arrive in Karlskrona to a Swedish General Security Service agent by the name of Sune ivarsson. There’s a wash basin over there on the other side of the cabin that you may use to freshen up if you like.”
“I’ve nothing on under these covers. I left my clothing draped over that chair over there.”
“This is a small vessel, Fräulein Mohr. We live in cramped quarters here and worry little, if at all, about personal modesty. And I can assure you that an old sea salt like myself is no stranger to the attractions of the female body. Besides, from what I know about what you’ve been through over the last couple of years, I can well imagine you’ve spent a good deal of time in front of men wearing very little if anything. So you just go about your business and don’t mind me.”
With a toss of her head to cast the hair from her face, she abruptly sat up, threw off the covers, hit the deck, and sashayed past him over to the washstand.
He followed her with his eyes, enjoying the view, and when he’d seen enough, cheerily announced that he was going topside and that she should join him as soon as she was ready. He’d have a hearty breakfast prepared and waiting for her.
Office of Poliskommisarie Ragnar Kalberg, Järnvägstorget 5, Karlskrona, Sweden, 6:32 am, Wednesday, 17th January 1940.
“Ragnar! Message came in early this morning from Stockholm. You’re to telephone Anders Hallgren at the General Security Service immediately!” called Polisaspirant Anna Rodin from the outer office.
Kalberg, who’d just arrived and was hanging up his coat and hat, cast a puzzled look through his office door at the pretty police trainee.
“What’s this all about?” He responded, beckoning her into his office.
“They wouldn’t say. Only that it’s most urgent.”
“Highly unusual, I must say. Can you bring me a cup of coffee, please. And the phone number.”
“Yessir!”
He watched her as she retreated to the outer office. Way too lovely to be a police officer, he thought to himself, wishing he were younger. He was nearing retirement after more than forty years on the force.
“Here’s the number,” she said, snatching a scrap of paper from her desk, and rushing back to him. “I’ll bring the coffee in a minute.”
He loved it when she bent over to place things on his desk. The poor thing always seemed to have a hell of a time keeping her uniform shirt fully buttoned. This time, as she passed out of his office, he couldn’t help imagining what she must look like naked.
Picking up the scrap of paper, he began dialing and when the call went through was connected immediately.
“Damn it, Kalberg! What took you so fucking long? My call to you went out over an hour ago!”
“I only came on duty a few minutes ago! What’s this all about, Hallgren?”
“Listen Ragnar! I need your immediate assistance on a security matter of highest importance! How close are you to the rail station? There’s a woman on the incoming overnight train from Stockholm who must be intercepted and detained. She’s a Russian spy and assassin!”
“Too late. The station is down the street from here, and that train pulled in early today - a little more than half an hour ago now. I doubt she’d still be there.”
“Damn! Alright then. Listen carefully. There’s a trade boat coming into port this morning … the ‘Kalmar’ … do you know it?”
“Yes, I know it. That’s Stig Hallgren’s boat. If I recall correctly, Stig is your brother, right?”
“Right, but here’s the thing. There’s a young woman onboard. Her name is Barbara Mohr. She’s German but works for British Intelligence. The Russians had been holding her in Moscow, but she managed to escape and make her way to Riga, where we managed to pull off quite a coup and get her safely onboard the ‘Kalmar’. But the Russian woman I told you about, who arrived on the night train, has been sent down to Karlskrona to kill Mohr. We sent one of our people down to handle the situation, but he never made it there. So, it’s all in your hands now, Kolberg! The Russian assassin’s name is Elena Aleksandrovna Anosova. She’s armed and dangerous.”
“I see. Well, we’ll do our best here.”
“You’ll need to do more than your best, Ragnar. You need to succeed! Keep me informed.”
On the quay, Karlskrona, Sweden. 6:40 am, Wednesday, 17th January 1940.
Elena crouched behind a stack of crates. Not far away was the berth where a dockhand she had encountered earlier had told her the incoming trade boat ‘Kalmar’ would be docking. Peering out through the Nordic wintry morning darkness and the shroud of mist hanging low over the harbor, she thought she could make out, far in the distance, the running lights of an approaching vessel.
Reaching into her coat pocket, she nervously checked once again for the presence of her loaded Tokarev TT-33.
Her plan was simple and straightforward - the only kind, in her opinion, to have. She hated complexity. She’d remain concealed until her prey, this Barbara Mohr, disembarked and came her way, which Elena had determined was the only way she might come.
She wondered momentarily what this German woman might have done that made it so urgently imperative, in the eyes of her bosses, to take her out. But quickly banished the thought. Her duty was not to reason why.
Minutes later the dark outline of the ‘Kalmar’ began to take shape as it emerged from the mist, and Elena again instinctively reached for and touched her Tokarev TT-33.
But then things suddenly went wrong, terribly wrong. For she’d been spotted by a group of four drunken sailors who happened to have come along, staggering arm-in-arm along the docks, presumably headed for their quarters at the nearby naval base after a night out on the town. And much to her horror and consternation, they’d seen her and immediately veered off in her direction.
“Well, lads! See what we have here!” crowed the tallest one.
“En söt tjej!” shouted another. “Very pretty, and I’ll wager she wants us!”
A third circled around behind Elena to grab her arm and pull her to her feet, while a fourth snatched her cloche hat from her head and clownishly placed it atop of his own.
“Stop! Let me go!” She shouted frantically and began to struggle.
“A fo … fa … foreigner?” Stammered the first, in response to her accent. “S … she … sounds like a Russkie to me!”
“Hmmm, we’d better check her out, just in case she’s a spy,” shouted another mirthfully.
After which they promptly dragged her bodily off into a nearby alleyway sandwiched between two warehouses and dimly lit by a single lamp mounted high on the brick exterior of one of the enclosing buildings.
She thought of drawing her gun, but it was too late as they were already stripping her of her coat. With dismay, she heard the dull thud made by her pocketed gun as her coat landed on the pavement.
Then they had her pinned against the wall, someone’s meaty, silencing hand clamped down over her mouth and nose. Others tugged forcefully at her skirt, pulling it down over her hips and down the length of her legs. Next it was her blouse, ripped savagely open and then her bra, and finally her panties.
“I’m first!” crowed the first and obvious leader, as he closed in on her to cup her bared breasts in his hands and briefly bury his face in the valley between them … before dropping one hand to her mound and rudely forcing a probing finger between her labia.
Minutes later her eyes widened at the size of him as he stepped back to drop his trousers, before advancing on her once again to kick first at her ankles to force her legs wide apart, and then to close in tight and impale his helplessly struggling victim with one mighty thrust.
TBC
Onboard a Swedish ‘Statens Järnvägar’ night train, Stockholm to Alvesta, with connection to Karlskrona, 01:46 am, Wednesday, 17th January, 1940.
So, the chicken has outfoxed the fox, Elena Aleksandrovna Anosova told herself triumphantly, recalling a childhood memory of a peasant tale oft told in her native Russian village.
Pressing the muzzle of her Tokarev TT-33 hard against the base of Swedish General Security Service agent Sune Ivarsson’s skull, she guided him back to where they had been originally seated, across the aisle from one another, before he had engaged her.
“Sit!” She hissed in his ear.
He complied.
Now what? She asked herself. If I pull the trigger the gunshot report will awaken the entire train, and my mission will be over. That would have to be a last resort, which of course I must not hesitate to take should the situation demand it. On the other hand, I can hardly allow him to arrive along with me a few hours from now when the train pulls into Karlskrona.
Sune, for his part, eyed her warily as she sat down alongside him on the bench and repositioned the threatening muzzle of her gun from the back to the side of his head. Yes, he’d really fucked up this time, he chided himself ruefully.
They sat for a while in silence, until suddenly, having made a decision, she ordered him to his feet and shepherded him down the aisle to the rear of the coach, and on into the enclosed boarding and departing space beyond.
Together they stood silently for a time, facing the outside door, her gun pressed against his back, while a wall of snow-covered conifers whizzed past the small door panel window.
Then as the train slowed, as it often did to snatch the evening mailbag as it passed through a small settlement, she ordered him to try the door latch.
He did, and it moved in his hand, the door opening a crack.
The train slowed further, rounding a bend.
“Now!” She hissed. “Jump!”
And he did.
Rail station, Furuby, Sweden, 4:50 am
Sune Ivarsson had lain sprawled in a snowdrift for quite some time before eventually sitting up and taking stock. No broken bones. Wet, cold and in a state of shock, he concluded. But otherwise alright.
Picking himself up, he mounted the railbed and began trudging south knowing that, before he jumped, the train had been slowing for a mail pickup, which meant some kind of settlement lay not far ahead. And, after about a quarter of an hour, he found himself standing outside a dark little railside station. The sign alongside the tracks said he had reached a place of obvious little consequence called Furuby.
Leaving the station he trudged into the sleeping settlement that lay beyond and began pounding on doors until a light went on in one of the dwellings and a man in his nightclothes came to the door.
Flashing his service badge in the man’s face, Sune announced his urgent need to find a telephone.
Onboard the Swedish trade boat “Kalmar”, steaming westward somewhere off the southern tip of Öland, 5:45 am, Wednesday, 17th January 1940.
Barbara stirred in response to a gentle nudge, and opened her eyes.
Standing over her, a proffered steaming hot cup of coffee in his hand, was the ‘Kalmar’s’ Master, Stig Hallgren,
“You should be getting yourself up and ready now, Fräulein Mohr,” he said softly. “We’ve made good time during the night and should be docking within a couple hours from now. My instructions are to hand you over as soon as we arrive in Karlskrona to a Swedish General Security Service agent by the name of Sune ivarsson. There’s a wash basin over there on the other side of the cabin that you may use to freshen up if you like.”
“I’ve nothing on under these covers. I left my clothing draped over that chair over there.”
“This is a small vessel, Fräulein Mohr. We live in cramped quarters here and worry little, if at all, about personal modesty. And I can assure you that an old sea salt like myself is no stranger to the attractions of the female body. Besides, from what I know about what you’ve been through over the last couple of years, I can well imagine you’ve spent a good deal of time in front of men wearing very little if anything. So you just go about your business and don’t mind me.”
With a toss of her head to cast the hair from her face, she abruptly sat up, threw off the covers, hit the deck, and sashayed past him over to the washstand.
He followed her with his eyes, enjoying the view, and when he’d seen enough, cheerily announced that he was going topside and that she should join him as soon as she was ready. He’d have a hearty breakfast prepared and waiting for her.
Office of Poliskommisarie Ragnar Kalberg, Järnvägstorget 5, Karlskrona, Sweden, 6:32 am, Wednesday, 17th January 1940.
“Ragnar! Message came in early this morning from Stockholm. You’re to telephone Anders Hallgren at the General Security Service immediately!” called Polisaspirant Anna Rodin from the outer office.
Kalberg, who’d just arrived and was hanging up his coat and hat, cast a puzzled look through his office door at the pretty police trainee.
“What’s this all about?” He responded, beckoning her into his office.
“They wouldn’t say. Only that it’s most urgent.”
“Highly unusual, I must say. Can you bring me a cup of coffee, please. And the phone number.”
“Yessir!”
He watched her as she retreated to the outer office. Way too lovely to be a police officer, he thought to himself, wishing he were younger. He was nearing retirement after more than forty years on the force.
“Here’s the number,” she said, snatching a scrap of paper from her desk, and rushing back to him. “I’ll bring the coffee in a minute.”
He loved it when she bent over to place things on his desk. The poor thing always seemed to have a hell of a time keeping her uniform shirt fully buttoned. This time, as she passed out of his office, he couldn’t help imagining what she must look like naked.
Picking up the scrap of paper, he began dialing and when the call went through was connected immediately.
“Damn it, Kalberg! What took you so fucking long? My call to you went out over an hour ago!”
“I only came on duty a few minutes ago! What’s this all about, Hallgren?”
“Listen Ragnar! I need your immediate assistance on a security matter of highest importance! How close are you to the rail station? There’s a woman on the incoming overnight train from Stockholm who must be intercepted and detained. She’s a Russian spy and assassin!”
“Too late. The station is down the street from here, and that train pulled in early today - a little more than half an hour ago now. I doubt she’d still be there.”
“Damn! Alright then. Listen carefully. There’s a trade boat coming into port this morning … the ‘Kalmar’ … do you know it?”
“Yes, I know it. That’s Stig Hallgren’s boat. If I recall correctly, Stig is your brother, right?”
“Right, but here’s the thing. There’s a young woman onboard. Her name is Barbara Mohr. She’s German but works for British Intelligence. The Russians had been holding her in Moscow, but she managed to escape and make her way to Riga, where we managed to pull off quite a coup and get her safely onboard the ‘Kalmar’. But the Russian woman I told you about, who arrived on the night train, has been sent down to Karlskrona to kill Mohr. We sent one of our people down to handle the situation, but he never made it there. So, it’s all in your hands now, Kolberg! The Russian assassin’s name is Elena Aleksandrovna Anosova. She’s armed and dangerous.”
“I see. Well, we’ll do our best here.”
“You’ll need to do more than your best, Ragnar. You need to succeed! Keep me informed.”
On the quay, Karlskrona, Sweden. 6:40 am, Wednesday, 17th January 1940.
Elena crouched behind a stack of crates. Not far away was the berth where a dockhand she had encountered earlier had told her the incoming trade boat ‘Kalmar’ would be docking. Peering out through the Nordic wintry morning darkness and the shroud of mist hanging low over the harbor, she thought she could make out, far in the distance, the running lights of an approaching vessel.
Reaching into her coat pocket, she nervously checked once again for the presence of her loaded Tokarev TT-33.
Her plan was simple and straightforward - the only kind, in her opinion, to have. She hated complexity. She’d remain concealed until her prey, this Barbara Mohr, disembarked and came her way, which Elena had determined was the only way she might come.
She wondered momentarily what this German woman might have done that made it so urgently imperative, in the eyes of her bosses, to take her out. But quickly banished the thought. Her duty was not to reason why.
Minutes later the dark outline of the ‘Kalmar’ began to take shape as it emerged from the mist, and Elena again instinctively reached for and touched her Tokarev TT-33.
But then things suddenly went wrong, terribly wrong. For she’d been spotted by a group of four drunken sailors who happened to have come along, staggering arm-in-arm along the docks, presumably headed for their quarters at the nearby naval base after a night out on the town. And much to her horror and consternation, they’d seen her and immediately veered off in her direction.
“Well, lads! See what we have here!” crowed the tallest one.
“En söt tjej!” shouted another. “Very pretty, and I’ll wager she wants us!”
A third circled around behind Elena to grab her arm and pull her to her feet, while a fourth snatched her cloche hat from her head and clownishly placed it atop of his own.
“Stop! Let me go!” She shouted frantically and began to struggle.
“A fo … fa … foreigner?” Stammered the first, in response to her accent. “S … she … sounds like a Russkie to me!”
“Hmmm, we’d better check her out, just in case she’s a spy,” shouted another mirthfully.
After which they promptly dragged her bodily off into a nearby alleyway sandwiched between two warehouses and dimly lit by a single lamp mounted high on the brick exterior of one of the enclosing buildings.
She thought of drawing her gun, but it was too late as they were already stripping her of her coat. With dismay, she heard the dull thud made by her pocketed gun as her coat landed on the pavement.
Then they had her pinned against the wall, someone’s meaty, silencing hand clamped down over her mouth and nose. Others tugged forcefully at her skirt, pulling it down over her hips and down the length of her legs. Next it was her blouse, ripped savagely open and then her bra, and finally her panties.
“I’m first!” crowed the first and obvious leader, as he closed in on her to cup her bared breasts in his hands and briefly bury his face in the valley between them … before dropping one hand to her mound and rudely forcing a probing finger between her labia.
Minutes later her eyes widened at the size of him as he stepped back to drop his trousers, before advancing on her once again to kick first at her ankles to force her legs wide apart, and then to close in tight and impale his helplessly struggling victim with one mighty thrust.
TBC
Loinclothslave
slave to the whip
Good chapter... the tension mounts!!!
My dog never does that. Where do I get one of these Tokarev TT-33's?
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
Just wondering! When Mrs. Wragg says "sit", does the dog obey her?My dog never does that. Where do I get one of these Tokarev TT-33's?
settantuno
MUTUS PICTOR
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
Stunning. The scene captured perfectly Sett
settantuno
MUTUS PICTOR
settantuno
MUTUS PICTOR
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
Chapter 23
On the quayside, Karlskrona, Sweden. 06:55 am, Wednesday, 17th January 1940.
It all happened so fast that Elena Aleksandrovna Anosova could not get her breath. From being dragged into the alleyway, pinned against a wall, stripped, legs kicked apart and penetrated, the elapsed time was counted in seconds.
Everything was a horrific blur.
Naked.
Raped.
The first time she was dry, but that didn’t stop the man, the leader, the slightly older one, from slamming into her, as she screamed out loud.
“Aiiiiiiiiiiiii, Neyeet, stop!”
But he didn’t stop, and, held in place by the others, the poor girl was filled, creamed and lubricated with sperm.
When he had finished she was thrown roughly to the ground and pulled up onto all fours, viscous white seed flowing down her thighs. A thick finger slid slowly up the shadowy crack of her buttocks and into her ass. In then out, once, twice, three times and then two fingers took over making Elena convulse and arch her spine. The poor girl’s ass hole was gaping, shining with the male seed being smeared around and inside the tight little opening.
“Okay let’s show this little slut what happens to Ruskie whores who are caught wandering around in alleyways alone.
The second man spread her cheeks wide open, and then mercilessly pushed inside, hard and fast, her asshole stretched way wider than was natural.
“STOPPPPPP!” She cried out.
It burned.
It stung, and then he grabbed the prostrated girl by the hips and thrust past her tight sphincter so that he could properly sodomise her, forcing his entire length deep into her bowels.
As Elena took him in the ass, she felt hard flesh press against her cheek.
“Open wide Commie cunt …”
And having little option, she did, and he fucked her face as she was brutally spit-roasted …
Then in the midst of this sexually horrific party, a single gun-shot fired high into the night sky, and as each of the rapist sailors looked up, they saw the silhouette of Karlskrona’s police chief, Poliskommisarie Ragnar Kalberg, standing at the end of the alley.
Ragnar had, first of all, heard and then seen the shocking assault taking place and immediately knew that to scare the gang was his only chance to save the girl from her obvious fate. And so it was with relief that he watched the men run quickly away in the midst of attempting to redress themselves, leaving the poor victim in a fleshy heap of battered limbs and mauled breasts.
Onboard the Swedish trade boat “Kalmar”, 7:30 am, Wednesday, 17th January 1940.
First traces of dawn were making their appearance as ‘Kalmar’s’ Master, Stig Hallgren patiently navigated his trade boat into the wide entrance to Karlskrona harbour, in clear sight of the electric tram stops and the bridge that led from the island into the old town.
The smell of fish and sea-salt was in the air, bringing a familiar comfort to Hallgren. He had to admit to himself, he’d been a little nervous about his trip to Latvia given the perilous state of the world, and in particular, Europe, these days.
He was still intrigued by the reasoning that had sent him under the guise of a standard trade trip, to collect this beguiling girl, but then his brother was under no obligation to tell him anything, and maybe it was better that he didn’t. Stig was always happy to help if he could.
Shaking himself from his daytime reverie he focused his attention upon making the 90-degree port turn towards the piazza, and preparing to dock.
“Stop starboard,” he ordered as the Kvarstad-specified vessel came to a shuddering standstill, and a brief glance showed him that there was a man waiting on the dock side, in the chill of the morning air, despite the early hour.
As the wooden gang plank dropped into place a man took up position at the end and held out his hand to greet Master Hallgren, as he and two of his crew descended onto dry land.
“General Security Service agent, Sune Ivarsson,” the sandy haired man said, with a smile, and held up his service badge, which he had somehow managed to retain in the pocket of his suit trousers when the girl had forced him to jump from the train. That thought, far from angering him, made him smile wryly as he remembered how warm and welcoming her receptive body had felt during their passionate interlude on the night train. He wondered what had become of her because she was not here to meet this boat, but was pleased to have made it there himself. Thanks to the good citizens of Furuby who had sprang into patriotic action and seen to it that the town’s physician, who owned a car, had rushed Sune down to Karlskrona. Sune sincerely hoped the Russian spy girl was still alive.
Hallgren took the offered hand and shook it warmly as a slim attractive dark-haired female, walked silently up from below, her enticing figure covered by a large coat and heavy boots.
“Barbara Mohr, I presume?” he smiled again, looking past the broad shoulders of the ship’s Master and towards the tired looking beauty.
Office of Poliskommisarie Ragnar Kalberg, Järnvägstorget 5, Karlskrona, Sweden, 07:45 am, Wednesday, 17th January 1940.
Laying the battered and violated girl down on a padded leather bench seat in the Office of the Poliskommisarie, Ragnar Kalberg stared down at her beautiful face and bruised chest. Those bastards had really worked her over.
“Elena Aleksandrovna Anosova,” he muttered quietly to himself, reminding himself of the name given to him earlier by Anders Hallgren, Chief of the Swedish General Security Service in Stockholm and the brother of the Master Sailor, Stig.
A Russian NKVD Agent … and he knew just why she was here in Karlskrona. It appeared that he had stumbled across the young female Agent sent to kill the British Spy, Barbara Mohr.
“Agent Ivarsson has her, Chief … Barbara Mohr,” the very pretty Polisaspirant, Anna Rodin, said, popping her head in from the outer office.”
Kalberg breathed a sigh of relief at this turn of events, although it was hard to view the vicious assault on this beautiful young Agent as being a blessing, for Barbara Mohr it had been just that.
“How is she Chief,” Rodin asked with an air of genuine concern as she made her way into the main office. Elena was awake but seemingly unable to focus on anything around her. Between them, Anna and Ragnar had her sitting upright, having pulled at least some clothing back onto her, and plied her with more than one mug of milky, sugary tea.
“I … I’m f … fine,” Elena shivered and trembled as the shock hit her like a sledgehammer.
“Well that’s good,” said Rodin in a less sympathetic tone, addressing her superior, “… because Stockholm has arranged transport for her back to the capital along with Mohr and our man Agent Ivarsson.”
With her fingers still wrapped around the hot mug, Elena looked up. “You mean Sune … Sune Ivarsson?”
Both Ragnar and Anna looked at one another with a confused expression. “You know him?”
Elena paused, nodded, then answered, “You could say that, yes.”
The Port Offices at Karlskrona, 08:55 am, Wednesday, 17th January 1940.
“Fräulein Mohr … it’s both a pleasure and a relief to hear your voice.
“Major Grand,” Barbara spoke into the telephone in hushed tones.
“You’ve performed a great service, did a wonderful job, you and …”
Then there was silence with neither knowing what to say.
Then …
“Henry?” Barbara asked.
“I’m afraid he didn’t make it, Barbara, he bought it out in Russia.”
Barbara inhaled and then held her breath, afraid that she would choke if she let it out. She and Henry Underwood had been lovers as well as comrades in arms, and despite loss of life being an occupational hazard for people such as them, this was news that she didn’t want to hear.
“I’m sorry,” the Major added.
“So, what happens now,” Barbara offered up a stoic front.
“You will be collected from the Port Offices at Karlskrona and driven to Stockholm. From there you will be flown to Britain and into the arms of safety at long last. You’re coming home.”
Barbara finally exhaled.
In the back of a covered Scania-Vabis 335 heading from Karlskrona to Stockholm, 10:05 am, Wednesday, 17th January 1940.
It was around an hour later when the virtually brand new Scania-Vabia Model 335 creaked to a halt outside the Port Offices and Sune Ivarsson led Barbara, now wearing trousers and a baggy sweater from the Port’s clothing supply, into the covered back of the lorry.
It was only when Sune stepped into the space that he looked at the blond haired girl sitting handcuffed to the internal side bar, as she looked back at him.
“I believe the two of you know one another?” Ragnar Kalberg said.
Ivarsson slowly nodded.
“I rescued her from a fate much worse than death at the hands of four drunken sailors in a small alley way by the dockside … she had, I’m afraid already been …”
“Raped … by them all.” Elena added matter of factly, staring Ivarsson out. Despite knowing that she was a NKVD Agent sent to kill Fräulein Mohr, Sune could not see past the romantic interlude they had shared on the train … her breasts, that ass, the beautiful face. He still wanted her.
“What will happen to her in Stockholm?” He asked Kalberg.
“Well, you will deliver both girls to Anders Hallgren. Fräulein Mohr will be repatriated to Britain and The Russian will be sent for interrogation … the Commie bastards bombed several Swedish port towns just three days ago and so we need answers. This Soviet Agent is a good place to start.
And so, once Ragnar Kalberg had hopped off the truck, and with Sune Ivarsson chaperoning both Elena Aleksandrovna Anosova and Fräulein Barbara Mohr all the way to Stockholm, the Scania-Vabia Model 335 fired up its six-cylinder engine and began the long, five hundred kilometre, journey to Stockholm.
Epilogue to follow
On the quayside, Karlskrona, Sweden. 06:55 am, Wednesday, 17th January 1940.
It all happened so fast that Elena Aleksandrovna Anosova could not get her breath. From being dragged into the alleyway, pinned against a wall, stripped, legs kicked apart and penetrated, the elapsed time was counted in seconds.
Everything was a horrific blur.
Naked.
Raped.
The first time she was dry, but that didn’t stop the man, the leader, the slightly older one, from slamming into her, as she screamed out loud.
“Aiiiiiiiiiiiii, Neyeet, stop!”
But he didn’t stop, and, held in place by the others, the poor girl was filled, creamed and lubricated with sperm.
When he had finished she was thrown roughly to the ground and pulled up onto all fours, viscous white seed flowing down her thighs. A thick finger slid slowly up the shadowy crack of her buttocks and into her ass. In then out, once, twice, three times and then two fingers took over making Elena convulse and arch her spine. The poor girl’s ass hole was gaping, shining with the male seed being smeared around and inside the tight little opening.
“Okay let’s show this little slut what happens to Ruskie whores who are caught wandering around in alleyways alone.
The second man spread her cheeks wide open, and then mercilessly pushed inside, hard and fast, her asshole stretched way wider than was natural.
“STOPPPPPP!” She cried out.
It burned.
It stung, and then he grabbed the prostrated girl by the hips and thrust past her tight sphincter so that he could properly sodomise her, forcing his entire length deep into her bowels.
As Elena took him in the ass, she felt hard flesh press against her cheek.
“Open wide Commie cunt …”
And having little option, she did, and he fucked her face as she was brutally spit-roasted …
Then in the midst of this sexually horrific party, a single gun-shot fired high into the night sky, and as each of the rapist sailors looked up, they saw the silhouette of Karlskrona’s police chief, Poliskommisarie Ragnar Kalberg, standing at the end of the alley.
Ragnar had, first of all, heard and then seen the shocking assault taking place and immediately knew that to scare the gang was his only chance to save the girl from her obvious fate. And so it was with relief that he watched the men run quickly away in the midst of attempting to redress themselves, leaving the poor victim in a fleshy heap of battered limbs and mauled breasts.
Onboard the Swedish trade boat “Kalmar”, 7:30 am, Wednesday, 17th January 1940.
First traces of dawn were making their appearance as ‘Kalmar’s’ Master, Stig Hallgren patiently navigated his trade boat into the wide entrance to Karlskrona harbour, in clear sight of the electric tram stops and the bridge that led from the island into the old town.
The smell of fish and sea-salt was in the air, bringing a familiar comfort to Hallgren. He had to admit to himself, he’d been a little nervous about his trip to Latvia given the perilous state of the world, and in particular, Europe, these days.
He was still intrigued by the reasoning that had sent him under the guise of a standard trade trip, to collect this beguiling girl, but then his brother was under no obligation to tell him anything, and maybe it was better that he didn’t. Stig was always happy to help if he could.
Shaking himself from his daytime reverie he focused his attention upon making the 90-degree port turn towards the piazza, and preparing to dock.
“Stop starboard,” he ordered as the Kvarstad-specified vessel came to a shuddering standstill, and a brief glance showed him that there was a man waiting on the dock side, in the chill of the morning air, despite the early hour.
As the wooden gang plank dropped into place a man took up position at the end and held out his hand to greet Master Hallgren, as he and two of his crew descended onto dry land.
“General Security Service agent, Sune Ivarsson,” the sandy haired man said, with a smile, and held up his service badge, which he had somehow managed to retain in the pocket of his suit trousers when the girl had forced him to jump from the train. That thought, far from angering him, made him smile wryly as he remembered how warm and welcoming her receptive body had felt during their passionate interlude on the night train. He wondered what had become of her because she was not here to meet this boat, but was pleased to have made it there himself. Thanks to the good citizens of Furuby who had sprang into patriotic action and seen to it that the town’s physician, who owned a car, had rushed Sune down to Karlskrona. Sune sincerely hoped the Russian spy girl was still alive.
Hallgren took the offered hand and shook it warmly as a slim attractive dark-haired female, walked silently up from below, her enticing figure covered by a large coat and heavy boots.
“Barbara Mohr, I presume?” he smiled again, looking past the broad shoulders of the ship’s Master and towards the tired looking beauty.
Office of Poliskommisarie Ragnar Kalberg, Järnvägstorget 5, Karlskrona, Sweden, 07:45 am, Wednesday, 17th January 1940.
Laying the battered and violated girl down on a padded leather bench seat in the Office of the Poliskommisarie, Ragnar Kalberg stared down at her beautiful face and bruised chest. Those bastards had really worked her over.
“Elena Aleksandrovna Anosova,” he muttered quietly to himself, reminding himself of the name given to him earlier by Anders Hallgren, Chief of the Swedish General Security Service in Stockholm and the brother of the Master Sailor, Stig.
A Russian NKVD Agent … and he knew just why she was here in Karlskrona. It appeared that he had stumbled across the young female Agent sent to kill the British Spy, Barbara Mohr.
“Agent Ivarsson has her, Chief … Barbara Mohr,” the very pretty Polisaspirant, Anna Rodin, said, popping her head in from the outer office.”
Kalberg breathed a sigh of relief at this turn of events, although it was hard to view the vicious assault on this beautiful young Agent as being a blessing, for Barbara Mohr it had been just that.
“How is she Chief,” Rodin asked with an air of genuine concern as she made her way into the main office. Elena was awake but seemingly unable to focus on anything around her. Between them, Anna and Ragnar had her sitting upright, having pulled at least some clothing back onto her, and plied her with more than one mug of milky, sugary tea.
“I … I’m f … fine,” Elena shivered and trembled as the shock hit her like a sledgehammer.
“Well that’s good,” said Rodin in a less sympathetic tone, addressing her superior, “… because Stockholm has arranged transport for her back to the capital along with Mohr and our man Agent Ivarsson.”
With her fingers still wrapped around the hot mug, Elena looked up. “You mean Sune … Sune Ivarsson?”
Both Ragnar and Anna looked at one another with a confused expression. “You know him?”
Elena paused, nodded, then answered, “You could say that, yes.”
The Port Offices at Karlskrona, 08:55 am, Wednesday, 17th January 1940.
“Fräulein Mohr … it’s both a pleasure and a relief to hear your voice.
“Major Grand,” Barbara spoke into the telephone in hushed tones.
“You’ve performed a great service, did a wonderful job, you and …”
Then there was silence with neither knowing what to say.
Then …
“Henry?” Barbara asked.
“I’m afraid he didn’t make it, Barbara, he bought it out in Russia.”
Barbara inhaled and then held her breath, afraid that she would choke if she let it out. She and Henry Underwood had been lovers as well as comrades in arms, and despite loss of life being an occupational hazard for people such as them, this was news that she didn’t want to hear.
“I’m sorry,” the Major added.
“So, what happens now,” Barbara offered up a stoic front.
“You will be collected from the Port Offices at Karlskrona and driven to Stockholm. From there you will be flown to Britain and into the arms of safety at long last. You’re coming home.”
Barbara finally exhaled.
In the back of a covered Scania-Vabis 335 heading from Karlskrona to Stockholm, 10:05 am, Wednesday, 17th January 1940.
It was around an hour later when the virtually brand new Scania-Vabia Model 335 creaked to a halt outside the Port Offices and Sune Ivarsson led Barbara, now wearing trousers and a baggy sweater from the Port’s clothing supply, into the covered back of the lorry.
It was only when Sune stepped into the space that he looked at the blond haired girl sitting handcuffed to the internal side bar, as she looked back at him.
“I believe the two of you know one another?” Ragnar Kalberg said.
Ivarsson slowly nodded.
“I rescued her from a fate much worse than death at the hands of four drunken sailors in a small alley way by the dockside … she had, I’m afraid already been …”
“Raped … by them all.” Elena added matter of factly, staring Ivarsson out. Despite knowing that she was a NKVD Agent sent to kill Fräulein Mohr, Sune could not see past the romantic interlude they had shared on the train … her breasts, that ass, the beautiful face. He still wanted her.
“What will happen to her in Stockholm?” He asked Kalberg.
“Well, you will deliver both girls to Anders Hallgren. Fräulein Mohr will be repatriated to Britain and The Russian will be sent for interrogation … the Commie bastards bombed several Swedish port towns just three days ago and so we need answers. This Soviet Agent is a good place to start.
And so, once Ragnar Kalberg had hopped off the truck, and with Sune Ivarsson chaperoning both Elena Aleksandrovna Anosova and Fräulein Barbara Mohr all the way to Stockholm, the Scania-Vabia Model 335 fired up its six-cylinder engine and began the long, five hundred kilometre, journey to Stockholm.
Epilogue to follow
Loinclothslave
slave to the whip
C’mon, Elena, you didn’t really want this poisoned chalice of a mission, so defect, defect and become Sune’s lover after the war is over! You owe no loyalty to those bastards who sent you on a one-way mission to kill and to die, do you?