Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
Thanks to the usual excellent work from @Madiosi I am delighted to announce that the Sexpionage story, Redemption, is now available in the archive in full with pictures.
Sexpionage - Redemption
Sexpionage - Redemption
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Sexpionage III
- Thread starter Fossy
- Start date
Loinclothslave
slave to the whip
A Skyfall leaves everyone shattered!
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
SEXPIONAGE RETURNS WITH A BRAND NEW SERIES ...
SHATTERED - PART 1
Backlash (1)
Eight months after the conclusion of “RETRIBUTION”
An old, abandoned warehouse in the Nieuw-West district of Amsterdam
Grace woke up sore, confused but aware of a number of things.
One, that they had her, whoever ‘they’ were.
Two, they had tied her up, with her head covered by a cloth bag, and she was God knows where.
And three, that she wasn’t wearing anything except her panties ... black lace girl boxers. They had stripped the dress from her after they’d knocked her unconscious and now only her long hair, hanging like a curtain, was maintaining any kind of bodily modesty.
Special Agent Miller snarled knowing they’d done it to shame her, to make her feel even more vulnerable, to dehumanise her, only they clearly didn’t know who they were up against, because that shit didn’t work on her, not anymore.
She was better than that. Black Ops trained. An experienced Agent, and it wasn’t as if this was her first time in this predicament. But that didn’t stop Grace from bringing her bound wrists up to her chest in an attempt to at least provide some sort of additional cover, maintain some sort of dignity.
A sound. The door opened. Someone walked into the room and she waited for whatever they were about to do.
“Hello Special Agent Miller.” The man said and she scowled beneath the cloth covering her head. Did they really think that they could intimidate her?
“What do you want?” She snapped, then reeled a little as she heard his laugh. Was it familiar? Was that Déjà vu she felt?
“You always were a tough little thing, weren’t you.” He replied putting his hand on her leg and she kicked back.
“Don’t fucking touch me.” She growled.
“You’re not in a position to be making demands here,” he replied, then added “This is how it’s going to go; we’re going to rough you up and then you’re going to answer my questions and if you give us what we want we will let you go.”
“And if I don’t?” She asked.
“Then things will not go well for you Miss Miller.”
She snorted. He really did think he could bully her, didn’t he?
“Get up.” He said and she took a deep breath before standing, using her arms to help raise herself before moving them back to cover her chest once more.
Despite the bag over her head, Grace knew that he was staring at her, she could feel it, sense his gaze burning into her flesh, even if she couldn’t see it, and still she could not put a name to his voice, even though he clearly knew who she was.
He grabbed her arm yanking her forward a few steps and then he walked around her like he was appraising her, and now she felt exposed, naked and vulnerable. The man made no attempt to remove the head-bag, but he simply stood, waiting and then she realised what he was doing.
He was going to keep her like this, standing, waiting, unable to sit, unable to move, unable to sleep. It was literally page one of the torture handbook and she smirked because she knew it wouldn’t work to weaken her.
Sure, it would put her through a kind of hell, and she knew it would sap her energy, but she wouldn’t tell them whatever it was they wanted to know. She’d played this game before, more than once.
Grace stumbled slightly and he laughed before poking her with something that sent a sharp shock of electricity through her body setting her nerve ends on fire.
“Fuckkkkkkk, FUCK!” The captive Agent cried out much to the man’s delight.
He was using some sort of cattle prod, she realised, shocking her like she was an animal, a beast. Grace took a deep breath and mentally steeled herself.
Time passed, unquantified, an endless void that served only to stiffen her limbs and dilute her resolve.
She stumbled with regularity as her exhaustion grew.
And any movement always resulted in the man laughing and shocking her again …
“Focus and concentration Grace Miller, that’s all you need.” His guidance was mocking.
She was on edge, her whole body trembling. Every time she stumbled the bound girl felt the prod and her body responded instantly, jerking, as the fire burned into her. Grace gritted her teeth. He hadn’t even asked her anything, hadn’t questioned her, but she figured he was waiting till he thought she was weak enough to submit, weak enough to break. Well, she thought, he’d be waiting a hell of a long time for that as she stumbled slightly again and felt the shock of the prod against her exposed flank once more.
One day earlier, the night before - Bartley Lodge Hotel, The New Forest
It was getting late, not long until midnight and the STEM (Science, Technology, Engineering and Mathematics) Women awards event, sponsored by MI5, MI6 and GCHQ, had turned from a corporate event into something far more raunchy, and Jase, Major Jason Underwood, had already made several comments about what exactly was going on in the gardens of their location at Bartley Lodge in the New Forest.
Grace laughed and slipped her arm through his. It was almost two years since Kat had died and it was only during the past 6 months that Jason and she had made their relationship public … even now they still lived separately.
They were attending the awards dinner for the Women in STEM organisation, given MI6’s status as key sponsor. It was a pain having to attend these ‘suited and booted’ corporate affairs, but at least the food and drink was free and to be fair STEM provided a steady flow of graduate candidates to all three organisations.
“This is becoming more than a little degenerate,” Jason commented.
“And you can tell the Oxford students”, said Grace in her eloquent and accented tones, an Oxford Alumni herself.
“You can?” Jase replied.
“Yes, you can, they’re the ones still drinking their champagne from a glass …” Grace retorted looking down at her own almost empty flute.
People started to drift away, and Jase took the opportunity to force Grace into one more dance before the live band finished for the night, and he spent almost the entire time detailing exactly what he wanted to do to her right now, right here on the dance floor. She managed to keep a straight face, to pretend he was simply talking about the weather or something equally as boring until she could hold it no more, and when she saw someone of a more aged disposition nearby gasping in shock as they overheard a snippet of what Jason was saying, she decided it was time to go.
Roger Moore, the Head of MI6, had left hours ago, disappearing off to a hotel before he went home the next day to detail how the event had gone to his wife. Grace smiled knowing that Agent Lacey Anderson, Moore’s submissive with whom he was having an affair, would be waiting for Moore and her body would be aching in the office tomorrow.
“I can’t believe we have to go home separately tonight baby girl,” Underwood whispered to his girl.
“Hmmm, I know babe, but you have that course to attend at the Fort, and I have a briefing at 7:30 in the morning in Vauxhall, and so … we do.”
And that was that, Jason would be heading the short distance to his home just outside the New Forest, and Grace would be getting a cab at MI6’s expense, back to her Central London Apartment.
To Be Continued …
SHATTERED - PART 1
Backlash (1)
Eight months after the conclusion of “RETRIBUTION”
An old, abandoned warehouse in the Nieuw-West district of Amsterdam
Grace woke up sore, confused but aware of a number of things.
One, that they had her, whoever ‘they’ were.
Two, they had tied her up, with her head covered by a cloth bag, and she was God knows where.
And three, that she wasn’t wearing anything except her panties ... black lace girl boxers. They had stripped the dress from her after they’d knocked her unconscious and now only her long hair, hanging like a curtain, was maintaining any kind of bodily modesty.
Special Agent Miller snarled knowing they’d done it to shame her, to make her feel even more vulnerable, to dehumanise her, only they clearly didn’t know who they were up against, because that shit didn’t work on her, not anymore.
She was better than that. Black Ops trained. An experienced Agent, and it wasn’t as if this was her first time in this predicament. But that didn’t stop Grace from bringing her bound wrists up to her chest in an attempt to at least provide some sort of additional cover, maintain some sort of dignity.
A sound. The door opened. Someone walked into the room and she waited for whatever they were about to do.
“Hello Special Agent Miller.” The man said and she scowled beneath the cloth covering her head. Did they really think that they could intimidate her?
“What do you want?” She snapped, then reeled a little as she heard his laugh. Was it familiar? Was that Déjà vu she felt?
“You always were a tough little thing, weren’t you.” He replied putting his hand on her leg and she kicked back.
“Don’t fucking touch me.” She growled.
“You’re not in a position to be making demands here,” he replied, then added “This is how it’s going to go; we’re going to rough you up and then you’re going to answer my questions and if you give us what we want we will let you go.”
“And if I don’t?” She asked.
“Then things will not go well for you Miss Miller.”
She snorted. He really did think he could bully her, didn’t he?
“Get up.” He said and she took a deep breath before standing, using her arms to help raise herself before moving them back to cover her chest once more.
Despite the bag over her head, Grace knew that he was staring at her, she could feel it, sense his gaze burning into her flesh, even if she couldn’t see it, and still she could not put a name to his voice, even though he clearly knew who she was.
He grabbed her arm yanking her forward a few steps and then he walked around her like he was appraising her, and now she felt exposed, naked and vulnerable. The man made no attempt to remove the head-bag, but he simply stood, waiting and then she realised what he was doing.
He was going to keep her like this, standing, waiting, unable to sit, unable to move, unable to sleep. It was literally page one of the torture handbook and she smirked because she knew it wouldn’t work to weaken her.
Sure, it would put her through a kind of hell, and she knew it would sap her energy, but she wouldn’t tell them whatever it was they wanted to know. She’d played this game before, more than once.
Grace stumbled slightly and he laughed before poking her with something that sent a sharp shock of electricity through her body setting her nerve ends on fire.
“Fuckkkkkkk, FUCK!” The captive Agent cried out much to the man’s delight.
He was using some sort of cattle prod, she realised, shocking her like she was an animal, a beast. Grace took a deep breath and mentally steeled herself.
Time passed, unquantified, an endless void that served only to stiffen her limbs and dilute her resolve.
She stumbled with regularity as her exhaustion grew.
And any movement always resulted in the man laughing and shocking her again …
“Focus and concentration Grace Miller, that’s all you need.” His guidance was mocking.
She was on edge, her whole body trembling. Every time she stumbled the bound girl felt the prod and her body responded instantly, jerking, as the fire burned into her. Grace gritted her teeth. He hadn’t even asked her anything, hadn’t questioned her, but she figured he was waiting till he thought she was weak enough to submit, weak enough to break. Well, she thought, he’d be waiting a hell of a long time for that as she stumbled slightly again and felt the shock of the prod against her exposed flank once more.
One day earlier, the night before - Bartley Lodge Hotel, The New Forest
It was getting late, not long until midnight and the STEM (Science, Technology, Engineering and Mathematics) Women awards event, sponsored by MI5, MI6 and GCHQ, had turned from a corporate event into something far more raunchy, and Jase, Major Jason Underwood, had already made several comments about what exactly was going on in the gardens of their location at Bartley Lodge in the New Forest.
Grace laughed and slipped her arm through his. It was almost two years since Kat had died and it was only during the past 6 months that Jason and she had made their relationship public … even now they still lived separately.
They were attending the awards dinner for the Women in STEM organisation, given MI6’s status as key sponsor. It was a pain having to attend these ‘suited and booted’ corporate affairs, but at least the food and drink was free and to be fair STEM provided a steady flow of graduate candidates to all three organisations.
“This is becoming more than a little degenerate,” Jason commented.
“And you can tell the Oxford students”, said Grace in her eloquent and accented tones, an Oxford Alumni herself.
“You can?” Jase replied.
“Yes, you can, they’re the ones still drinking their champagne from a glass …” Grace retorted looking down at her own almost empty flute.
People started to drift away, and Jase took the opportunity to force Grace into one more dance before the live band finished for the night, and he spent almost the entire time detailing exactly what he wanted to do to her right now, right here on the dance floor. She managed to keep a straight face, to pretend he was simply talking about the weather or something equally as boring until she could hold it no more, and when she saw someone of a more aged disposition nearby gasping in shock as they overheard a snippet of what Jason was saying, she decided it was time to go.
Roger Moore, the Head of MI6, had left hours ago, disappearing off to a hotel before he went home the next day to detail how the event had gone to his wife. Grace smiled knowing that Agent Lacey Anderson, Moore’s submissive with whom he was having an affair, would be waiting for Moore and her body would be aching in the office tomorrow.
“I can’t believe we have to go home separately tonight baby girl,” Underwood whispered to his girl.
“Hmmm, I know babe, but you have that course to attend at the Fort, and I have a briefing at 7:30 in the morning in Vauxhall, and so … we do.”
And that was that, Jason would be heading the short distance to his home just outside the New Forest, and Grace would be getting a cab at MI6’s expense, back to her Central London Apartment.
To Be Continued …
Intriguing … but no real clue offered as of yet to where this may be headed.
So …. Patience is the order of the day … time will tell.
Whatever Fossy has up his sleeve here is “bound to be good” as Grace is my favorite Fossy story heroine. So, for now, I wonder and wait. And tune in again tomorrow for episode 2.
So …. Patience is the order of the day … time will tell.
Whatever Fossy has up his sleeve here is “bound to be good” as Grace is my favorite Fossy story heroine. So, for now, I wonder and wait. And tune in again tomorrow for episode 2.
Loinclothslave
slave to the whip
Sharkman
Governor
@Fossy, great start, great fun. First chapter and you keep the built-up tension high.
... Grace, so darling, save the last dance for me ... but don't forget who's takin' you home ... and in whose arms you're gonna be ... 'til the night is gone ... and it's time to go ... ooh, you make a promise ... save the last dance ... the very last dance ... For ME.
... Grace, so darling, save the last dance for me ... but don't forget who's takin' you home ... and in whose arms you're gonna be ... 'til the night is gone ... and it's time to go ... ooh, you make a promise ... save the last dance ... the very last dance ... For ME.
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
Backlash (2)
Headline from the NL Times website
Albanians play leading role in Amsterdam underworld:
Albanian criminals are increasingly playing leading roles in organized crime in Amsterdam, according to a so-called trend analysis by the Amsterdam police. They are mainly engaged in cocaine trafficking, but also in human trafficking and property fraud, NU.nl reports.
According to the police, these Albanian criminals lead the cocaine import from South America, the transhipment via the port of Rotterdam, and the further distribution to other European countries from Amsterdam. In addition to the Netherlands, Albanians are also very active in the drug trade in Great Britain.
An old, abandoned warehouse in the Nieuw-West district of Amsterdam
Grace groaned as the shock of the electricity slammed into her again and again, but it didn’t matter anymore, she could no longer stand anyway, her legs couldn’t take it and she crumpled to her knees.
“Get up.” The man snarled and she gritted her teeth knowing that no matter how much she wanted to she wouldn’t be able.
“I said get up.” He yelled slamming the rod into her again and the captive MI6 Special Agent cried out as her body jerked once more, but she remained where she was.
“Fine.” He muttered before putting the sole of his boot against her head and pushing her over onto the ground before walking out.
Grace lay panting, feeling the bruising, the residual heat of the electricity and the irresistible tiredness as it swept over her despite fighting it with every breath. She blinked; but damn, her eye lids were so heavy. She blinked again and thought back, to the point after the first hour or so, when they’d drugged her. She had been struggling to stay conscious but that changed as the barbiturates worked through her body … then she could feel everything.
“Nghhhhh,” she moaned as the hardship of taxing herself both physically and mentally proved too much.
“Come on Grace”, she uttered, “… you can do this, you’re strong, come on.”
She heard footsteps. They stopped right in front of her and she knew there was more than one of them now. More than one other person in the room. One of the men squatted down grabbing her face through the sack and pulling her close to his.
“I’m going to ask you some questions and you’re going to answer them.” He said, his English accented and not with a Dutch twang ... “If you lie, if you try to mislead me then my friend here is going to start breaking your bones do you understand?”
Grace swallowed, mentally preparing herself for it, for the pain, for the attack, for it all.
“Do you remember Candy’s Strip Club …”
What the fuck?
“I …in Shijak?” Grace whispered.
“Correct,” replied the voice.
“Y … yes,” she stammered. Grace had worked undercover in Shijak, Albania and helped to bring down an international trafficking ring, but not before the bastards who held her as part of a group of prostitutes, had forced cocaine into her body and raped her (See Disposable People).
How could she forget. But why was he asking …
“You have a project at MI6 called the ‘Shelter’, correct?”
Oh shit, now she really was fucked.
Grace nodded not seeing the point in lying about the little details. “And you have access to the planned infiltration programme?”
“No. Oh gosh, no I haven’t…” She felt the blow and her voice caught in her throat, “pl … please.”
“Don’t lie to us.” He stated.
“I’m not lying. I … I was too close to the work in Albania to be made a part of the new programme, they haven’t included me, I really don’t know anything …” She said biting her lip until she could feel a thin trickle of blood.
Her hands were grabbed in a large fisted grip and she felt the snap as her little finger was yanked around at an impossible angle before the bone splintered.
“Aiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii, fuuuckkkkkkkkk! FUUUUCCCKKKK!” She couldn’t fight the cry that came.
“You only brought down a small piece of our organisation all that time ago Agent Miller, or should I call you Amber …”
His use of that name, her cover name from back then, sent a shiver up and down her spine.
‘…My name is Amber, and I am a prostitute …’ The memory was a nightmare. They would fill her full of cocaine and make her recite these words as a mantra.
Grace heard the man chuckle, and suddenly his voice resonated. He was the man. The man in the upstairs room at Candy’s. The man who had raped her, taken her virginity, pumped the drugs into her young body … but hadn’t they arrested him?
“Oh God,” she whispered to herself under the confines of the sack cloth covering her head.
“So, Grace, let’s try again. You have access to the programme details?”
“What details?” She asked. Her heart was thumping fast, adrenaline was coursing through her.
“The planned infiltration of our operations in Tirana, London and here in Amsterdam.”
“Are you fucking mad?” She snapped back, and another crack sounded, this time from her ribs. Grace gasped wanting to clutch her side, wanting to hold her body but her wrists were bound.
The hand grabbed her hand again but before they could twist another finger she spoke, her voice tinged with desperation. “I don’t have any access to that programme. I am still too conflicted, after you …”
The man now laughed again. “After I fucked you, Amber. You were so fucking tight …”
Grace felt sick.
“… and so fucking cute …” He laughed again just before they gripped and snapped another finger, this time it was her ring finger.
“Fucking helllllllll!” She cried out, screaming as loudly as she could in an attempt to deflect the pain.
“Do you think I’m stupid? You work for MI6, they used you to infiltrate us before. They would not exclude you now Special Agent Miller.”
“Yes, they would,” Grace was gasping, barely able to speak through the agony of her broken fingers, “That’s exactly what they would do.” She could feel her chest heaving, her body responding to the pain.
Could she take any more?
“You’re lying,” came the brute’s response, and Grace cried out again as another blow hit her in the ribs.
“I can do this all day.” He said and he laughed watching the girl wince with pain as they twisted a third finger, pulling it backwards almost to the point of breaking.
“You’ll have to, because I really don’t know anything.” Grace retorted and then screamed again as he snapped it before a heavy fist punched her in the ribs once more.
“Fucking bitch,” the man growled grabbing her throat and slamming her back onto the hard floor. “I could snap your neck right here and now.” He warned.
“Go on then. You still won’t get any answers.” Grace replied, using up her final remnants of resolve.
He snarled. “You think you can take this? You think you can keep fighting us?”
“I know I can.” She countered and then he squeezed her trachea hard, constricting her airways making her choke. He looked back at the man behind him before staring at Grace once more.
This little cunt won’t beat me, won’t defy me ….
He shook his head; he had broken her once and would do so again. Grace heard the sound of him unfastening his belt, and whimpered. Thick hands were gripping her throat and the girl could feel her heart rate slowing as she started to drift into unconsciousness.
“Not a chance.” He snarled, and the grip on her neck was loosened.
“I want you feel every second of this.” He spat at her while she gasped for breath under the confines of the sack, before he pulled it free, exposing her sight to the dim glare of the room in which she was being held.
It was him. Bastard.
Grace knew exactly what he was going to do, her heart pounding so fast that she thought it would burst, and mentally she pulled herself back, shut herself off, disassociating from it all. He could do whatever he wanted to her body, she thought, her mind would be somewhere else, anywhere else and as he gripped and ripped her panties away, spreading her legs in the process, she shut her eyes focussing on the first thing that came to mind as he slammed his long, thick and very erect cock deep into her body.
To Be Continued …
Headline from the NL Times website
Albanians play leading role in Amsterdam underworld:
Albanian criminals are increasingly playing leading roles in organized crime in Amsterdam, according to a so-called trend analysis by the Amsterdam police. They are mainly engaged in cocaine trafficking, but also in human trafficking and property fraud, NU.nl reports.
According to the police, these Albanian criminals lead the cocaine import from South America, the transhipment via the port of Rotterdam, and the further distribution to other European countries from Amsterdam. In addition to the Netherlands, Albanians are also very active in the drug trade in Great Britain.
An old, abandoned warehouse in the Nieuw-West district of Amsterdam
Grace groaned as the shock of the electricity slammed into her again and again, but it didn’t matter anymore, she could no longer stand anyway, her legs couldn’t take it and she crumpled to her knees.
“Get up.” The man snarled and she gritted her teeth knowing that no matter how much she wanted to she wouldn’t be able.
“I said get up.” He yelled slamming the rod into her again and the captive MI6 Special Agent cried out as her body jerked once more, but she remained where she was.
“Fine.” He muttered before putting the sole of his boot against her head and pushing her over onto the ground before walking out.
Grace lay panting, feeling the bruising, the residual heat of the electricity and the irresistible tiredness as it swept over her despite fighting it with every breath. She blinked; but damn, her eye lids were so heavy. She blinked again and thought back, to the point after the first hour or so, when they’d drugged her. She had been struggling to stay conscious but that changed as the barbiturates worked through her body … then she could feel everything.
“Nghhhhh,” she moaned as the hardship of taxing herself both physically and mentally proved too much.
“Come on Grace”, she uttered, “… you can do this, you’re strong, come on.”
She heard footsteps. They stopped right in front of her and she knew there was more than one of them now. More than one other person in the room. One of the men squatted down grabbing her face through the sack and pulling her close to his.
“I’m going to ask you some questions and you’re going to answer them.” He said, his English accented and not with a Dutch twang ... “If you lie, if you try to mislead me then my friend here is going to start breaking your bones do you understand?”
Grace swallowed, mentally preparing herself for it, for the pain, for the attack, for it all.
“Do you remember Candy’s Strip Club …”
What the fuck?
“I …in Shijak?” Grace whispered.
“Correct,” replied the voice.
“Y … yes,” she stammered. Grace had worked undercover in Shijak, Albania and helped to bring down an international trafficking ring, but not before the bastards who held her as part of a group of prostitutes, had forced cocaine into her body and raped her (See Disposable People).
How could she forget. But why was he asking …
“You have a project at MI6 called the ‘Shelter’, correct?”
Oh shit, now she really was fucked.
Grace nodded not seeing the point in lying about the little details. “And you have access to the planned infiltration programme?”
“No. Oh gosh, no I haven’t…” She felt the blow and her voice caught in her throat, “pl … please.”
“Don’t lie to us.” He stated.
“I’m not lying. I … I was too close to the work in Albania to be made a part of the new programme, they haven’t included me, I really don’t know anything …” She said biting her lip until she could feel a thin trickle of blood.
Her hands were grabbed in a large fisted grip and she felt the snap as her little finger was yanked around at an impossible angle before the bone splintered.
“Aiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii, fuuuckkkkkkkkk! FUUUUCCCKKKK!” She couldn’t fight the cry that came.
“You only brought down a small piece of our organisation all that time ago Agent Miller, or should I call you Amber …”
His use of that name, her cover name from back then, sent a shiver up and down her spine.
‘…My name is Amber, and I am a prostitute …’ The memory was a nightmare. They would fill her full of cocaine and make her recite these words as a mantra.
Grace heard the man chuckle, and suddenly his voice resonated. He was the man. The man in the upstairs room at Candy’s. The man who had raped her, taken her virginity, pumped the drugs into her young body … but hadn’t they arrested him?
“Oh God,” she whispered to herself under the confines of the sack cloth covering her head.
“So, Grace, let’s try again. You have access to the programme details?”
“What details?” She asked. Her heart was thumping fast, adrenaline was coursing through her.
“The planned infiltration of our operations in Tirana, London and here in Amsterdam.”
“Are you fucking mad?” She snapped back, and another crack sounded, this time from her ribs. Grace gasped wanting to clutch her side, wanting to hold her body but her wrists were bound.
The hand grabbed her hand again but before they could twist another finger she spoke, her voice tinged with desperation. “I don’t have any access to that programme. I am still too conflicted, after you …”
The man now laughed again. “After I fucked you, Amber. You were so fucking tight …”
Grace felt sick.
“… and so fucking cute …” He laughed again just before they gripped and snapped another finger, this time it was her ring finger.
“Fucking helllllllll!” She cried out, screaming as loudly as she could in an attempt to deflect the pain.
“Do you think I’m stupid? You work for MI6, they used you to infiltrate us before. They would not exclude you now Special Agent Miller.”
“Yes, they would,” Grace was gasping, barely able to speak through the agony of her broken fingers, “That’s exactly what they would do.” She could feel her chest heaving, her body responding to the pain.
Could she take any more?
“You’re lying,” came the brute’s response, and Grace cried out again as another blow hit her in the ribs.
“I can do this all day.” He said and he laughed watching the girl wince with pain as they twisted a third finger, pulling it backwards almost to the point of breaking.
“You’ll have to, because I really don’t know anything.” Grace retorted and then screamed again as he snapped it before a heavy fist punched her in the ribs once more.
“Fucking bitch,” the man growled grabbing her throat and slamming her back onto the hard floor. “I could snap your neck right here and now.” He warned.
“Go on then. You still won’t get any answers.” Grace replied, using up her final remnants of resolve.
He snarled. “You think you can take this? You think you can keep fighting us?”
“I know I can.” She countered and then he squeezed her trachea hard, constricting her airways making her choke. He looked back at the man behind him before staring at Grace once more.
This little cunt won’t beat me, won’t defy me ….
He shook his head; he had broken her once and would do so again. Grace heard the sound of him unfastening his belt, and whimpered. Thick hands were gripping her throat and the girl could feel her heart rate slowing as she started to drift into unconsciousness.
“Not a chance.” He snarled, and the grip on her neck was loosened.
“I want you feel every second of this.” He spat at her while she gasped for breath under the confines of the sack, before he pulled it free, exposing her sight to the dim glare of the room in which she was being held.
It was him. Bastard.
Grace knew exactly what he was going to do, her heart pounding so fast that she thought it would burst, and mentally she pulled herself back, shut herself off, disassociating from it all. He could do whatever he wanted to her body, she thought, her mind would be somewhere else, anywhere else and as he gripped and ripped her panties away, spreading her legs in the process, she shut her eyes focussing on the first thing that came to mind as he slammed his long, thick and very erect cock deep into her body.
To Be Continued …
Loinclothslave
slave to the whip
Probably the usual round of boozy sex if I’m not mistaken, someone has to keep the lights on at the MI6 BDDM brothel!
He thinks he’s a Man With a Golden Gun
Sharkman
Governor
I don't like broken bones. @Loinclothslave, and I mind another question ... is there a double girl for our starlet Grace in Fossy's new block buster production 'SHATTERED' doing the hardcore scenes?
Loinclothslave
slave to the whip
I’ve booked seats on the next flight to Tirana , maybe we can have the real thing?
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
Backlash (3)
One day earlier, the night before - Bartley Lodge Hotel, The New Forest
Grace got into the cab alone.
She had left Jason at the STEM event, still chatting, but knew that he too would be leaving anytime soon to head the short distance to Barn Owl Cottage.
“Fucking hell, of all the luck,” Grace uttered, cursing to herself with well-spoken eloquence. If only she didn’t have the early morning briefing in Vauxhall, she could be heading home with Jason right now.
But she was also looking forward to a hot shower and climbing into bed …
As the cab pulled away Grace noticed how relatively quiet it had become. The photographers were long gone, the streets were half deserted as she stared absentmindedly out of the window, half drunk and half sober, watching as people walked past.
Grace tried to imagine where they were going, what they were doing. She’d had a good night, all things considered, and she sat back into her seat and closed her eyes.
A screech of car tyres sounded ahead and shook her from her reverie. Grace glanced up seeing a battered white Luton van pulled diagonally across the road as if it had had a blow out and lost control. Her cab slammed on its brakes to avoid a collision, and she braced her arm against the seat in front to stop herself from face slamming into it.
Tyres screeched behind her and she turned to see two black vans coming straight at them. Her driver cried out, the noise a mix between a cry and a shout and Grace saw that a man was standing almost up to the bonnet with a gun aimed directly at the window screen. A single gunshot rang out and she didn’t need to look to see that her driver was hit. He gasped, clutching his chest and she stared out at the gunman now gazing into the car, his gun pointed at her head.
She wanted to move, to scramble over the front and try to help the driver, to stem the bleeding but the gunman held her stare and kept her frozen in her seat. More men appeared, men dressed all in black and she felt her heart racing because she had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. No way to fight them.
They smashed the windows then unlocked the door, dragging her out and she screamed, kicking and fighting them, but there were too many and they were too strong. Someone struck her from behind and she felt her mind go blank for a second as stars danced in front of her. And then they threw a bag over her head and tossed her into the back of one of the vans before screeching and skidding away from the scene.
Briefing Room 1 – SIS HQ, Vauxhall, London
The 7:30am briefing had become a 5am one, and the assembled team was substantially less, as a small gathering sat around the conference table to review the events from last night.
“What is this?” Roger Moore said, his voice curt to reflect the desperation he felt.
“Footage…” Came the analysts reply.
“From who?”
“Bystanders by the looks of it. We’ve already got the PR guys spreading rumours it’s part of a new film. The public are lapping it up.”
Moore narrowed his eyes. An innocent man was dead and Grace was gone. He scowled. How had they not seen this coming? How had they missed this?
“Do we have anything to go on?” He asked and the young back-office guy shook his head.
“We’ve got everyone we can on it.”
“So why do we have nothing?” Moore half yelled, shaking his head.
“We’re doing everything we can,” he stated and Major Jason Underwood got up, pouring himself a coffee and then putting it down before he even took a sip.
“We’ll find her Jason,” The Head of MI6 tried to offer comfort.
“We don’t know that Sir, and we don’t know why they took her in the first place.” Jason snapped, blaming himself for letting her leave alone.
He was right. There was no specifically obvious reason why Grace Miller should be targeted, but then equally, given what she did for a living, there was every reason.
Special Agent Miller was tough, both Moore and Underwood knew that, she was highly trained for fuck’s sake but, something about the situation made Jason not just angry and not even just worried for her, but scared that he was about to lose another loved one.
Please God, don’t let that happen
To Be Continued …
One day earlier, the night before - Bartley Lodge Hotel, The New Forest
Grace got into the cab alone.
She had left Jason at the STEM event, still chatting, but knew that he too would be leaving anytime soon to head the short distance to Barn Owl Cottage.
“Fucking hell, of all the luck,” Grace uttered, cursing to herself with well-spoken eloquence. If only she didn’t have the early morning briefing in Vauxhall, she could be heading home with Jason right now.
But she was also looking forward to a hot shower and climbing into bed …
As the cab pulled away Grace noticed how relatively quiet it had become. The photographers were long gone, the streets were half deserted as she stared absentmindedly out of the window, half drunk and half sober, watching as people walked past.
Grace tried to imagine where they were going, what they were doing. She’d had a good night, all things considered, and she sat back into her seat and closed her eyes.
A screech of car tyres sounded ahead and shook her from her reverie. Grace glanced up seeing a battered white Luton van pulled diagonally across the road as if it had had a blow out and lost control. Her cab slammed on its brakes to avoid a collision, and she braced her arm against the seat in front to stop herself from face slamming into it.
Tyres screeched behind her and she turned to see two black vans coming straight at them. Her driver cried out, the noise a mix between a cry and a shout and Grace saw that a man was standing almost up to the bonnet with a gun aimed directly at the window screen. A single gunshot rang out and she didn’t need to look to see that her driver was hit. He gasped, clutching his chest and she stared out at the gunman now gazing into the car, his gun pointed at her head.
She wanted to move, to scramble over the front and try to help the driver, to stem the bleeding but the gunman held her stare and kept her frozen in her seat. More men appeared, men dressed all in black and she felt her heart racing because she had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. No way to fight them.
They smashed the windows then unlocked the door, dragging her out and she screamed, kicking and fighting them, but there were too many and they were too strong. Someone struck her from behind and she felt her mind go blank for a second as stars danced in front of her. And then they threw a bag over her head and tossed her into the back of one of the vans before screeching and skidding away from the scene.
Briefing Room 1 – SIS HQ, Vauxhall, London
The 7:30am briefing had become a 5am one, and the assembled team was substantially less, as a small gathering sat around the conference table to review the events from last night.
“What is this?” Roger Moore said, his voice curt to reflect the desperation he felt.
“Footage…” Came the analysts reply.
“From who?”
“Bystanders by the looks of it. We’ve already got the PR guys spreading rumours it’s part of a new film. The public are lapping it up.”
Moore narrowed his eyes. An innocent man was dead and Grace was gone. He scowled. How had they not seen this coming? How had they missed this?
“Do we have anything to go on?” He asked and the young back-office guy shook his head.
“We’ve got everyone we can on it.”
“So why do we have nothing?” Moore half yelled, shaking his head.
“We’re doing everything we can,” he stated and Major Jason Underwood got up, pouring himself a coffee and then putting it down before he even took a sip.
“We’ll find her Jason,” The Head of MI6 tried to offer comfort.
“We don’t know that Sir, and we don’t know why they took her in the first place.” Jason snapped, blaming himself for letting her leave alone.
He was right. There was no specifically obvious reason why Grace Miller should be targeted, but then equally, given what she did for a living, there was every reason.
Special Agent Miller was tough, both Moore and Underwood knew that, she was highly trained for fuck’s sake but, something about the situation made Jason not just angry and not even just worried for her, but scared that he was about to lose another loved one.
Please God, don’t let that happen
To Be Continued …
Sharkman
Governor
@Loinclothslave, I'm scared of flights? Aviophobia. I will go by ship and train. I heard the Trans-Siberian Railway is an adventure?
Loinclothslave
slave to the whip
Erm, trans-Siberian, to Albania?? Hmm, perhaps you should leave the travel arrangements to me? Boats and trains, you say… check!
If I can arrange an Albanian slave girl to accompany you from Slovenia, are you up for that? Costs extra but what’s a 100 Euros, after all?
Loinclothslave
slave to the whip
Jason, Jason, Jason…
To lose one girlfriend to enemy agents is to be regarded as unfortunate.
But to lose a second one could be viewed as grossly negligent indeed. This time, don’t waste time with the knuckle draggers, go to your sources right away. For Grace! For Ekaterina’s sacred blood soaked erotic memory, don’t be fooled twice!
Never Say Never Again!
Sharkman
Governor
I had a 'déjà vu'. @ Lionclothslave ... Dino Moore is the big chief ... it's always the same ... they not I !!!
