Smirnov and I were both naked, just winding up a night of fucking and getting ready to sleep. I was on my knees with his hands forcing my head forward, shoving his cock down my throat while I sucked him in long, lingering strokes, deep-throating him and licking his balls each time. I had my finger up his ass, massaging his prostate, and could tell he was just about to cum when the raiders hit.
I heard running footsteps. There were flash-bangs which made me jump backwards and sprawl on the floor. People burst through the door, and one of them shouted something that I couldn’t quite understand in my dazed condition. Disoriented and scared, and convinced it was a rival gang, I screamed and tried to kick the feet out from under the nearest raider.
He neatly sidestepped my awkward attempt. He hadn’t been affected by the flash-bangs, whereas Smirnov and I had gotten the full effect.
He grabbed me and flipped a padded rope around my arms, threw a sack over my head, pulled the cord and secured it, then followed that up by wrapping my entire body in a sheet.
I tried to kick but was helpless. I was tossed over someone’s shoulder and then we were outside. It was cooler and I could hear water noises, plus the growing thwap-thwap-thwap of an approaching helicopter. I was handed down into a boat like a parcel, and the boat rotated and roared away.
I was captured, bound, hooded, and naked…
~~~~~
Getting close to Smirnov was never going to be easy, so I had to take it slow and get him to approach me. My old sparring partner and sometime playmate, Ivan, had helped by introducing me to a variety of business contacts in Russia, as had my fuck-buddies, Eva and Ratko Nikolić, especially Eva. She reveled in her Domina role, both over me (as a sometimes willing submissive) and at other times in partnership with me as a co-Domina over her submissive (and repulsive) husband. But more importantly, Eva was Russian, and well-connected with the Russian mafia through family and friends, which meant she was trusted in those circles.
Often, when we were in bed after fucking, she and Ratko and I would talk finance, economics, and geopolitics. At first, Eva was surprised that I was so well-versed and intelligent for such a pretty face. But over time, she came to see me not just as a fucktoy, but as an intellectual equal. That increased my status in her eyes and led her to gush about me to others – including her crooked friends and relations. She also raved about me as a sex partner.
As a result, I had spent many months working my way into the Russian business world, both in the open and in the shadows. Sometimes Adam and I, my apparent business partner (and former Organization training buddy), did this openly through meetings, trade shows, and such like. Other times I achieved this on my back, with my legs up and open wide. I deliberately cultivated a reputation for being willing to fuck someone to get their business. And I became known, far and wide in the right circles, as a great lay…which helped my cover.
It has been true throughout my adult life that people think that if you’re pretty and like to fuck, that must mean you’re an air-head and have no brains, and no ulterior motives – beyond, perhaps, to want to fuck someone powerful. And ironically, even Eva and Ratko, who knew how intelligent I was, underestimated me because I was such a good fuck. Somehow, people thought that having a voracious cunt seemed to negate having a sharp mind…
I was good with that. Plus, it meant I got to cum a lot – all in the line of work, you understand.
Meanwhile, Phantom Investments offered private equity financial services on the surface that were, to be honest, not much different from many other investment companies. What often made us different was the services we offered under the table – money laundering, financial blackmail, swindles, Ponzi schemes, and other financial shenanigans, aided and supported by legitimate bankers working with The Organization. It made us look better than we were.
It also meant that we were helping people break the law – temporarily. Much later, it would enable us to roll up entire illegal operations and chop whole tentacles off of The Syndicate, of which Smirnov was a top guy.
How senior he was we didn’t yet know, but he was part of the decision-making cabal that headed it up. Of greater importance to me, he was one of the people who had given the order to have my Mistress murdered. I wanted to know why – and I was going to do him for that, no matter what.
In running Phantom, Adam and I would go to see potential clients as a pair. This allowed us to use good-cop-bad-cop or rough-and-smooth sales pitches, plus going as a pair was the stated policy of our store-front company. In reality, it was for the sake of the long-term sting we were running. Moreover, clients almost always assumed that Adam was the real decision maker, and would talk to him after the opening pleasantries. There is no way I could have conducted business on my own. Potential clients, particularly the shady ones, would never have taken me seriously.
After each meeting, Adam and I would share our thoughts on what we had heard, seen, and witnessed – and back each other up when we were eventually called to testify in court. And we would file contemporaneous reports that would later be used as documentation in court against our “clients.”
The net result of this gradual approach, though, was that we washed up ever closer to Smirnov and his circle, like a filthy tide coming in. The Syndicate was the biggest player in criminal activity – with support from the highest levels of the Russian government – in all of Russia, and one of the biggest players in all of Europe.
This eventually paid off when it washed me right up to his feet – literally.
It started at a trade show. I was there doing the sexy-smile meet-and-greet shit for Phantom, and Ivan was with me to introduce me to his friends, and to keep his bed warm at night. My first glimpse of Smirnov was when he was introduced on the first night of the show as the benefactor of a variety of young entrepreneurs.
Being known as a philanthropist is always a good cover for a successful crook, in the East as well as the West. Everywhere, in fact. He stood on stage, trying hard to look humble, while the trade show Chair gushed about what a wonderful person he was.
I stared at him adoringly – and the first time he saw me, his gaze lingered for a moment, then moved on. I turned back to Ivan, eyes shining, and asked who that marvelous man was!
Of course, by this time, I knew who he was, both by name, from the few grainy photos we had of him, and by his public persona. Ivan chuckled, and said, “He’s the Big Fish, Katja. If you could land him, you’d have it made. But he’s taken, so forget it.”
I turned back to stare at Smirnov adoringly again – then noticed that as he walked off the stage, he was met by a frowning, petulant-looking pretty girl. When he leaned forward to kiss her, she pouted and turned aside to let him kiss her cheek.
Interesting. Clearly, there was trouble in his paradise – and I planned on making use of it if I could.
Throughout the trade show, I made a special effort to display my wares by wearing revealing clothes, flashing a big smile, leaning forward a lot, and speaking in broad innuendos. The first two evenings I spent with potential big clients, working magic with my lips, mouth, cunt, ass, and hands, sometimes with two of them, and once with three guys and another woman.
It got me talked about.
And it paid off.
At the end of the trade show, I was sitting in a barely decent black party dress at the bar with three eager suitors plying me with drinks, hoping to score later on, when there was a rustling in the crowd. People moved off to the sides, glancing over their shoulders. I grabbed one of my previous night’s conquests by the shoulder and asked him what was going on. He barely looked at me, mumbled, “Smirnov,” then bustled away.
Sure enough, shortly after that, Smirnov walked through the room surrounded by his entourage, including five beefy bodyguards who scanned the crowd around them. Mentally, I sized them up and decided, from their body language and the way they carried themselves, that I could take any one of them – and possibly two of them together. They looked more like musclemen from central casting than bodyguards who knew their business. Better still, the girlfriend wasn’t with them. Possibly, she was powdering her nose. Or possibly, she was out of favor.
I scanned them all as they passed and gazed adoringly at Smirnov as he swept by, going into a private party room at the back of the bar.
He didn’t even glance in my direction, but I got the impression that he didn’t miss much on his way through.
And so, I smiled seductively at the group, and uncrossed my legs…
Twenty minutes later, one of the muscle boys waded through the crowd towards me and said, “Mr. Smirnov wants to see you.”
My eager suitors melted away.
“Me?” I said, acting surprised.
Muscle boy smirked and nodded, “You. Now,” jerking his head towards the private room.
I took my time standing up, a big smile plastered on my face. I shimmied into my dress, pulled it down—after showing everyone who chose to look that I wasn’t wearing any panties—took a final sip of my white wine, giggled, and then walked towards the party room with muscle-brain behind me.
I made sure to roll my hips as I went.
When I got to the door, one of the muscle men patted me down—a little more thoroughly than necessary—looked through my clutch purse, then nodded me into the room. I giggled.
Smirnov was surrounded by men. Some looked like they deserved to be there—lieutenants. Others looked too eager, seeming to want to curry favor—supplicants.
Muscle-brain pointed towards a chair off to the side and brought me another glass of white wine. Smirnov didn’t deign to glance my way but kept talking. In Russian. I shimmied over to the chair, slut-walking, then settled into it, crossing my legs – while flashing my pussy – and sat looking adoringly at Smirnov.
The meeting went on for some time, and I kept the sexy, stupid look on my face the whole time, hanging on Smirnov’s every word while mentally recording the salient details of the transactions going down for later documentation.
Finally, Smirnov stood up, waved everyone from the room except his bodyguards, and, once the room was empty, turned to me.
He had X-ray eyes that drilled into me, not undressing me as most men would but seemingly looking into my soul. It was frankly scary, and I reminded myself that this was a ferociously intelligent man and not to be toyed with or underestimated.
So when he asked me for my evaluation of the various people he had met with, I sat up, wiped the smile off my face, and gave him a clipped, precise assessment of each man, including their names, where their accents indicated they were from, and my guesses as to what they wanted.
After about twenty minutes, I finished, stopped, and just sat there, indicating that it was his move. I didn’t utter another word, even though he gave me his best death stare, trying to fluster me.
Eventually, he smiled, nodded as if I’d accomplished something, then said, “Tell me about yourself,” a bit too casually – partly to see if I would pick up on this being a test.
I regurgitated my cover story—Phantom Investments, Private Equity, Funds Transfers, Yadda, yadda, yadda. I added a bit about places where we saw economic opportunity and answered questions about our ability to shelter investments. That went on for about ten minutes.
Then he sat back, knowing he’d wasted enough time on that. So, he started asking about me.
I was mostly honest. I was of modest means, got good grades, attended school, and worked various jobs. After graduating I had the opportunity to intern at Wolf Industries and was later offered a position as an administrative assistant.
I saw it as an opportunity. That’s where I met Ivan when I attended a business conference as Herr Wolf’s assistant. Afterward, I was with an IT company, then left that company so I could care for my ill Mother. When she died, I settled things and worked on a boat in Croatia.
Why did I do that? he asked.
To get away from my siblings, who were all leeches. And to do something mindless to get over the death of the mother I had so adored. As it turned out, hard work with a small crew, and life onboard boats had suited me very well. It had soothed my nerves, and let me think about what I wanted to do next.
I think he was surprised. This was not the legend that a mole would make up or that a social-climbing fancy girl would offer to ingratiate herself. It smelled true, and he liked it.
What happened after that? he continued.
When I had my head straight, I told him, I decided I didn’t want to be anybody’s Girl Friday. I wanted a piece of the action—as big a piece as I could break off. And I’d never get that as Herr Wolf’s pretty assistant—or anyone else’s.
So, with my IT background and the assets I’d inherited from my mother, I set out to find an opportunity – and found it with Phantom. I owned a big minority interest in the company, and intended, eventually, to run it if not own it.
He quizzed me, back and forth, about what we did – both legit and under the covers – and how we did it, and what my ambitions were for Phantom. I was brutally honest about where I wanted to go, and what I was willing to do to get there. I knew he knew I’d been fucking my way to the top, and made no pretense about it.
After some more back-and-forth, I casually mentioned his pretty wife and was immediately corrected—she was just a girlfriend. I nodded and again commented about how pretty she was. He just grunted and said they were at odds. I took that as an opening. So I turned on my sweet, supportive switch. Posture, nods as he spoke, leaning towards him, coy smiles, the whole gambit. He knew what I was doing. And he let me.
Finally, he smirked, signaled to one of the muscle-boys to refill our glasses, and sat back, comfortably – then waved the bodyguards out of the room. I sat up and got serious again. Enough with the games; he had just telegraphed.
I suppose I could have tried to take him down right then and there. And I might have succeeded. Or I might not. He was smart, and undoubtedly knew more about me than was in evidence. And besides, I wanted more than just his dead body. I wanted answers, I wanted him to suffer, along with his entire organization. Plus, I wanted to get out alive.
So I sat there, my face serious, crossed my legs, and waited.
Eventually, he said, “You’re good. Ivan said you were, but it was hard to believe because you’re so…, “ and he looked me up and down, “…attractive.”
He picked up his drink and sipped it. “Ivan also tells me that you’re ambitious—and easily underestimated. Is that true?”
I nodded but said nothing.
He smirked again, and said, “And where are your ambitions leading you, do you think?”
I sat up at that. “I’m a woman. That means there’s no way I can take over an operation such as yours. I know that. You know that. So, I want to be the last person in the room when you make decisions. I want to be your right-hand…woman,” and gave him a hard, tight smile – but only from the lips, not the eyes.
He looked at me for a moment, then threw back his head and laughed.
“Well,” he said, “at least you’re honest. And I might just let you sit here someday,” he said, patting the seat at his right hand. “But you’ll have to earn it.” Then he stood up. “Now – let’s see how you do on your knees without the dress.”
That was how it began.
Smirnov listened to what I’d said, but he didn’t believe I would amount to anything in his organization. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t use my (apparent) ambitions, because he never let an opportunity go to waste. That was one of the things that made him so effective.
So, I let him use me, and he made me think I was climbing the “corporate” ladder to his right hand.
It was a long climb.
It started the next night. At the end of our little chat, he pulled out a notebook from his pocket, scribbled something, and handed it to me. It had the next day’s date, seven p.m, and an address for cocktails and dinner. As I read it, I knew he would judge my reaction. When I looked up, I smiled and nodded. He mentioned some of his associates would be present, so I might want to wear something nice, like a mini cocktail dress.
Then he held out his hand for the note, which I gave back to him. He told me a limo would pick me up at my apartment at six-thirty, then put the note back in his pocket. No note – no evidence. It was the way he did things.
I hadn’t given him my address but wasn’t surprised when the limo showed up two minutes early.
That started a pattern. I was eye candy – and should dress like it. But afterward, he wanted an assessment of what that night’s company was about, what they said, and my judgment about what they really wanted. He never gave me any feedback about what I said – except that he kept inviting me to events like this.
Meanwhile, at any event, I sat there, starry-eyed, gaze locked on this fascinating, tremendously sexy man, Smirnov, letting anyone within thirty meters know how I adored him. I was the perfect bimbo – which he always found amusing afterward.
And sometimes – not always, but sometimes – he took me back to his rooms and used me quite thoroughly as a talented fucktoy. He was as accomplished in bed as he was in the boardroom. I mostly enjoyed it, too – except all of his talents were focused on his pleasure. If I came – well, that was nice, but not important. I kept that in mind that later…
He used me outside of the bedroom as well, but in different ways, as he gradually came to trust me.
It started one day, when we were in bed, resting up for the next round. He asked if I would be willing to perform special tasks for him. In exchange, he would give me an allowance, open doors for my business, and teach me how the Russian underworld worked, who to trust, who to approach, and how.
I said it sounded intriguing – but what strings were attached?
He gave me that x-ray stare and said, “There’s only one string: absolute loyalty. I have to know I can count on you. And the first time I find I can’t is the last time I see you.”
I shivered at that because it could be interpreted in a couple of different ways. But I nodded and agreed to serve at his pleasure. He smiled. He liked that phrase very much, so he rolled me over into a doggie position and then fucked me vigorously, which I thoroughly enjoyed.
The next week, I moved my things into his apartment. The former girlfriend was banished, and I was now his mistress.
Gradually, he started using me for a variety of things, big and small. For instance, I would be sent with one of his muscle men to pick out a gift for his wife or teenage daughter – Olga and Yelena. That was fun, but I also learned more about them, and him.
Next, he asked me – politely – if I would be willing to serve as arm candy, nothing more, for certain people when they were in town. Such people were often important to his standing or a transaction and frequently arrived without an escort. As Smirnov and The Syndicate put on a civilized veneer in public, they often went to upscale cultural events, such as fundraisers, parties, the opera, ballet, or plays. They were, after all, Russian, and this was expected of anyone who aspired to status in Russian society.
So, I became his go-to escort for his visitors, merely for public show. I laughed a great deal, smiled at my “date,” and made sure to reflect well on Smirnov’s standing by paying rapt attention to the performances – as well as to the visitors. I considered this my try-out, a test to see how willing I was to serve his interests.
Shortly thereafter, he upped the ante and asked me to have sex with the next guest coming into town – an important colleague in The Syndicate. Of course, I agreed, which pleased him.
That one led to others – and he would always ask me, afterward, how they had behaved towards me, and especially whether they had given me gifts or tipped me. If they did, he would look pleased – not with me, but with them. If they had been stingy or hadn’t tipped me at all, he would scowl, think about it for a moment, and then give me what he figured they should have, plus a little extra.
He was always generous. Part of his motivation in doing so was to remind me that I was his whore, and he owned me.
But what he was also doing was learning about people who could be important to him – things he couldn’t learn any other way. I understood that absolutely. I also learned a lot about the people he targeted this way, too – and tucked it away for future reference. We both had bigger goals on our minds than whether so-and-so was good in bed.
Besides, every session was recorded in the special suite I always took them to. Smirnov was collecting blackmail videos of these “special guests” in flagrante delicto for use later on.
What’s more, I knew from my previous experience that guys not only want sex, they want to impress a girl. Every one of them wanted to make sure I knew how important they were. So they told me things they shouldn’t have – and I made sure it was all recorded clearly.
To them, I was just a prostitute, an expensive one, yes, but still a whore who sold herself for money. I was of no real importance. So I would listen, nod a lot, and act like I was impressed. It always worked; they always talked. It also made them happy enough, so they usually gave me something nice afterwards for being such a good girl. That made me smile.
What kind of guys got this ‘special treatment’? Ones that were in a position to be “helpful.” For example, one guy oversaw the customs inspections at a very busy port; another was a politician who was on a committee that oversaw the regulation of banks and money transfers. A third had a controlling interest in a transborder trucking company. And so on.
Smirnov had plans for all of them – and I delivered many of them to him on a silver platter.
So what did this sexing do for me? I got additional credibility with Smirnov. Those in Smirnov’s inner circle now knew I was more than just the new “disposable girlfriend.” I had proved I was not only loyal to him but would do anything he wanted. That meant I would even whore, if necessary, to deliver results.
That scared some of his people – and made me smile.
Separately, I got to know his wife, Olga. At first, I was around him and her when we were there at cultural events, although I was always on someone else’s arm.
But she already knew who I was – and studiously ignored me. I was, after all, “the new one” in a long line of mistresses. She knew there had been others before me, and believed there would be others when I was gone. She didn’t consider me a threat; I was just a temporary trinket that she had to put up with but could ignore.
Eventually, I won her over, too. I was always respectful and deferred to her whenever we were together. On the few occasions when Smirnov would start to say something bad about her in private, I would stop him. That took him aback.
But I knew that the walls had ears and that word would get back to her. I wanted her to appreciate me and know that I was different and no threat.
We both knew she was the Queen, but for now, I was the King’s Mistress. Each of us had our role, and we both played them well.
Then, during my fourth month as Smirnov’s mistress, she invited me to share tea with her.
The meeting was awkward at first, especially when she told me she had underestimated me. She continued that I was very clever; and noted I had gained influence not only with her husband but also with his key advisors. She said that was a first. As she spoke I had to wonder, where was she getting her information?
She poured tea, asked if I would have milk or lemon, and then said it was foolish for us to be at odds and that she would truly appreciate my assistance with a few things. My reply? “Da! What can I do?” After that, I was summoned to see her regularly. We conspired together, sometimes against Smirnov—but only on domestic issues.
It was during these subsequent ‘tea times’ that she told me the things she wanted passed to her husband or wanted him to do. Which I did. He always grumbled that she and I were ganging up on him. But as I massaged or bathed him, he would listen. More importantly, he complied.
The first time one of her wife’s requests came full circle, she smiled at me and nodded approvingly. Quite imperious. No matter; another key player in Smirnov’s circle was now on my side, and more were to eventually follow.
Through all of this activity, I became a part of his entourage, going wherever he went and being accepted by everyone. At first, I was excluded from the important discussions at private dinners. After the meal, I would be told to “go powder my nose.” I would smile, nod, and leave, then powder and wait patiently.
Gradually, that changed as Smirnov became used to me, and began to lean on me more. Eventually, I stayed in the meetings, silent during the discussions. Afterward, he would quiz me on my impressions. That sent another message to those around him: he trusted me. And that gave me greater status with his bodyguards and associates, who began to treat me as something more than a bimbo to warm his bed. I also developed a reputation for being ruthless – like Smirnov.
My position was further reinforced a month after I started fucking people for him when he upped the ante. He said it would be “useful” if I made an occasional business trip to locations outside of Russia. Specifically the Balkans, Greece, Turkey, and similar places, mostly in Central or Eastern Europe. When I asked why, he said I would be delivering what he called sensitive letters or small packages to people he had routine dealings with.
As I listened, he made it clear that I would be personally rewarded, and that Phantom would gain new clients. By now, I knew a request from him was not to be refused, so of course, I said yes. But I made one stipulation – I needed to take a co-worker on these trips. That raised an eyebrow, and he asked why?
I said most men looked down on a young woman. They were convinced the guy – my pal Adam – with me was the one who made the decisions. To them, I was just eye candy – window dressing. That gave me and my partner an advantage.
Then I reminded him that it was also my company’s policy to call clients in pairs—one to talk, one to listen. Smirnov knew that to be the case because I had told him about the policy before, and I’d never gone to a marketing meeting alone.
I clinched it when I said, “Bottom line, if I suddenly go on my own, it will raise questions within my company. And I’m assuming we don’t want questions. Plus, the guy I have in mind is happily married and not one to play around. I’ll just slip the letter inside a marketing packet I give to your associate. Okay?” He wasn’t enthused, but he finally agreed.
For the first few runs, we made no effort to look inside the envelope or package. We both knew we were being followed and watched. So the goal early on was to build greater trust in my reliability and loyalty.
It was on our fourth trip that my travel companion and I investigated and found there was something special about the wrapping of the package, or the envelope’s exterior. The night before that trip’s “marketing meeting” we examined the envelope I was carrying very closely while we had dinner together in my suite.
We found a small microdot pasted on a period in the return address, which is an old KGB trick. And since there are ways that the dots can be located, copied, and returned to their original position without the knowledge of the sender or intended recipient, that was what we did. Then we delivered the envelope, with the dot and its irrelevant contents, to the intended recipient, on time, and with no one the wiser for our inspection.
We ate dinner in my companion’s room that night. When the waiter came in, I slipped him the envelope. It was returned two hours later after I called for an extra set of towels for my room. I was later told the microdot made for interesting reading, including money laundering accounts, people to be squeezed or blackmailed, lists of bribes, and so on. It was the key that unlocked a very important window into the workings of The Syndicate and was a potential gold mine.
But we couldn’t act on that information. If we had done so, my cover would have been permanently blown – and the flow of information would have stopped. It would probably also get me killed, so not using it was something I particularly appreciated.
It is the classic problem of all intelligence work – if you hit the jackpot, to keep the flow of information coming, you can’t act on it. That always begs the question: Why gather the information if you can’t use it?
But we were playing a long game, so the powers above Adam and I did not use the information we gave them. At that time.
I had been Smirnov’s mistress for many months by this time, and I found myself having these strange conversations in my head. Because I had to act and think like someone who was totally loyal to him, and because he was so intelligent and preternaturally perceptive, I found myself instinctively behaving in ways that would benefit him. I was rapidly becoming his right hand for real, not just for show.
At the same time, I was preparing to finally betray him, hopefully getting him arrested at least, and killed if I could manage it. But I had to keep my ultimate plans suppressed, lest a hint of them make their way into a facial expression, or something that I let slip inadvertently in conversation.
Add to that the sometimes paralyzing neuroses that had plagued me since Miriam’s death, and I felt, at times, detached from who I was, or what I was trying to accomplish. I think psychologists call it dissociation.
I started having nightmares again, waking either in a cold sweat or sometimes running to the toilet to throw up. Somehow, I managed to keep this from Smirnov, or passed it off as “my time of the month.”
How long could I keep this split personality going without slipping and getting myself killed? It worried me.
Then, one day, Smirnov asked if I’d like to go sailing. I, of course, was eager to embrace anything he wanted, so brightened up and said that would be wonderful – when do we leave?
Turns out we left almost immediately. I was given an hour to pack – and told we were going to a warm climate, so I should pack a bikini. Or not.
I told him that Adam and I had a client visit scheduled for later that week, and had to let him know we’d have to cancel. He grunted and left.
I called Adam to cancel, telling him I was going out of town for a while. How long? I didn’t know. Where? I didn’t know that either. What should he tell the client (meaning The Organization)? I told him to figure it out – which was a code phrase meaning that if possible I should be tracked. Then I hung up and hurriedly (and worriedly) packed.
We were picked up by helicopter, whisked to a private airport outside Moscow where we boarded a private jet and took off. When we were in the air, I turned to Smirnov and asked where we were going.
He just smirked at me, patted my knee, and said, “Wait and see. You’ll love it.”
I beamed back at him – while wondering whether I’d been discovered, and was about to be tortured, killed, and buried. I busied myself in a magazine, occasionally looking out the window, trying to guess where we were going.
Other than realizing that we were heading south and west, there was no way to tell where we were. I went back to my magazines, leafing through them aimlessly while trying to figure out what I needed to do – or what I could do if push came to shove.
And how I would know…
We landed someplace sunny. And foreign. I don’t speak Turkish, but I know enough to recognize the script, and I assumed we were in Turkey – which was confirmed when I heard the ground crew talking among themselves.
I looked inquiringly at Smirnov, but he just grinned at me and led me to the waiting black limousine.
The doors closed with a definite thunk, and I wondered if they were armored. We drove smoothly off, and very soon came to a marina. Both doors opened, and I was handed out, gallantly, by a uniformed member of the ship’s crew.
Which ship? Why the 250-foot yacht Perun, moored right in front of us. I let my face split in a little girl grin and ran over and hugged Smirnov. He laughed deep in his chest, then pushed me away. “Come on, зайка (bunny). Let’s get you into your bikini. I’m eager to see you in it – and then to strip it off you!”
I raced up the gangway, where a laughing crewman led me below decks to our stateroom – clearly the owner’s suite.
I found out later that the yacht was supposedly hired by Smirnov, but was actually owned by The Syndicate. Smirnov had reserved it for his private use. With me. And such people as he invited from time to time.
“I’m going to be in a lot of meetings, zaychik, most of them boring. So I brought you along to keep my spirits up!” And he pulled my hand to his already stiffening cock.
Eyes shining, I looked up at him. “Now?” was all I asked, although we were on deck.
“No, I think we should have some champagne first – don’t you?”
So we did. And then I lifted his … spirits.
I spent a lot of time working on my tan, perusing the ship’s library, and splitting my attention evenly between the trashy romantic novels he might have expected me to read, and books on history and historical fiction, the latter two of which are closer to my real interests.
And I often sat in on his meetings, sometimes in a bikini, sometimes in very short shorts and a revealing blouse, and once in the nude. For that last one, I figured he wanted his guest distracted, so I spent time stroking myself subtly, playing with my tits and thighs – the perfect bimbo – and drawing the sucker’s attention from what Smirnov was saying.
And, of course, whenever he was free and felt horny, Smirnov used me for his pleasure. Well, both of ours, but mostly his. We often did it on deck, sometimes with the crew wandering around, performing their shipboard duties while studiously pretending that they saw and heard nothing.
Smirnov liked to show off his manliness and enjoyed having an audience. I found him more enthusiastic when we fucked with an audience, as if he were proclaiming his prowess and lording it over the serfs around him.
And that was how we spent our days. And nights. And many times in between.
In effect, we fucked our way to Greece, where we moored off one of the islands.
We did hit a few ports, and I went ashore with him and was often left to my own devices. I would shop for trinkets, postcards, and souvenirs.
And one time I bought some stamps.
That day, after checking carefully that I was not being watched or followed, I sent my brother, Hans, a postcard. It was one of those “Greetings from …” postcards and gave the name of the port where we had stopped.
And I told dear Hans what a lovely time I was having onboard the magnificent yacht Perun, then mailed it. But I mailed it to Victor at an emergency maildrop, not Hans, although that was the name on the address.
Collecting some more souvenirs, I made my carefree way back to the yacht, although I was sweating underneath.
The next night, we were wrapping up a night of, shall we say, vigorous fun, when the raiders hit.
There were heavy footsteps, then flash-bangs that knocked me backward onto the floor, and people burst through the door. One of them shouted something which I didn’t interpret until much later.
Disoriented and scared, and convinced it was a rival gang coming to kill or kidnap Smirnov, I screamed and tried to kick the feet out from under the nearest raider.
He neatly sidestepped my awkward attempt.
He grabbed me and flipped a padded rope around my arms, threw a sack over my head, pulled the cord, and secured it, then followed that up by wrapping my entire body in a sheet, leaving me helpless.
I was tossed over someone’s shoulder, and we were outside. Whoever was carrying me patted me and said, quietly, “It’s okay, Aloise – you’re safe!” I relaxed. These were my comrades from The Organization.
It was cooler, and I could hear water noises, plus the growing thwap-thwap-thwap of an approaching helicopter. I was handed down into somebody’s arms like a parcel, and the boat we were on rotated and roared away.
And just like that, the luxurious tightrope act I had performed with Smirnov was done.
