‘Cold War Casualty’ is a brilliantly-written, original entry to the Brief Encounter spanking story contest.
(The asterisks are my edits – for somewhat sexual content.)
– Dana
*****
Cold War Casualty
Prague, Czechoslovakia – February 12, 1988
The 477 Metropol from Berlin pulled into Prague’s Nadrazi Holesovice station at 1:19am, thirteen minutes early due to skipping the stop in Dresden for some unannounced reason. I never liked the Nadrazi station; it just seemed too industrial, too cold and isolated, and lacked the grandeur, history and buzz of Hlavni, the main station downtown. Even though it opened three years ago, there still seemed to be constant construction going on, and even at rush hour it seemed desolate. Of course, at one in the morning it was positively deserted, especially since I was (by choice) the last one off the train. Waving off the porter in his blue overalls, I carried my own suitcase and brief case and made my way down the track. Just to the left of the station entrance I spotted the news kiosk, and as I approached I smiled to myself as I recognized a familiar face behind the counter.
In my line of work it is critical to have an almost photographic memory, especially for faces, but hers was particularly easy to remember, with her Dutch features, blunt-cut chin-length blonde hair, and almost aqua eyes. The first time I’d seen her she was no older than 20, operating as a barmaid in a gin joint in Mombasa, back in ’66 when Van Owen and Roland and I were Thompson Gunners on our way to Kasai to help the Congolese resist the Soviet invasion… She was rumored to have been Mossad, and having once heard her whisper in rapid, clipped Hebrew to an Ethiopian operative in Addis Ababa, I tended to believe the rumor. Working with a familiar asset was always a double-edged sword; while I could be confident of her loyalties, her history and visibility made her more likely to become compromised or rolled up. But in this operation it shouldn’t really matter; she was just there for the brush pass, then I was on my own. I picked up a copy of Lidove Noviny, Prague’s only daily newspaper, though it was really just another Soviet propaganda tool, identical in everything but the title to the Moscow Pravda. I handed her a 10 Koruna note, and she handed me my change, barely making eye contact. I pretended to count the change, but in reality I was just making sure the coins included a 1986 US Nickel, which it did.
I headed to the exit, and breathed in the bitter cold air, which would have been refreshing if it weren’t for the acrid smell of the industrial pollution. I was surprised not to see the car and driver waiting for me, but remembered the train was early and headed over to the bank of pay phones. As usual, three of the four had ‘out of order’ signs on them, and as I picked up the handset at the one working phone, I felt that telltale sticky pull of a wad of gum stuck to my shoe. I bent down to scrape the gum off, and suddenly heard the distinctive sound of a blackjack whipping through the air.
I awoke on a sofa, hands and feet bound. I could tell that, not surprisingly, both of my guns were no longer on me. I left my eyes closed for a few minutes to regain my senses; meanwhile I took in the sounds and smells. The noises of the train station were quite evident; the track announcements, the whistles, the engines, so we were still somewhere in the station. I heard two female voices; from the echo I could tell it was a large room, probably with steel walls. I could smell motor oil and the distinctive odor of freshly shaven metal, as well as the musty smell of the sofa I was on, leading me to guess that I was in a warehouse or machine shop. I slowly opened my eyes; if the clock on the wall was correct, I’d been out for a little over an hour. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a bottle of Russian vodka in an ice bucket on a makeshift wooden table, confirming my fear that the women were not merely Stasi, but more elite KGB agents… Sitting on a metal chair, pointing a Marakov pistol at me, was a slim agent in her early thirties, with short, dark hair and piercing eyes; she smiled at me and called to the other agent “Natasha – He’s awake.” As the other agent came out of the shadows, I saw her Eurasian features and my heart sank; there was a good chance she was a Russian Gurkha – descended from the Tartar horsemen who invaded the steppes of Russia with Genghis Khan, and famous for their ruthlessness and well as their expertise as ‘swallows’ (female operatives who are trained to use sex as a weapon).
Sure enough, as she approached the sofa I could see that she was wearing only a bra and red panties with a pattern of tiny hammer and sickle emblems. She stood in front of me and dramatically let down her hair; almost waist-length and so shiny and dark black that it almost seemed to have an element of dark blue when the light glanced off it. She untied my wrists and ankles, letting her hair cascade over my face, then sat down next to me. She put her hand on my thigh, and handed me a shot of vodka, telling me “you’ll need this.” I drank the shot, and they both began caressing me and purring “we can do this the easy way or the hard way; your choice…” Natasha took off her bra and climbed on top of me, *****
She began to moan and pushed harder, until the short-haired agent intervened with several loud slaps to her bottom, admonishing her to wait until later… Natasha cursed in Russian and slowly got off of me, straightened her panties, and sat back down next to me. Again they repeated “we can do this the easy way or the hard way; your choice…” but I played dumb and acted as if I had no idea who they were, claiming to just be a businessman in Prague to visit my Grandmother, but their caresses turned to pain as one pinched my nipple while the other squeezed my crotch a bit too hard as they told me to drop the act; they knew exactly who I really was; one got up and dumped onto the table the collection of passports and IDs in varying names and nationalities that had been in a secret compartment in my briefcase. I reverted to Plan B, explaining that I was actually a forgery expert, in Prague to sell fake passports to citizens trying to escape, and that I would gladly cut them in on the take. They rolled their eyes, and told me “Drop the act; we have your 201 file.” I hoped they were bluffing, as the 201 file is the top-secret internal document at the CIA that contains all the personal information on an agent, including training and operational details, strengths, weaknesses and psychological evaluations. My hopes were dashed when they handed me the file; while it was a poor quality repro, it was legible and definitely a copy of my real file…
She began to moan and pushed harder, until the short-haired agent intervened with several loud slaps to her bottom, admonishing her to wait until later… Natasha cursed in Russian and slowly got off of me, straightened her panties, and sat back down next to me. Again they repeated “we can do this the easy way or the hard way; your choice…” but I played dumb and acted as if I had no idea who they were, claiming to just be a businessman in Prague to visit my Grandmother, but their caresses turned to pain as one pinched my nipple while the other squeezed my crotch a bit too hard as they told me to drop the act; they knew exactly who I really was; one got up and dumped onto the table the collection of passports and IDs in varying names and nationalities that had been in a secret compartment in my briefcase. I reverted to Plan B, explaining that I was actually a forgery expert, in Prague to sell fake passports to citizens trying to escape, and that I would gladly cut them in on the take. They rolled their eyes, and told me “Drop the act; we have your 201 file.” I hoped they were bluffing, as the 201 file is the top-secret internal document at the CIA that contains all the personal information on an agent, including training and operational details, strengths, weaknesses and psychological evaluations. My hopes were dashed when they handed me the file; while it was a poor quality repro, it was legible and definitely a copy of my real file…
She sat down and they resumed the caresses, and again whispered in my ear “we can do this the easy way or the hard way; your choice… either way, we’re not leaving without the microchip.” I admitted I was an agent, but insisted that I no longer had the chip – it had been passed off to another operative on the train… They sighed and told me “guess it’s the hard way; time for the strip search…” After a very thorough strip search, they both fondled me as they cooed “one last chance; wouldn’t you prefer the easy way?” I summoned all my courage to reply confidently “I don’t have the microchip any more.” The short-haired agent, whose named I’d learned was Dana, opened a large bag and began taking out all sorts of implements, teasing me by rubbing each one over my body before laying them down on the makeshift wooden table. Natasha gave me another shot of vodka, and then they sat down on two metal chairs facing each other, knees interlocked, and pulled me across their knees. They spanked me for about 15 minutes with their bare hands, often four hands crashing down at once on my bare bottom. Finally they had me stand up, and Natasha handed me hairbrush and had me brush her long silky hair as she explained that they had never failed to break an agent one way or another, so wouldn’t I prefer to just stop now, hand over the microchip, and get my reward? I brushed her hair obediently, trying desperately but not successfully to suppress my erection, and insisted that I no longer had the chip. They pulled me back over their laps, and spent close to an hour spanking me with various wooden, rubber and leather paddles, constantly interrogating me, but I stuck with my insistence that I no longer had the microchip.
They spoke to each other in a clipped Russian dialect that I could not understand, despite being fluent, and then Dana put on thick rubber gloves and began to rub a cream of some sort on my already beet-red bottom. “I’m sure you’re familiar with capsaicin cream,” Dana whispered, “but you probably aren’t aware that unlike the 0.1% cream sold in the US, our chemists have devised an extraction method using the Naga Jolokia pepper, or what you call the ghost pepper, the world’s hottest pepper. This enables us to make concentrations of up to 80%, or 800 times more potent than those American creams – that’s why I need to use these gloves.” Sure enough, unlike the American creams I was trained with, which took at least 15 or 20 minutes to start working, I could immediately feel the most intense burning sensation. Still, I had been trained to endure great pain, and I maintained my steadfast insistence that I no longer had the microchip. They spoke to each other again in that clipped Russian dialect, and all I could make out was the word ‘bench’. They led me over to a specially designed punishment bench, and securely strapped my legs to the lower part and strapped my arms to armrests. They laid out an assortment of implements, and they each selected heavy leather prison straps, and began to simultaneously use them on me. I tried to keep count internally, just to distract myself from the pain, but with them both strapping me at the same time, and going at such a fast and furious pace, I lost count around 200. The strapping continued for what must have been six or eight hundred strokes, before they stopped momentarily to have another shot of vodka. They then each picked up large Martinets and gently and sensually let the leather strands caress my backside before resuming a fast-paced whipping that again must have lasted for at least 600 strokes. They spoke to each other in that undecipherable dialect, and while I couldn’t understand, I could tell that they were clearly getting frustrated that I had not yet broken. They each picked up long narrow wooden paddles, about as long as a yardstick but much thicker, with 3 holes at the end, and began a severe paddling. After what seemed like an hour, but was probably about 15 minutes, they switched to canes. At this point, I was on the brink of giving in, but realized that both of them had broken into a sweat, and they seemed to be losing stamina, as the cane strokes seemed to be getting a bit lighter, so I managed to maintain my resolve and make it through…
Clearly frustrated by their inability to break me, they went to the corner of the room and spoke in hushed tones to each other and drank another shot of vodka, then brought a shot back to me. They removed the restraints that were holding me down, led me to bare mattress in the corner of the room, and then they laid me face-up on the ancient mattress. Dana attached my wrists to restraints connected to a long broomstick-size dowel, and then did the same to my ankles, leaving me spread-eagled on the mattress. Natasha began caressing my chest, abdomen and legs, her long silky hair cascading over me, ***. ***
They used the spreader bars to turn me over, and gave me at least another 100 strokes with the cane, then rolled me back over and started over again with the stimulation… whispering “as soon as you tell us where the microchip is, ***” Finally after about half a dozen cycles, I just couldn’t take it anymore; I’d been trained to endure all sorts of pain, but my training had not included any ways of coping with such excruciating denial of pleasure… I whispered “coin… it’s hidden in a coin…please let me finish” “Where’s the coin?” they purred… “pants pocket”; Natasha gestured to Dana to go get it while she released me from the spreader bars and kissed my chest and caressed me and whispered “good boy…” Dana returned with my pants and scooped out a pocketful of change in various currencies and asked which coin. “An American Nickel” I said, and she found three and handed them to me. I looked at the dates, and selected the correct coin, then removed my wedding band, and inserted the coin, tail side down, into a hidden bezel on the inner surface. Three hard raps on the concrete and the back popped off, revealing the hollow center, sized perfectly to fit a microchip. They let out a shriek of delight, and hugged each other, and then me, and then Natasha ***, while Dana stroked my hair and my chest and complimented me on my ability to handle an extraordinary amount of pain. ***, explaining that now that I had given them the microchip, I had no alternative but to join the KGB, as I was a dead man if I returned to the US… And that they both really looked forward to helping to train me to handle denial of pleasure as well as I handled pain…
They used the spreader bars to turn me over, and gave me at least another 100 strokes with the cane, then rolled me back over and started over again with the stimulation… whispering “as soon as you tell us where the microchip is, ***” Finally after about half a dozen cycles, I just couldn’t take it anymore; I’d been trained to endure all sorts of pain, but my training had not included any ways of coping with such excruciating denial of pleasure… I whispered “coin… it’s hidden in a coin…please let me finish” “Where’s the coin?” they purred… “pants pocket”; Natasha gestured to Dana to go get it while she released me from the spreader bars and kissed my chest and caressed me and whispered “good boy…” Dana returned with my pants and scooped out a pocketful of change in various currencies and asked which coin. “An American Nickel” I said, and she found three and handed them to me. I looked at the dates, and selected the correct coin, then removed my wedding band, and inserted the coin, tail side down, into a hidden bezel on the inner surface. Three hard raps on the concrete and the back popped off, revealing the hollow center, sized perfectly to fit a microchip. They let out a shriek of delight, and hugged each other, and then me, and then Natasha ***, while Dana stroked my hair and my chest and complimented me on my ability to handle an extraordinary amount of pain. ***, explaining that now that I had given them the microchip, I had no alternative but to join the KGB, as I was a dead man if I returned to the US… And that they both really looked forward to helping to train me to handle denial of pleasure as well as I handled pain…
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OMG – this is just about the hottest story I have ever read! How did this not win the contest????