Special Agent Princess
Chapter 1

Copyright© 2016 by Nephthys

Erotic Sex Story: Chapter 1 - A young FBI agent prepares to go undercover and infiltrate the inner circle of the most dangerous man in the world. However, his tastes in women are quite singular and she has only two weeks in which she must learn how to become his ideal slave. She hates the man whose training it is her duty to submit to, but in two weeks' time will she even have any desire to go back to her life as a federal agent?

Caution: This Erotic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Consensual   Reluctant   Heterosexual   Fiction   Crime   BDSM   DomSub   MaleDom   Rough   Humiliation   Sadistic   Torture   Anal Sex   Masturbation   Water Sports   Scatology   Exhibitionism   Body Modification   Needles   Violent   Workplace   Prostitution  

I grimace as the black hood comes off. For the past eight hours I had been cursing and counting the minutes until someone would finally remove it but for the split second that it's yanked off and the desert sun cooks my retinas, I cannot help but groan and wish I could go back to my stifling little cocoon. The cuffs around my wrists are popped open soon after and I'm allowed the luxury of shielding my own eyes from the sun. Stiff pain arcs down my back and across my shoulders. My legs still feel spongy, but the muscles are starting to remember their use and I just about hold myself upright.

The whole thing is ridiculous. The van, the black hood, the cuffs, I'm still not entirely convinced whose protection this is all for. I volunteered for this goddamned assignment, in the end. Whatever indignities it has yet to bear down on me, to start everything off by being carted around like a terrorist suspect headed for Gitmo feels just a tiny bit over the top. Of course, there is no assignment. And the man who's just pulled me out of the back of the van isn't with the agency. I'm a Jane Doe now as far as law enforcement is concerned, a Jane Doe who's about to step into a whole river of shit. So they're protecting themselves, because they know if I knew too many details about what they're doing out here - here being Nevada I assume while slowly peering around the desolate sun-baked plains through bleary eyes - I could come back to bite their dicks off. They're also protecting the men here. Because they're bad men and though the top brass still ardently believe they're good guys, they need bad men on their payroll sometimes.

This bad guy is six foot two. I take a disliking to the way he runs his calloused fingers through my short, blonde hair. At five-three, I'm just shy of being a foot shorter than his grizzled, muscular bulk. He's dark-haired, bearded, foreign-looking. I guess Russian, and his accent as he speaks tells me I'm better at faces than I'd thought.

"Rise and shine, Princess. You've only got two weeks before your confirmation."

He's got a pair of reflective aviators on. I look up into his eyes and only see my own blue irises staring back at me. The fish-eye effect of the lenses makes me look small and wide-eyed from his perspective, a fragile little thing with freckles across the bridge of her nose, cracked lips from the dry heat, looking like she's about to faint. I'm twenty-seven, but I look like a twenty-one year-old who's just been dragged out of her parents' home in the middle of the night.

I'm wearing little more than you'd expect of a woman that's been snatched off the street - tight jeans, sneakers, a faded old t-shirt - now drenched with sweat, a bra that's starting to dig into my ribs more than I'd care for. I dressed down for the occasion. In the end though there is only so much I could anticipate. Eight hours in a van, in the desert, even old casual street clothes start to feel suffocating. On the other hand, I also feel like I'm giving this guy far too much to look at. Had I dressed for the heat, he'd have even more to smile about. Funny that I care about something like that, even now.

"That's Special Agent Princess to you, bozo," I squint, scraping words together from the back of my throat.

My rescuer-slash-captor stiffens just a notch and slips his hand from my scalp, by way of my jawline. "Not any more, Princess," he replies distantly. "Not any more." His attention shifts away from me and he bangs closed the back of the van. I don't look, but I hear the engine spring back to life. A moment later, while clouds of dust drift past my knees in its wake; I know I've been stranded here.

Then I correct myself: I've stranded myself here. It's probably ten miles in every direction before I'd come across another living soul. So here I am with a criminal and possibly psychotic Russian, in the middle of the summer heat, in the desert, alone, for the next two weeks. That would be bad enough under normal circumstances but apparently I'm too much crazy for normal circumstances to have much to do with me. He walks up to stand beside me and I look across, my irises gradually adapting to this sunlight. I study his posture (skulking), his clothes (dusty), his boots (dustier). Behind him, a hundred feet away or so, I notice a building of some kind. It looks old, worn and dusty, much like him. Maybe once a warehouse.

"So where's your pretty accent from? Georgia? Arizona?" he wonders. His own mostly recedes away as he gets more conversational, English is comfortable on the man's tongue although the spiky consonants, flat vowels of his native speak never entirely fade.

"You know you can't know that any more than you can know my name." I'm pretty good at covering my nervousness, projecting a loud and confident me when I'm squirming anxiously on the inside. Being a short girl working with big tall and occasionally macho guys tends to help you learn how to properly bristle. I wonder if he can see through that. "So shall we get ourselves inside? Have some drinks, get know each other?" I wink at him. Acting familiar is another thing should make me seem less afraid than I really am about what's coming up. He simply plants one of his broad, firm hands across both of my buttocks and guides me ahead, my entire body tightening, my skin crawling. Familiarity seems to cut both ways, I instantly realise. Maybe I need less of that.

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