Chapter 2

Once the door is shut, I need to readjust my eyes again. My companion simply takes off his sunglasses and wanders on ahead. My suspicion that this is an old warehouse proved right - there's a bunch of offices just as you enter the building, the wallpaper peeling off, paint cracking, dust and debris strewn across the corridors. It must have been empty since the eighties or nineties. At the far end, the hallway opens up into vast hall that would have been used for storage, but I'm led off to the side into what must have been a break room. There's two tables, four chairs and a drinks machine here. And a dim light-bulb.

"We should talk, before we start anything," he tells me. I lean back against one of the tables, arms folded. He turns to the vending machine but rather than slot a coin in, he simply pulls the front open as if it were a fridge. Inside, instead of the usual cans of Coke, various beers and bottles of spirits have been shoehorned in, hijacking the unit's refrigeration.

"Not drinking on the job, are we?"

"There is no job," comes his mirthless reply as he hands me a beer can. "There is no warehouse, there is no you or me. So I'm just doing what I feel like and, I'll be honest, I genuinely don't know why you're doing this, you're either insane or stupid or suicidal."

"Something-something duty, something-something freedom, something-something serving my country?" I bite my lip. It's difficult to come up with a convincing-sounding reason, even to myself. We're taught that to die in the line of duty is all well and good, glorious and honourable. Getting fucked in the line of duty, on the other hand, we never really talk much about. Our bodies are sacrosanct as far as genitals are concerned in a way that they are not when it comes to penetration with bullets. Say you're willing to die for your country and you're a hero, say you're willing to get fucked for your country and you're treated like a crazy person.

I can tell that being vague and funny doesn't really fly with this guy. "Fucking for national security sounds like no worse a deal to me than getting shot for national security," I explain tersely, shrugging while feeling I don't owe much more of an explanation than that. The truth being I've always felt some decisions are not meant for reflecting upon. You make them and you stick with them. Making those calls when you're doing field work and calling the shots is an asset, just like soldiers in the military, we're trained for that. Sometimes coming back to those decisions is hard though.

He pauses, tapping the side of his drink. The man stares into my eyes for a long minute or so, before pointing out quite flatly: "You've done it before, haven't you. This won't be your first time having sex undercover at least?"

Have to give it to him, that's a good guess. I mean, it's not a far-fetched conclusion to arrive at, but as far as I know not even my superiors ever figured out that it happened. "Yeah. You're maybe the only other person that knows about it now ... I was posing as an escort with a drug habit. It wasn't meant to be a cover that involved anything more than showing some skin, maybe flashing my tits at some guys once in a while. But it was an operation that went off in an unexpected direction. I improvised, seduced one of the pushers. We had something like an affair over the course of two weeks while I collected information from him."

I speak about everything that happened with a sense of detachment. It was so easy to slip into another persona, become a different girl to whom it was all happening. Only sometimes did it hit me that it was my vagina and my lips I let that man release himself into ... not someone else's. Mine. Whenever that happened I would want to curl up, feeling disgusted with myself, even nauseous. But it passed. With time it became easier and easier to put a barrier between myself and 'Mindy'. She was just a tool I used in the line of duty, but she wasn't me.

The Russian clears his throat. "So you've sucked off a dealer a few times..."

Shaking my head I object, "It was a little more involved than that." My cheeks flush - normally I would be denying it, trying to downplay what I had to do. It's already bizarre and perverse that I have to do the opposite for the first time. My heart beats faster as I try to prove to this thug that I'm not the innocent little blonde spook I probably look like. "Two weeks. Every day I would come and visit him. We had sex at least two or three times a day. My handler had no idea I was doing it, my superiors had no idea I was doing it. He could have held me down and raped me, tortured me, done anything he wanted to me. I realised I had to do it though. He had information that would lead to dozens of arrests, save untold numbers of lives from misery."

"Except this isn't some low-life drug dealer. You want to get close to someone who is probably the most dangerous man in this country. Maybe this entire hemisphere and maybe, just maybe, the world. Neither you nor anyone else even knows much about him, except that he is a grade A sadist. So obviously, you volunteer to become his bitch."

"We know he's looking for a new favourite. We know he likes blondes..."

"You know he likes to play very, very rough with his blondes..."

I sigh and nod, "Yes, yes we do know that. It stands to reason someone could get close to him with very little suspicion if she passed muster."

"As a depraved, masochistic bitch."

"Depraved, masochistic bitch seems like a rather unlikely contender for secretly being a spook."

"Most undercover operatives go in knowing there's a risk they'll get exposed, tortured, raped if they're pretty, and then killed. You want to go in knowing for a fact that you're going to get tortured and raped. And maybe killed. I'm not sure I see the logic here."

"If we thought a normal undercover agent would work in this case, I'm pretty sure we'd have already tried to pull that off. Fuck that, maybe we already did and it failed. You don't know anything about this case. The point is, not only is it the safest 'in' we have with this organisation, if it works it gives us a very intimate spot from which to gather data about this guy. And we do need data about him, he's a scary individual to know almost nothing about." I'm not sure how confident I sound about any of what I say any more. At least I'm not fidgeting, just swinging my legs over the edge of the table.

"It's not my job to talk you out of that. I just wish to understand where you're coming from. And if you're really prepared to go as far as you need to go," the broad, dark-haired man relents. "The reason I'm here, as you know, is that ... I know how women like that are made. I know what men like him want and I know what kind of woman might - just might - win him over and make him drop his guard. Two weeks is just barely enough to turn you into someone who can be that kind of woman. And mind that we're talking about you being that woman, not just being able to pass convincingly for one. Anyone who's been beaten enough can be taught to tolerate sexual abuse. But it's a very different matter for someone to thrive on it. To demand it and to crave it.

"That is how you will make yourself stand out to him," he continues and I feel my knuckles whiten while gripping tight on the corners of the table. These are things I know, I've known since before I accepted this role. Hearing him say it still makes my stomach churn. "A beautiful, educated woman who not only submits to his whims, but encourages them and welcomes his darkest desires is one in a million. Perhaps even one in ten million. That is what he wants to get his hands on."

I quietly nod, my breathing quickening. "You're the so-called expert. I'm in your hands now, until we make the handover. If I recall correctly, you're giving me over to your old friends in the Bratva, once the two weeks are up?"

"That's right. They introduce you to the man himself. If he likes you, he takes you off their hands and then you're sailing off into territories unknown."

"And if he doesn't?"

"I imagine you will endure a few very unpleasant weeks in St. Petersburg until your agency arranges an extraction for you. I assume they will arrange an extraction, that is. I can't promise they will. You're with the agency, I'm not. Or were, anyway," I cross my legs and flash the man a stern look, one that he casually deflects. "But. I still haven't gotten a..." he mulls over, looking in his mind for the right word, "a satisfactory answer for why you are doing this. I mean, maybe I'm just an idiot. Perhaps you're an honest-to-goodness Captain America kind of patriotic idiot, who'd walk into this guy's mansion with a suicide vest strapped to her tits if she thought that would help." He really likes making me sneer.

"But I don't buy that," the Russian continues. "I think you've got a personal reason for volunteering to do this and I want to know what it is. You're right, you're in my hands now. I could just start getting you used to the physical side of the job straight away. In the short term, that'll be easier. You'll try and block out what's happening, endure it, maybe you'll even make it through the two weeks like that. But you'll never fool him. I really hope you're not just thinking that because you fucked a guy for information that one time, that's like your special secret power now. It's a completely different game. An entirely different situation."

I shake my head, "What you want to hear is that I want to do it, right? That there's some part of me that's a real, sick little masochist yearning to come out and indulge in her fantasies, find an excuse, is that it? You think that's why I'm doing this?"

"It might be. When you fucked your drug dealer, did you really do it without ever getting aroused? That combination of shame, excitement, risk ... it's a potent one. People will go after it. Or, hell, maybe you're that particular brand of crazy who literally orgasms from pain. I've met a girl like that once. Was quite the surprise. I thought she was having ... a seizure or something, when I was cutting her. But she wasn't, she was fingering herself and having the wildest fucking orgasm I've seen a woman have. Pretty crazy, but I think that's something..." he twirls his calloused fingertip around his temple, " ... some wires crossed. In there." He finally cracks open the beer he's been holding and that reminds me I have my own drink sat next to me on the table. Somehow I'm not tempted. "Doing it for the thrill though, that's more common. The adrenaline of doing something crazy and stupid. Like those guys who jump out of planes with wingsuits. It's pretty common among soldiers. Bullets, combat, all of that is a rush. From what you said, I think you might maybe like the idea of surrendering control just for the excitement of it. See if you can make it to the other side. It's a rush and in this case you're doing it for a good cause. Like jumping out of a plane for charity."

Now this, this is an accusation I can't really say anything about. It's preposterous, but it does make more sense than the loops I've been doing in my head to justify why I decided to suggest me doing this, why I slept with that guy to begin with. I wasn't attracted to him, I didn't want to fuck him, I didn't want to have to do ... that. But I did do it. Or at least Mindy did. And distasteful though I find it to admit what happened ... Mindy did cum while she was doing it. Is that what it's about? Am I that much of a thrill junkie? On the one hand, I would never deny I have some degree of adrenaline addiction. I mean, I have literally jumped out of a plane for charity before. I can't say I've ever thought to connect the two. Jesus, that kind of makes it sound pathetic.

"Yeah, I agree, that sounds kind of extreme," my Rusky psychotherapist takes my silence as an answer. "Usually it takes people a lot to ... risk as much as you're risking. Personal tragedy, trauma ... they feel numb, so they want something intense and a little bit brutal to feel anything again. But maybe it's some kind of twisted search for meaning on your part. You see where I'm coming from? But maybe you're like a soldier, wanting to go back to Afghanistan because that's the only time you felt like you were someone, someone important, making a difference, living at the very edge, at your fullest."

"You're the weirdest psychologist I've ever been to," I tell the man. "What's the point of all this questioning, anyway?"

Suddenly, the Russian straightens up and takes a long, deep gulp from his beer can. His facial expression changes. It doesn't become harder, or more evil or anything, just ... different. "Stand up," he gestures to me. "I want you to take off everything you're wearing below the waist. Now."

Shit, okay, so this is happening. I knew it would and some part of me wished he'd just get it over with, but it's still weird. Immediately I can feel the beating of my heart against my ribcage, my pulse racing, that sensation that sends shivers and goosebumps down my spine ... is this why I'm doing all this? I can't give myself an answer. My fingers shake just a bit as I reach down and pull my sneakers off, tossing them to the side. I wasn't wearing any socks, so that leaves me pressing my bare feet to the rough, dusty concrete once I stand to remove the jeans. Somehow, that grounds me to the reality of what I'm doing - so much more than anything else has until now. The sharp grit, bits of debris of the decaying building dig into the soles of my feet, making me squirm. Vulnerable, bare ... about to become a whole lot more so.

I try not to think about why I'm undressing. I just mechanically unbuckle the belt and pull my jeans down. Then, left wearing only a pair of black boyshorts, I gingerly wriggle out of those too, which I have to peel off, the fabric soggy and sticky - sweat from the ride, that is, not arousal. It would be welcome to get out of the pants if not for the fact that it means I'm now bare-bottomed in front of his unashamedly lustful gaze. He makes no secret of the fact that he's looking straight down at my sex. I can't imagine it's all that appealing, being sweaty and not terribly clean and somewhat stubbly after a few days without shaving.

Trying to cast my memories back, I bring back recollections of doing this in front of Azid, the drug pusher. It was different - I, or rather Mindy - was in control. Sure, he could in theory have overpowered me but I knew he wouldn't. He was smitten and I got to call the shots. Here, I don't get to call the shots. This is training for me to learn how to let go. How to surrender. How to demand the worst things I can imagine. The idea, truthfully, terrifies me.

"Not very presentable today, are we?" he seems to agree with my self-assessment, even though it doesn't temper his eagerness all that much. I half expect that he will walk over and grope me, already mentally preparing for what those rough fingertips would feel like against the softest, most intimate parts of my body.

He doesn't do that though. More self restrained than I would expect from a thug like him. The man reaches into his leather jacket and extracts what I at first assume to be a wallet. It's a leather pouch that he unfolds, letting me see - to my alarm - that it contains mostly medical instruments. Each is wrapped in plastic film. He picks out one of them, slides it free, every motion slow and measured, like a theatrical presentation just for my benefit. Once the film comes off, I observe that it's a surgical scalpel he's holding. My heart just about jumps up into my mouth. Still, he makes no sudden motions toward me. What he does do, is extend the utensil, handle forwards, for me to take from him.

"It's sterile, so don't touch the blade," his Russian accent explains, as though this should reassure me. The metal is warm, having been stored so close to his large body in the desert heat for however long. I stare it with apprehension for a short while, not quite sure what to say, or what to make of it.

"If you were a cheap whore," he continues, earning himself another scornful look from me, "I would take that scalpel and remove your clit myself. If you were a well-behaved whore, I would ask you to remove your own clit and give me a show to watch. Since you're going to be an exceptional whore, I expect you to convince me why you need me to let you remove your own clit."

"Jesus fucking Christ. You can't be serious?" the suggestion is preposterous, I can't even breathe. Is he being serious, or is he just trying to scare me. If it's the latter ... well, it's fucking working. If it's the former, I don't even want to think about it. I don't even realise that I've pulled my knees tightly together until he gestures down at my legs.

"Okay, first of all, none of that. Sit down on the table, spread your legs all the way apart. Show me your cunt." His voice is calm, slow, unpleasantly dominant. It makes me want to spit in his face, but I have to remind myself that being here was, in the end, my idea. I want to do this. That means putting myself in his hands, letting him ... do what he needs to do.

Shit. I try to remove myself from the situation, pretend I'm a soldier, a machine. I try on Mindy for size, but she's too simple a whore for this, she would never go as far as I need her to go. So instead I just act cool, detached. Focusing on one thing at a time, I feel my bare buttocks touch the warm wooden table I had been leaning on. He gestures for me to sit further back on the table, so I do. His eyes never leave my loins, so I slowly pull my legs apart, further and further. I realise I can't get them as wide as he wants without bringing my feet up onto the table. Taking slow breaths, I do just that, exposing myself completely obscenely to this amoral, sadistic thug. With my feet at the edge of the wooden surface, my knees just about all the way up to my chest, I can simply pull them apart and show him my unwashed vagina in all of its unkempt glory.

I try not to think about the scalpel in my hand. As soon as I do, I instantly want to clamp my legs shut again, a visceral feeling of disgust and panic in my stomach.

"Okay Princess, relax. Don't think about doing it. Keep your legs spread open, you're good so far. Messy. A bit smelly, but that's a pretty little cunt you have there. Guys will like it. I know I do." The way he can talk about these things in a normal, almost entirely casual voice is creepy. Really creepy. I bet I look like such a deer in the headlights, staring up at him angrily the way I do. This time he does walk over and I clench my jaw while forcing myself not to pull away from his touch, his fingers as they run through my short hair.