I'm wearing my "Natasha" costume as I get into the cab you called to pick me up at the hotel. It took me a while to get all my long blonde hair tucked under the glossy black Dutch boy wig, though the raspberry beret helps.
Though it's a bit hard to see with the sunglasses on at night, I can see well enough to notices that the driver seems to appreciate the rest of my ensemble, and as I watch him watch me in the rear view mirror, I let my long black trenchcoat open so that he can see a bit more.
He gets a good view of my white blouse, cut to look like a man's dress shirt, but more sheer. I have it mostly unbuttoned, but I doubt he gets a look at the half-cup sheer bra I am wearing underneath since my coat bunches up around my neck.
He turns in his seat to get a better look as I sit and pull my long legs into the cab. The black silk skirt is knee length, but the slits are high enough for him to get a good look at my thighs, covered in shimmering black tights.
He watches as I adjust myself in the back seat. Once I close my door, he pulls away from the curb. Apparently he knows where to go, which is good because I do not.
We travel out of the upscale neighborhood where our hotel is located, and drive through some more "transitional" areas, until we reach a warehouse district by the river. I am beginning to worry that he is not taking me to the right place when he pulls up in front of a waterside warehouse with a long black canopy and red carpet stretching out toward the street.
The only light is from a distant street lamp and a small dim bulb over the door. The fog is staring to rise from the river, swirling up toward the building. There are no windows at ground level in this building, and only a few second floor windows that have not been boarded over.
As the cab stops, I see two tall, burly men in dark gray suits on either side of the large, ornate wooden door. One steps forward to open the door for me. I can't tell if he is watching me slide out of the cab, because he is wearing dark sunglasses as well, but I make sure to put on a good show for him anyway, exposing one leg nearly to the hip before the sole of my high heeled, black leather boot touches the pavement below.
He offers me his gloved hand to help me out, and it nearly engulfs mine. Even with my heels on, he stands a good 6 or 7 inches taller than me. The other guard leans down to speak to the cabbie. They exchange sealed envelopes, and after my door is shut, the cabbie pulls away without another word.
I walk up to the door with the two men flanking me. I expect one to reach out and open it, but neither does. I cannot open it myself, as there is no handle on the outside. So I stand facing the door, wondering what will happen next as the one guard opens the envelope.
"Everything appears to be in order, Ms. Sahkarov. Welcome to the club."
The other guard presses a button on a beeper clipped to his belt, and looks up as though he expects the door to open. When it does not, he picks up the beeper and reads the display, his rugged face briefly highlighted by blue LCD light.
His voice is deep and gravelly. "Excuse me, Ms. Sahkarov, but of course you have to understand that this is a secure location, and we cannot allow any weapons, so we will have to frisk you before you can go in. My apologies for any inconvenience."
I begin to protest, but the other guard steps close to me and grips my wrists gently. "Here, put your hands on the door this way." He raises my hands as high as I can reach, then tilts me forward till I am leaning on the door, his hips pressing against mine. Though they are huge men, they move gracefully and gently. I notice the other is taking his gloves off, as the one behind me nudges my feet with his, backward and out until they are more than shoulder width apart.
In this position all my weight is leaned against the door, and I don't think that I could easily stand without assistance. I hear a machine-like whirring above my head, and glance up to see a small video camera just above the door scanning over the scene. Both men are now bare-handed, standing to either side of me.
"Don't worry, this will only take a moment," says the gravelly-voiced one on my left. They both squat down, as though choreographed, and each one starts at the toes of one of my boots.
This apparently won't be a pat-down like I've seen on cop shows. They aren't patting at all. Their strong fingers never break contact as they work their way up my foot, and they seem to be carefully feeling the contours of my body, as though the smallest unexpected shape might be a threat.
They work smoothly up my calves, staying in unison. As they reach my knees I am surprised that they do not immediately move up, but instead they unzip my boots and move their hands back down again.
"We can't be too careful, I'm sure you understand," says the one on my right, as though sensing my surprise. They zip the boots back up, and as they begin again at the knee, I start to tremble a bit from excitement. I know that if they are that thorough below the knee, I'm in for a careful search above the knee as well. The thought of four large strong hands covering me thoroughly has me shivering with anticipation.
Now they are working their way up my thighs, under my skirt. The high slits allow them easy access, and they still are moving slowly and gently, covering every inch of me as they proceed upward. By the time they get to the tops of my thighs, I'm trembling noticeably, and my knees are starting to weaken from the anticipation.
Again, in complete unison, each of them places one hand on my ass, as they slide the other up the front of my legs to my hipbones, then gradually work their way down the front and back simultaneously.
They both know by now that I am not wearing panties underneath the smooth tights. In the back, their firm fingers are tracing down my crack, gently probing between my cheeks. In the front, their hands are just reaching my pubic hair.
As they continue slowly, excruciatingly slowly, downward, I find that I am involuntarily arching my back to perk up my ass, presenting myself to their insistent fingers.
In the back, they are now at my hole, pressing against me. I moan, and they continue to press. In the front, they work themselves ever closer to my nylon-covered pussy, until finally their fingers meet at my engorged clit. As they pinch it between their beefy fingers, I shudder at the brink of orgasm.
"Just a little more," I want to scream out, "touch me just a little more, it's all I need," but just as carefully as they explored the contours of my hooded clit, their hands now move on, up my belly and to my chest.
Their hands at the back move from my ass to my as yet uncharted pussy lips, tracing them carefully and methodically through the sheer material of the tights. Their fingers probe purposefully, unceasingly, but to search, not to stimulate.
I try to push myself against their fingers, to take pleasure if they will not give it, but now their hands move out from under my skirt to my back, and there is nothing more to press against. As they explore my back and shoulders, each is now cupping a breast in his other hand, kneading it, and pinching the nipple. I shudder again in near orgasm, my legs go weak, and I slip down to my knees with my hands still on the door. As I kneel there, trembling, they stand and put their gloves back on.
I look up at them, and they help me to stand. Since I am still wobbly, the smooth-voiced one to my right takes me by the shoulders and turns me to face him. He looks over my shoulder at the other and says, matter-of-factly, "Full cavity search?"
"Not needed," replies his partner. I am disappointed, but I try not to let is show. I could really use a full cavity search right now. The gravelly-voiced one continues, "But we do need to get the weapon." He starts to remove the coat from my shoulders, as I stand in passive confusion. I don't have a weapon.
"Sorry, Ms. Sahkarov," the other one seems truly apologetic, "rules of the club, you know." He starts to unbutton my shirt. I look at him quizzically. He responds as though I know full well what they are talking about, unbuttoning my shirt all the way to the top of my skirt. "Of course you realize we can't let you into the club with a garrote, what would our other patrons think?"
The one behind me has eased my shirt back off my shoulders and leaves it dangling by the tails from my skirt. I stand there, still limp and panting from the search, and now very confused. He looks at me passively, as though expecting a response.
"Alright then," the one behind says, "if you won't do it, we'll have to." With that he unhooks my bra from the back, and the one in front pulls if off. I am now standing topless in the foggy, cold night air, my nipples jutting out, painfully hard from the combination of cold and stimulation.
I can't tell through the dark glasses he is wearing whether the guard in front of me is looking at my face or at my chest, but a wry smile flashes across his face.
"Good thing you weren't wearing panties, Ms. Sahkarov, that would have made things more difficult" the one behind me says.
"We'll return this when you leave, Ms. Sahkarov, if you like. You may want to button up. Have a good evening." With those words the door opens, revealing a tall, thin older man dressed as a butler. He is not wearing dark sunglasses, and I can both see and feel his eyes as they scan down my still naked chest.
.... There is more of this story ...