Sexpionage 6 A Suffusion of Yellow
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Sexpionage 4 - An Interrogation Enhanced free porn video
“Enhanced interrogation is a euphemism for the systematic torture of detainees”
This story is told from the perspective of the young, beautiful SVR Agent, Ekaterina Novikova ...
SVR Headquarters, Moscow, Russia
It was supposed to be a brief trip home for me. A visit to the HQ in Moscow to unload my intelligence and take a short while to recharge my batteries, or so I was told. But here I was, taken from my dorm-room in the dark of night, allowed to throw on some basic clothes before being taken to the HQ’s underground car park and bundled into a large van.
What the fuck was happening?
With blacked-out windows either side of me, I can’t hear anything except the sound of the diesel driven engine starting up. I flinch when someone or something pounds against the sides, and shouts something that I cannot make out.
Driving slowly, it feels like it's taken hours before the van begins to speed up, and despite my training, I'm a trembling wreck as the vehicle speeds up.
And then there is nothing.
The officers with me don't speak. Preferring instead to watch me, or each other. I've been seated separately, my hands secured behind my back. I am not a threat, none at all.
Driving in silence, with only the occasional stop for traffic, the van halts before starting forwards once more. Stopping again, this time it's longer. The third time is shorter. Then the van is swinging around, before reversing.
Activity from the officers, they're checking themselves over, their weapons, the van jolts to a final stop, then the doors are opening.
"Stand ... on your feet ..." Rushing to comply, I stand up too fast, the top of my head bumping against the curved ceiling, and as I groan, my arm is seized. Walked to the edge of the van, then forced to jump down, I turn my head quickly, hoping to catch a glimpse of where I've been taken. But before I can turn, with more guards streaming outside, taking up position around the van, and with more flanking me, I'm marched inside the large building that now looms ahead. I recognise it … they have brought me to … no … why … please …
Butyrka Prison!
Butyrka Prison, Moscow
Past a line of guards, wearing the uniform of jeans and shirt, there is another system of stops and starts as I'm taken further inside. Passing through a set of double doors, that require a fresh coat of paint, we enter a small waiting area-type space. Desks are lined up against one wall, there is a reception area, behind wired glass and a whole load of empty space.
Here there is a large number of sentinels. All standing around, it seems as if they do not have jobs to attend to, or prisoners to watch and control. It feels, as I'm left, standing alone, while the guard who brought me from the van moves towards the reception area, that their main reason for being here is me. But that is stupid thinking, right?
"Ekaterina Novikova?"
"Yes." The voice comes from behind me.
"You have been charged with high treason, of sharing state secrets with both the Americans and the Belarusians. How do you plead?”
I can't see who's talking. It's none of the guards standing and observing the proceedings, nor it is the officers who I arrived with.
I know what my answer should be. An attempt to plead my innocence. What were they talking about? I had always been loyal, always will be. I know what he, this voice, wishes to hear … my confession, they always want to hear my confession.
"I’m loyal to the Motherland, Comrade Governor … Not guilty," I whisper, the sound barely audible.
"I'm sorry, I heard you wrong. So, I shall ask again. Are you guilty of these charges?"
"No," I answer again. "No, I didn't betray anyone or my country. I could never. I would never..."
"So you are innocent, yes?" The voice comes from directly behind me, so close I feel the tickle of his breath against the side of my throat.
Is the question a trick? A way to catch me out when I have already denied the accusations held against me. If I answer yes, but then if I say no ...
Staying quiet, I sense that my response doesn't matter here. There will be no trial. They will torture me and then find me guilty anyway. I am already dead. I felt sad. Comrade Colonel Tretykov’s advice from the institution comes back to me 'Don't resist any interrogation attempts …'
So I don't.
Biting my lip, my hands clenched into fists behind my back, I don't react beyond a slight flinch, my shoulders curling in, protecting myself when the Senior Officer, the one making the accusations, circles around me.
"Take Miss Novikova to interview and admittance. Begin the process, I will be along shortly."
Butyrka Prison, Moscow
The notice on the door, 'Приемная комиссия (Admissions office)' proclaiming the use of this room, is another lie. The room is empty. No desk, along with no window. There is a stain on the floor, which I try not to look at as the handcuffs are removed, freeing my arms and as I draw them around myself, I turn just as the door slams shut.
There is nothing, not even a chair.
Only the one door, which swings open. I've moved to the back of the room, away from the entrance and now I turn as two guards enter. One is carrying a plastic bucket, which he sets on the floor just inside the door. The other guard is empty-handed, which right now, seems worse.
"Strip out of clothes. Fold and hand to me." Understanding the instructions in my native tongue, but not the reason behind the request, I wrap my arms around myself, tugging my sleeves over my hands, before moving a step back.
"Strip out of clothes ... bitch …" repeating the same set of words, the empty-handed guard, smiles to his friend, then moving a step closer. "Strip out of clothes, or help will be provided."
It's not the words, nor the meaning behind them. It's the leer. The way he gawks at me as if he's imagining completing the job himself.
Unzipping my pink and grey hoodie, I toe-off the trainers on my feet, before pulling it off.
Next the shirt, then the baggy jeans, folding each item until all I'm standing is a pair of small panties, with the guard taking each item, I look down at the floor, humiliated, before wriggling out of my underwear. Handing everything over, I’m naked.
“Tell me what you told the Belarusians to have yourself set free.” The accusation comes again.
“I … I … have told them nothing. I am Russian Agent only …”
Turning my body towards the wall, there is a gurgle, water filling an empty pipe. It's my only warning.
Hitting me, middle of the spine, I lurch forwards into the wall, my hands breaking my fall, as the force of high pressured, freezing cold water, is blasted at me.
Coating the back of my head, then shooting down my spine, over my ass before travelling back up again, I'm gasping and panting, trying to regain my footing when my arm is grasped. Pulled away from my body, a second guard taking the other arm, I'm held between them, my arms pulled tight while the water continues to blast over me.
Stopping as abruptly as it started, I'm panting and shivering, my hair sticking to the back of my neck, the sound of dripping water splashing into the puddle growing around me. Memories of my treatment at the hands of the bastards I am now being accused of colluding with.
Still held by the guards, my arms pulled tight out to each side, I can't move. I'm hanging almost, between them, their strength holding me away from the floor. With my head sagging I attempt to regain my breath, and then the sounds of my scream echo around the small empty room when something sharp is dragged down my spine. Ripped back up, peeling away my flesh as it moves, that's what it feels like, I catch the glimpse of shape, the head of a brush, as it scrubs under my outstretched arm, under my armpit, before shifting to the other side.
The brush, with its course rough bristles, is dragged over my body, without missing an inch. Down over my breasts, between my legs, even my feet are lifted and scrubbed. And as hard as I try to hold on, I scream and beg, from beginning to end.
It's only once its ended, with a final scrub up between my ass cheeks, that I'm released. Collapsing to the floor, my body is alive, raw with pain. Burning in places, numbed in others, I look up, lifting my head slowly when the room empties until only the guards are left.
“Again, Agent Novikova, who are you working for?”
I close my eyes in frustration. “I work for the Motherland, for Russia, that is all … please, you have to believe me.”
I heard a deep laugh, and curling onto my side, drawing my legs into my stomach, I barely move, not even when the room is filled with people once again.
"Get the girl onto her feet, and prepare her. I have orders to get Agent Novikova into general prison population as soon as possible."
The wet patter of my footsteps, the dropping of water as it runs and dribbles down the back of my legs, is drowned out as the guards, three of them, remove me from the room. Surrounded, I walk, my arms wrapped around me, trying my best to control the shivering that now consumes me, but as I'm moved deeper into the prison, the air cooling, I find it harder and harder to keep warm.
Leaving the clean entry area, with its lights and windows, the guards take me further into the building. I start to notice the neglect. Peeling paint on the walls and closed doors, the floor is filthy, coating in a layer of dirt and sand that cushions the soft thud of the guards' boots, but also coats the bottom of my feet, the overhead fixtures show the same level of neglect. Lights only work sporadically, intermittently spotlighting the floor as I pass under one - a bubble of warmth before I am plunged back into the semi-darkness. I shiver harder now.
My skin has dried, but I am still very naked and becoming aware of the subtle aches. The brush was hard-bristled and used without an ounce of care. The soft shaved mound above my mons-pubis, between my thighs, the place where those bastards focused a lot of their attention, I feel the ache worse there, worse than any other part of my body.
Leading me on, we pass through a mostly lit section. One of the guards grips my arm, even though I haven't resisted so far, and when another of the three of my shadows opens the door, I'm lead inside. Empty is my first impression, the overhead light blinding for a second, my thoughts are quickly changed. Standing against one wall is a table. Covered in equipment, leads and cables hanging over the edge before trailing onto the floor, there is also, a coil of chain and a pair of handcuffs.
"Встань перед стеной, затем вытяни руки." One of the guards' barks (Stand in front of the wall, then stretch out your arms) moving to the table and the set of cuffs. Watching him, my stomach sinking into my feet,
"Why?"
But there is no response.
Butyrka Prison, Moscow
Removing his uniform jacket, the Comrade Officer, a man unknown to me like everyone I have encountered today, tosses it onto the table next to the device. Rolling up his sleeves, I see him smile at the loose cables.
"You could have saved everyone this trouble, Ekaterina, all you have to do is tell us the truth.” He paused before adding, “But the important thing," picking up one of the leads, weighing it in his hand, before tossing it down again, "… is that you're here now." Finishing with a chuckle, he steps towards me.
I haven't reacted. I'm still trembling inside, my will to defend myself, to plead, yet again, my innocence, worn down to the lowest level. I gasp when he reaches behind my head to grip my hair and stretch my neck backwards.
I can’t see his arms movement but I feel it when his powerful, balled fist thumps into my stomach. I groan and choke on my yell. My ankles are still secured wide apart to the floor and my wrists cuffed behind my back, and so when he punches me I want to crumble before him, but his grip in my hair holds me straight.
He repeats the action, only this time it seems harder as he hits me in the belly, or maybe it’s because my stomach is now feeling the pain from his first punch.
He punches me a third time and then a fourth by which time my legs are like jelly and as he relaxes his grip on me I spew out bile and saliva … he holds me until I can stand on my own two feet again.
"Shall we continue? Or should we try something different." Tilting my head, putting his face in my line of sight, I blink slowly, feeling the first sign of tears swelling up behind my eyes. Leaning in closer, until our noses are almost touching, he smiles, his breath, tasting of coffee and smoke, washing over me. "Broken already huh, or is this just an act?"
Blinking again, a single solitary tear rolling down my cheek, I grunt, my knees buckling. Moving his hand between my thighs, I feel his touch opening me, moistening the flesh just before he slips his finger inside ... followed quickly by a second.
“Please …” I whisper.
Working it once, then again, not going in deep yet watching me the whole time, "I'll have my time with you girl, but whether it's before or after the worst prisoners in here have had their turn, we shall have to wait and see …" He laughs directly into my face, then turning his head he issues his command.
"GET THE FUCK BACK IN HERE ... NOW!"
The two guards re-enter the room.
"I want her inside the prison now. Forget the rest of this procedure. Get her the fuck inside, take her to her cell.”
Inside the Cell Block at Butyrka Prison, Moscow
It's during the quiet times between the visits from the guards that I think about the torment I have suffered so far. Even here in the darkest corner of the prison, the guards make regular appearances, forcing me to stand by and watch while they search the bare cell for some unknown, or only known to them, problems. They never stay long, and the cell door remains wide open, but each and every time I hear some passing outside, heavy boots striking the metal floor, I expect the door to swing open.
It's a sound I dread. The heavy door opening, a voice demanding that I move, shouting my name then number. How long have I been here? One full night and most of two days …
Jerking awake, for a second I still think I'm dreaming, that this nightmare has followed me into my sleep. Blinking my eyes awake, I shrink back, pressing myself into the threadbare covers. Standing just inside the door, another guard behind her, the female officer is scowling at me, "Prisoner PS3967-C4- Novikova get to your feet," She shouts, and before I can ask why, what they want, she smiles, "… your presence is required.”
"No," I whisper, even as I climb off the bed. I haven't changed. I haven't been allowed different clothes, just the same jumpsuit, which is now wrinkled. Pushing my feet into the flat shoes and stepping towards the door before the guards take matters into their own hands, I'm expecting handcuffs, every time they take me from the cell it's always under handcuffs, extra guards.
"Step forwards," the female guard demands, before grabbing my arm when I do, and with the other guard behind us, I am taken to the end of the corridor, towards the heavy steel door just before the staircase which leads down into the basement block.
Another guard is waiting on the other side, who, after unlocking the door, steps aside with a grin which I swear is just for me. Beyond the door, there is a short, gloomy corridor, and as we start again, the female officer gripping my arm tighter now, I can hear voices, which seem to grow louder the further we walk.
Reaching the end, and through yet another door, the noise level dialling up a notch and with another armed guard waiting, a whispered conversation starts between them. I try to look around.
There are men everywhere.
Dressed in the same faded jumpsuits, or filthy vests, some are standing around in small groups, shouting and laughing, while others watch me, or at least it feels like that, through the bars of their cells. The noise level is much louder. Echoes, cries, shouting … I hear a scream. Long and loud, it drags out before coming to a stop … and not one person, either prisoner or guard pays it any attention.
"Take her down below, but just for one hour. It will be enough."
“Take me where, where am I going?” There was panic in my voice, but no one responded, not even to tell me to shut up.
Tuning back into what's happening, and wondering why no-one cares, I look at the guard sitting off to the side. Dressed the same as the others, tall and angry looking, a scar running over and under his chin, "Turn your fucking eyes away, girl. You do not look at me," he snarls, following his words by moving a step closer to me.
"Perhaps you return her to me once we have finished," he continues, speaking to one of my escorts, who laughs and tugging my arm, saying something I miss to the guard, pulls me away from the prisoners. Down one flight of stairs, then another, the sounds from above fading even as the air cools … I'm trembling from the cold when we reach a small platform. A thick gate showing a long corridor beyond, there is another behind me, but it's the corridor ahead that I'm watching.
The floor is covered, littered, in rubbish, clothes, puddles of water, and about halfway, leaning against the wall, a man lifts his head. Bruised and bloody, one of his eyes is closed, the skin around it black.
"He?" I whisper.
"… Is a rapist," The guard answers, a smile in her voice, "would you like to meet him?"
"What?" I gasp, backing up a step, or at least I try to.
"Every man held on this floor is a rapist, or a killer. They are the worst, but not as bad you Agent Novikova, at least they have not been unfaithful to the Motherland." She laughs and watching me, holding my gaze, lifting her hand, she bangs the gate. And as if it is a signal, one of the cell doors open, then another, and another … each with a male prisoner, some with two, stepping into the corridor.
Butyrka Prison, Moscow
Yelling out, the words fast and garbled but their meaning clear to everyone that side of the gate, the female officer spins me to face her.
"Strip," She orders. Shaking my head, no, while trying not to hear them moving closer, she repeats the order, "Strip, Novikova, or I will do it for you."
"Please, why?"
"Punishment for continuing with your lies. Next time we ask, you will tell us what we wish to know. Now, strip."
Shaking my head with resigned confusion, the chill in the air sinking through the thin fabric covering my body, my hands trembling, I pull the top over my head, flinching when I hear the growls of lust as my breasts are exposed and I drop the garment to the floor.
Then, moving my fingers to the tie, I pull it loose and the pants slide down my legs to pool around my feet. The female guard reaches down to pick up my clothes and then she turns me to face the gate. Standing on the other side, watching me strip, their faces pressed against the steel bars, a hand reaches for me, then another, fingers wriggling.
"Closer," One growls, his hand reaching, while another smiled, his tongue circling his lips. "Bring her closer."
Digging in, forcing myself back against the guard, I squeal, my foot slipping, when she shoves me into the gate towards grabbing hands that quickly swarm over my body.
Stroking and pinching, I yelp and fight, pushing against the thick bars. They grab at me, pulling at my breasts, nipping and tugging my nipples, another hand stroking my hair before wrapping around the back of my neck.
"No, no... stop, please …" I shout, turning my head, my shoulders, trying to turn my body away.
"No, no stop …" A mocking voice repeats, the female officer pushing up behind me, she whispers in my ear, "You beg Agent Novikova, and they only want you more."
Turning my head, seeing her face and the hatred in her expression, she stares back, almost daring me to refuse, to disobey. "You understand, yes. You fight, then I unlock this gate and push you through, imagine how much worse that will be."
Shivering for a different reason now, I gasp when my hand is drawn through the bar, before being forced around the hard column of an erection. Stroking against my palm, up and down, the prisoner groans, and while I try to fight it, I squeeze lightly.
"Please make this stop …" I shouted, to the amusement of all gathered, their hands pinching harder, pulling at my skin, drawing me tighter against the bars … the excitement level raises. And as I fight, my head turned, a hard, demanding hand, pushes between my thighs, a thick finger digging into my pussy. Screaming, I jerk against the touch, their hold, the plunging digit ripping my inside until I think I might be sick.
"Stop ... please, stop," I yell.
"Stop," Another mocking voice shouting, echoing over mine, and in between one breath and the next, the fingers disappear …
Confused and scared, I don't fight the hand which turns me, I cannot. Facing the female officer, she's pretty, or she would be if she wasn't always scowling. And now she's studying me. Moving slowly, reaching into a pocket, she pulls out a pair of gloves, and after snapping them on, stepping towards me, forced me to take a further a step back, until I feel the cold bars against the back of my body. I gasp when hands grab at me again, but I can't focus on what's behind me. Stepping closer, sliding her hand up the front of my thigh, then over my hip, her latex covered touch moves between my soft, swollen lips.
Tensed, I can't breathe, my heart racing, the wet sound of her fingers sliding into and out of my pussy fills the air between us. Slowly, drawing my trembling, aching body towards an inevitable ending, her expression blank, uncaring, I cry out, the sound echoing when a second hand slides over and into one of my openings from behind. Less gentle, more demanding, almost hurting me but not quite …
“Front and back now Agent Novikova, are you enjoying yourself?” The female officer mocked me, smiling, her gaze sliding over my shoulder.
Removing her touch and leaning into me, cupping my hips, shoving me tightly against the bars, I grunt when the demanding fingers are roughly replaced by the thick length of an erection.
"Please ... I'll do anything ..." I beg the female guard, doing everything to distract my mind from the orgasm that rushes through me.
“Ohhhh my God, ohhhh no please nooooooooo!” Surging up through my body, over my breasts and aching nipples, outwards to my clit, I weep, my knees caving, and as I sag towards the floor, hands gripping me, keeping me upright ..."Yes, Novikova, you are correct, you will do everything we want," the guard whispers.
I grunt, reaching for my head when she pulls me to my feet. Gripping my hair, forcing my head back, she slams me, face first, into the gate, and as I get my breath back, I look into the faces beyond.
Some are laughing, others just watching, and beyond them, I can see the man I noticed before. Shrunk back into the wall, trying to make himself invisible, but he is still watching what's happening. And as he stares back, with the same level of hunger in his eyes, wrapping my hair once around her hand, the female guard forces me down to my knees and moves my fingers such that a rigid erection is pushed into my grip.
Whimpering from the impact, the experience of the past 48 hours eating away at my mind. I have been made to crawl, kneel and beg, had my arms stretched tight over my head while they clipped electrodes to my body … and now this!
This is my life from now on. What more do they want from me?
Butyrka Prison, Moscow
Lifting my eyes, forced to see what I don’t want to see by the grip upon my hair, the prisoners are waiting, staring, ogling, lusting. Bare tattooed chests, some in yellow pants, some in orange, but all lining up behind the gate, still holding their dripping, aggressive erections in tight fists, stroking them slowly.
"Your time will be done soon, and I will not be able to return with the girl ..." the female guard says to my audience, her other hand reaching under my chin, tipping my head back. And as I watch, a prisoner, one who is naked and very hard, thick and long, steps forwards. Feeding his erection through the bars, bumping it against my closed mouth, I gag, shaking my head, a squeal bursting into the air when the guard squeezes my chin.
Forcing my mouth open, her still gloved fingers biting into my skin, she leans into me, pushing me forwards, into the swollen cock head. It forces its way between my lips, then the rest follows. Gagging, I shake my head, rebelling against the officer’s hold, however her grip is tight, her body pinning mine. But as I fight, the others return, reaching through the doors. Stroking my hair while another pinches my nose closed, I jerk, retching, choking, struggling to breathe, while others grab my hands, lifting them up and through the bars so that they can force me to touch them. I am helpless.
And again, the in-fighting starts. Prisoners jostling and shoving to get a piece of me … I cry and fight, my knees scraping the floor, wrists crashing against the bars. Dropping my head, spitting the sticky mess filling my mouth over the floor … better than swallowing, I'm shaking, my nerves already stretched beyond reason, my head spinning. My mouth is filled again and this time I have to force down my throat. I have little time to sense the slow sticky slide into my stomach before I am filled again …
Dragged to my feet, I am pulled away from the bars of the gate.
Is it over? My head is spinning, my vision blurred.
The orange suit is thrust into my hand, which I struggle to put back on, I watch through tight streaming eyes when one guard, then a second turns into the corridor. Pausing, looking first at the female officer, then me, the lead guard nods.
"Return this prisoner to her cell. She will be questioned again later.”
"Yes, sir," the female officer nods, and, grabbing my arm, forcing me to walk ahead of her, I trip and fall up the stairs.
Inside the Cell Block at Butyrka Prison, Moscow
Sleep came easily, but as my eyes flickered, I realised that the doors to my cell were opening once more.
Without looking up I offered my plea. “Please no more, I can’t take anymore … I will confess to whatever you want me to. I will say …”
“You will say nothing Agent Novikova.”
I heard a chuckle and saw Colonel Tretykov standing before me. The man who had mentored me at the Academy Institute, the same man who had overseen my torture at the Federation Embassy in Washington, now stood smiling at me.
I was very confused.
“Well done Agent Novikova,” he said. “Ever since the little episode in Washington where we had to teach you a lesson, and your mysterious release following your arrest by the Belarusians, I needed to prove your loyalty beyond doubt, and now we have done that.”
I gasped. “You mean, Comrade Colonel, this was all just a setup for my loyalty to be proven?” I was angry, hurt, confused still and ready to explode. But I did not. I bit my tongue and held back my fury.
“Here are your clothes Agent, get dressed. There is a car waiting to take you back to the airport.”
In just a matter of minutes, less than a few hours after being abused and raped in the name of the Motherland, I was heading back to Washington to discover whatever it was that fate held in store for me next.
FIN -->
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