Hair To Stay Erotica

November 5, 1974 - Copenhagen

Adam stood at the old building’s door for a moment, hand raised to knock. It didn’t look like the kind of place Mr. Red would use as a safe house, so he rummaged in his car coat for the communique he had received. In the waning autumn sunlight he squinted and held the paper near the sliver of light emanating from the door’s eye-level slit.

The address checked out. He shrugged, patted his hip for the reassuring bulge of his stun-gun. One could never be too careful around this crowd.

He knocked four times, and a stoop-shouldered man in a tweed suit opened the door. Adam didn’t wait for an invitation or any acknowledgment from Mr. Red’s henchman, and strolled inside. Unlike the flat green facade, inside he found a bright room full of curved furniture, which featured a large screen at one end above the bar. On the ceiling, glass globes filled with tropical fish glowed. Shadows of the fish played on the room’s white walls.

“Carmichael, you’re a bit late, aren’t you?” It was Mr. Red, sauntering towards him.

“I hit a bit of a snag on the way. You know how the KGB can be, asking for papers, always the bloody papers.”

“Did you have them?”

“No.” He held back a grimace. “And I don’t have Plan 49, either.”

“What?”

“I ran into some trouble, came away empty-handed. Complicated situation.”

“Then I’ll have to take advantage of your satisfaction guarantee.”

Adam sighed. “That’s why I’m here.” Mr. Red was hardly the type to leave in the lurch, if one wanted to continue living.

Mr. Red chewed his lip and glared at Adam. “Well, we’ll square it up nicely. I’ve something better in the works anyway.”

Mr. Red chuckled and led him over to the bar. There were a dozen others there, some he recognized. In particular, he laughed to himself at the sight of a short rat of a man in a purple polyester suit–last year Adam had followed him for days, watched him steal a valuable piece of cryptography, and taken it from him while he sat with his pants round his ankles in the washrooms at a train station in Paris.

Here they were, the international meddlers, the people who had nothing better to do than play around with global tensions, and make a quick profit at the same time. Thieves, saboteurs, rogues, and black-market arms dealers.

Mr. Red poured a glass of scotch and handed it to Adam. “I have a way for you to make it up for me, you see.”

He sipped the scotch, continuing to scan the other guests. “Do go on.”

“Well, Lord Seven and his mistress aim to finance a new operation. Something I think your talents are well suited for.”

Before Adam could say anything further, his ears pricked at a familiar sound:

“Leave me alone, you bald little maggot.” A spitting noise, then, slap.

Adam knew he’d heard the voice before. The accent, that lovely continental twist. He glanced around the room to find the source. Tall, tight waves of black hair, thigh-length boots, miniskirt, and striding away from some poor old sod who’d had one too many drinks.

“Carmichael? Do you hear me, man?”

His stare remained unbroken. Where had he heard her before?

“Word is that a rogue faction is building a supercomputer in an underground cavern in Norway. Lord Seven and his wench don’t much like that kind of competition, right?”

“Sure thing, old man.” He watched the woman pour a glass of vermouth at the other end of the bar. “Hey, boss, mind if I just mingle a bit, get myself acquainted with my colleagues? I assume this is going to be a team effort, by the look of it.”

Mr. Red sighed and waved his hand.

Memory was a tricky thing, and Adam still couldn’t place this woman. But instead of going right up to her, he skirted around. He also felt wary, as if he’d be better off keeping his distance. Being that she leaned against the counter with her ass pushed out just enough to tweak Adam’s interest, ignoring her was out of the question.

He saw an old acquaintance, Donovan, lounging in one of the egg-shaped chairs and hurried to him.

Donovan nodded. “Carmichael. Didn’t think this was your style.”

“Yeah, well, I owe Mr. Red. Big screw up in Novaya Zemlya.” He threw back the rest of the scotch and slammed the glass on a table. “Listen, do you know that chick?”

“Which?”

“That one at the bar. The one who snubbed Sigmar just now.”

Donovan leaned over and glanced towards the bar. Mr. Red had slid over to the woman’s end, and was blabbing away. “Ah. Mirjam.”

He ran the name through his mind, but still, nothing came up. Who the hell was she? “Mirjam?”

Donovan eased back and whistled. “You want to know about Mirjam?”

Adam looked over his shoulder, made sure nobody was listening. “Who does she work for?”

“Nobody. She’s a freelancer, like yourself.”

“Yeah?”

Donovan glanced towards the bar. “Yeah. They call her The She-Wolf of East Germany. Ex-KGB operative, assassin, saboteur . . . She’s also the hairiest bitch this side of the Berlin Wall.”

“You’re fucking kidding me. Did you shag her or something?”

“Nah. CIA’s got a file on her–pictures they snapped during one of her Mata Hari type gigs. It doesn’t stop at those fucking sideburns, I’ll tell you that much. Last I heard she was hired by The Florentine Combine to jack some document from the Soviets in Zemlya before signing on with Mr. Red for this one.”

Adam’s breath caught in his throat, and he gazed at Mirjam’s muscular thighs, then tracked up to her breasts. So that’s who it was. Now he knew where he’d seen that ass before.

“Speaking of which, I got this friend, fancies himself a bit of a scholar. Get a load of this: he tried telling me that in a couple decades or so, every human bein’ on this planet’s going to be completely bald and fitted with these little computers near their ears. I told him to sod off. They sound more like bloody Martians than people, I tell you. Little green, bald martians. Crazy son of a bitch, he is.”

Adam scarcely heard his friend’s muttering. Now that he remembered Mirjam, she commanded all his focus.

#

Novaya Zemlya, Soviet Union - Two Days Earlier

Adam tried his radio, but there was no answer. He ducked around a corner, flattened against the wall. He was on his own–either Len had skipped out on him or had been torn apart by the guard dogs outside. Either way, Adam had made it deep into the high-security Soviet facility, and damned well better finish the job.

He took a deep breath, ran over the installation’s layout in his head once more–just two corridors over, and he’d be there. Crack the safe, grab Plan 49, and get out.

Ten minutes had passed from the first guard he’d killed. He guessed he had about five more minutes before someone would notice. Time enough.

After loading a fresh clip into his pistol, he dashed down the hall, skipping occasionally to avoid security sensors in the floor. When he came to the final stretch before reaching the archive room, he skidded to a halt, held his breath, and ducked in the dim corridor’s shadows. Two guards stood board-stiff against the door. Guards who weren’t supposed to be there.

Normally this was nothing, but one of them would likely trigger the alarm before he could kill them both. If only Len were there to monkey with their systems, or give him a hand . . .

Shit, this is a right fucking predicament.

His fingers tensed against the trigger guard of his pistol. Only minutes left, and he was sitting there with his thumb up his butt. Should he just blitz through and hope he came out of it alive?

Before he could make up his mind, he caught a flash of movement near the entrance. A muffled gasp, then another. He stood and crept forward to find the guards lying at the foot of the now open door.

With no time to waste questioning what had happened, he dashed into the archive room. There were banks of computers, data tapes, and more security sensors than his intel had told him, yet somehow they seemed inactive.

He flew amid the shelves and racks, searching for the right section. As he rifled through the columns of state secrets, he felt the skin on the back of his neck crawl.

Then he heard it: “Stop right there.”

He whirled around. A figure in a sleek black getup, technical gear, aiming a submachine gun at him. Thighs and hips of a woman, not to mention generous breasts. But over her face was a balaclava. Still, the in the harsh institutional light, he caught a steely grey sheen in her eyes.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“I would ask you the same thing.”

“Look, I don’t have much time. And neither do you. I’m looking for–”

“Plan 49. Yes, I have also come for it.”

He lowered his pistol. “What the hell is this?”

She lowered her weapon. Then she lunged and tackled him, sending them both rolling on the freezing concrete. She punched him in the face, then in the gut. His pistol skidded out of reach. He knew that neither of them wanted to fire their weapons unless absolutely necessary.

He heaved her into a metal shelf, and the thing crashed around her. Just to be sure, he pounced on her and wrapped his arm around her throat.

While he waited for her to pass out, he said, “I apologize for my bad timing. My driver got lost on the way. We could have avoided this.”

She bucked and squirmed. “Maybe we can cut a deal.” Adam found her accent mildly endearing, but since she had tried to kill him, the effect wasn’t as much as it could have been.

“I don’t think so. I already have about thirty seconds to find the safe, get Plan 49, and get off this bloody island.” He cinched down harder. “Would you just die already!”

The woman brought her arms behind her, clutched his head, and flipped him to the floor in front of her. She began to choke him.

“I was smart, you see. I disabled the sensors here. You have a few more minutes, you know? But you won’t need them.”

He gurgled and spat and clawed at her arm. “How about that deal, then?” Then there was the matter of the guards he had left at the ground floor. This woman probably hadn’t taken that into account. But disabled security systems were always a bonus.

“Ha. How did you say it? ‘I don’t think so.’”

“Listen . . .” She tightened her grip, and everything turned grey.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

He continued struggling, each gasp filling his senses with the smell of her leather suit, a slight tang of her sweat, and gunpowder. Under different circumstances, Adam would have called this a fun prelude to having his way with her.

Everything went black. But he was still gasping, and she was still trying to kill him, and he still heard her low grunt as she became more frustrated with his continued existence. What had happened to the lights?

Her grip slackened, and he smashed his elbow into her. After he broke free, he stood and staggered in the pitch-black room. When he caught his breath, the room erupted in strobe lights–white, red, blue, green. A soft hissing arose from all directions.

“What the . . .”

Through the craziness of the flashing lights, he saw the woman stand. “Damn . . . I had not expected this.”

For the moment, Adam discarded his need to kill her. The lights burned his retinas, sent shocks of stabbing pains through his head. “What the hell is it?”

The air filled with a reek like burning plastic.

“This is a research facility.”

He shielded his eyes with his hand. “Spit it out, woman!”

“Psychedelics, hypnotics. The lights combine with the drug they are pumping into the air.”

“Oh, for the love of . . .” He found it hard to concentrate. There was a mask somewhere in his gear, but he couldn’t remember where it was. Shutting his eyes didn’t protect him from the lights either.

A rush of tingling welled in his feet and crawled through his legs, his genitals, then his entire body. He opened his eyes and looked at the woman, who was also staring back at him. “Oh no, no no. Some hypnosis that is.”

An urge to rut ploughed through him, casting away every other thought in his mind. He knew it was the drugs and the lights, that these scientists had made a system that fried the intruder’s brain, and just happened to focus on the area responsible for libido. No matter how stupid it was, he had to fuck her. Right there, while jack-booted thugs marched up to capture them. He ripped open his jacket. She tore away her mask, revealing tight curls of dark hair. Her eyes twinkled with the hues of the lights.

“This is going to get us killed,” he said.

“I know.”

He was fully erect, and when they collided and attacked each other’s mouths, he felt himself drip a little.

She stopped the kiss, and he concentrated on her neck. Her skin started to swirl with random colours and shapes, and his ears filled with a kind of incoherent babbling. Soon the room around him was a mass of flowing lava–green, pink, orange, colours constantly shifting in waves.

“There is a . . . maintenance access panel. I used it to get in here. We could hide in the conduit until this wears off.” It sounded like nonsense to him, but some part of his mind must have understood. She led him to a space in the wall, though to him it looked like a giant tree trunk with eyes, a rainbow unibrow, and a wide, toothless mouth. He chuckled.

He tripped into the hole, falling on his ass. Now the colours had turned to a shimmering arm of the Milky Way twinkling against utter blackness. The woman lay beside him, and was hammering at a small asteroid that might have in reality been the conduit’s panel. When she finished, she said, “There. They won’t know where we are for now.”

Then he rolled onto her, found the zipper in her leather suit, and went in with his hand. He caressed the leather around her thighs, then straight through to the soft, slick mat of her bush. She nibbled his ear and panted. No underwear and locked up in that leather suit while fighting for her life–the air became close with the scent of her pussy. With each breath he saw different shapes and colours fill his vision–whatever the light/drug combo had done, it linked his senses and mismatched them.

Smelling her gave him euphoric visuals. Touching her sent a heavenly ringing through his ears. When she found his dick and stroked it, he felt little in his penis but his head reeled with a kind of high that made cocaine seem like a glass of shitty wine.

“Fuck me.”

“What’s that, darling?” He worked his finger round her clit, and she hissed a breath through her teeth.

“I said fuck me. This thing they’ve done, it makes me want you to fuck me.”

Her words reverberated in his mind, and fractal patterns spiraled in the air above her in sympathy with her voice.

“I can see you voice,” he said, then started to giggle.

He angled his hips towards her and started rutting. He rutted at a frantic pace, the woman under him gasping and laughing. But he couldn’t ejaculate. Most of the feeling came in random sensual misfires in his scalp, or foot, or some other irrelevant body part. Everything turned to a haze of colour, muffled laughter and moans, vague senses of conquering the whore who had ruined his operation. And, as he pumped into her, he began to hear a funk groove fill their enclave, slap bass and wah-guitars.

Some time later, he awoke on the icy shore of Novaya Zemlya. His zipper was down, and he reeled from the sensation of an axe buried in his forehead.

The memory was fuzzy, already fading. He’d gotten out alive, probably thanks to his adversary.

And when he searched his pockets for the canister that should have contained Plan 49, he found nothing.

The bloody bitch got it first!

The worst part was the pain in his lower abdomen and balls. The drugs must have made it impossible to come. Now the woman owed him twice over.

#

How could he have forgotten Mirjam? She looked more feminine than the animal from before, with deep purple eyeshadow and a tight white blouse, but there was no mistaking her.

“Adam? Hey?”

He faced Donovan. “Yeah?” What had he called her? The hairiest bitch this side of the Berlin Wall? Adam tried to remember, at least what little he was able to see of her. If she was, most of it had stayed locked in that leather suit.

“I said, you realize this is a suicide mission, right?”

Right–the mission. The one he couldn’t avoid because of his failed delivery of Plan 49 to Mr. Red. “I haven’t a clue about it yet. I just got here.”

Donovan shook his head. “Sounds like a setup. I wouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Red knew about it, too. Lord Seven’s money, that’s all that matters.”

“You’re going along with it, though?”

“Yeah. I won’t be in the thick of it, and I could use the business. Risk-free for me. And if some of these other jokers bite it in the process, all the better. But you should find a way out, man.”

Adam’s head started to hurt. He’d gotten this far by knowing when a job was too much. But now there was no choice. Unless . . .

“I’ve got something to take care of,” he said, and headed back to the bar. Mirjam was alone now, and facing the room. Now he caught that predatory look, the one he’d glimpsed through her balaclava. She was a wolf. And she was his ticket out of a shit contract.

Mirjam showed a hint of recognition as he strolled towards her. There were those sideburns Donovan mentioned. When she raised her arm to sip from her glass, a dark shadow showed through the white blouse under her arm.

He sat, spun to face her. “I believe you have something of mine, Mirjam.”

“Do I know you?”

“Cut the crap. I need Plan 49. Perhaps we can come to an understanding.”

She grinned. “Ah. So it is you. Adam Carmichael. I hadn’t thought it was you pawing me like an idiot and fucking me like an animal.”

“Yes, well, it was.” She probably had a file on him. Everyone had a file on everyone–except that Adam had somehow never heard of Mirjam and knew nothing about her.

“I have read of your womanizing, Mr. Carmichael.”

“Yes, great. Now, I need that microfilm. Hand it over.”

Mirjam sipped her drink, eyebrows cocked at an amused angle. “You sound desperate for someone with your . . . reputation. I am disappointed, actually.”

“This is a bogus operation, and you know it.”

She grinned.

“You fucker! You’re in on it, aren’t you?”

“I admit to nothing. But, I am not unreasonable. I must confer with a colleague, would you wait here?”

He shrugged, and Mirjam crossed the room to meet a large, clean-cut German whose pecs made him jealous. The German’s eyes hid behind large, amber glasses. The two disappeared down the hall.

She must have been in with The Combine, and was sabotaging Lord Seven’s effort to shut them down. He thought about just telling Lord Seven that his mission would be a disaster, but then he realized how much he hated the old man. No, getting out of it quietly was the best idea.

Mirjam hadn’t taken her purse, and it was right there on the counter. Adam glanced round the room, found everyone locked in their own conversations. Mr. Red was at the far end, smoking cigars with the Algerian demolitions expert.

He slid over and rifled through Mirjam’s purse. It had to be there. They would have known about it if she had passed it to another faction. No, Mirjam must have wanted Plan 49 for herself.

Makeup, gum, a pistol, pens, and a tapered metal cylinder with a flanged base. Kind of phallic, really, but it could have been anything. He slammed his fist on the counter. No Plan 49.

“Mr. Carmichael, really!” Mirjam’s hand darted over his shoulder and snatched her purse.

With her other hand she gripped him by the collar and jerked him to his feet. “Come with me.”

“Look, I won’t tell anyone you’re a Combine mole. I just want out of this operation, Mirjam.”

She stopped them in the darkened hall. “Do you know how I got Plan 49?”

“Enlighten me.”

“ Once the alarms went off, and the guards gave up their search, you found the safe and opened it yourself. Then you said that you loved me, and gave it to me.”

“I was drugged out of my fucking mind!”

“And so was I. But men are more vulnerable to such things, it seems.”

“What the bloody hell . . .”

She pressed him against the wall and kissed him. “Now, come. If you want your silly document, you can get it back yourself.”

His damp lips tasted of coconut lip gloss and fortified wine. “Well, that sounds reasonable.”

They turned into a deserted bedroom, all wood panels and orange shag carpet. A waterbed rested on a raised platform in the center. Mirjam eased the door shut, locked it, and leaned a chair against the doorhandle.

“We wouldn’t want Mr. Red to know about this, you see.”

“Oh, no. Of course not.” Get some snatch, snatch the macguffin for the boss–it would be the easiest job ever. But he wasn’t about to sit back and ride it out. He did have a reputation to keep up.

He threw off his jacket, unfastened his stun-gun holster, tossed them to the floor. Mirjam stood patiently, as if waiting for something, so Adam pressed his palms into her ass and brought his mouth to her neck. As if diffusing a bomb, he worked the buttons of her blouse one-handed, while rubbing her ass crack through her skirt. He still remembered the drunken, heavenly fuck he’d gotten out of her that had left him unfulfilled. Now he thought less and less about the documents.

Mirjam’s muscles hardened as he explored her body. In a snap movement, she gripped him and flipped him onto the bed. The waterbed gurgled underneath, and he rolled onto his back to find Mirjam shrugging out of her blouse. “I like men like you, Mr. Carmichael.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mmm.”

“The ones who think they are in control. It’s very erotic to watch them find out that they have none.”

He gulped. His heart stopped for an instant. Mirjam lifted her bra over her head, showing dense black thickets under her arms. She had more hair than he did, and she reminded him of that porn star, Clyda Rosen, only taller. A black trail led almost halfway to her breasts. This was what he hadn’t seen the first time around.

“Very interesting,” was all he could say. His cock stiffened, and he began to unzip his pants.

She wiggled out of her skirt, and he saw the dark line on her abdomen join with dense black fur about the size of a throw pillow. It spread to her thighs, and he could only imagine how the hair continued into the leather garrison boots she still wore.

“Well, you certainly live up to your own reputation.”

She angled around the bed, boots thumping on the carpet. Pacing in front of him like a field marshal, Mirjam cracked her knuckles and splayed her fingers, while Adam watched her fuzzy ass. At last she stepped onto the platform and thrust her ass towards him, then planted her pussy directly onto his face, pinning him.

His nostrils flooded with pussy, but she didn’t give him much chance to eat her. She continued to bear down on him, to suffocate him.

“Ja, you see?”

He mumbled through her ass, convulsed, and found himself stunned and helpless, like when the drugs had hit him two days earlier. But this time his senses were intact.

She lifted from his face.

“Yes, very good. Uh . . .” His testicles had drawn up, and he was still hard, despite being brought to the brink of death by her pussy. He just wanted to fuck her–what was she going on about?

Mirjam crossed the floor and faced the bathroom. “Dieter! Kommen Sie hier!” The tone of the command sent a chill through him. It brought him back to the Royal Marines, only Mirjam sounded far more menacing than any training camp commander.

The German fellow she had talked with earlier strolled into the room. He wore nothing, save for the dark glasses, and Adam was damned if he could find a patch of skin on the man that wasn’t covered in hair.

“Er wird ihren penis saugen,” Mirjam said to Dieter.

“My German is off. What did you tell him?”

Dieter approached him. Between his legs was nothing but black, except for a generous point of foreskin dangling from the bush. He stopped just in front of Adam, his crotch at eye level.

Mirjam joined him. “You will blow Dieter while I watch.”

Adam scrambled backward. “Are you shitting me?”

She bent forward and drew her tongue up his face, then pushed his head into her tits. He forgot all about Dieter, and took the opportunity to run his hands along her ass, up her spine, which he found also to be lined with hair. She then pushed his face into her armpit, and stroked his head. “Ja, you want me? And do you want to be tortured by the Combine when your mission fails?”

She had a point. God, how he just wanted to topple her and take what he wanted, but he couldn’t. She held all the power. She could kill him; he knew that much from their first meeting. The She-Wolf of East Germany.

Dieter’s hands were firmly entrenched on his hips, and his dick hovered around Adam’s face. He took a deep breath, probably the first breath of man-crotch he’d ever experienced, and wrapped his lips around Dieter’s flaccid penis with resignation.

If he walked out and fled, Mr. Red would find him. The man could afford a hundred premium killers and send them into every basement, outhouse, and garage in the world in search of anyone who double-crossed him. Knowing which battles he could win had kept him alive ever since entering this business. Despite the humiliation, that he was no longer the superior, womanizing killer for hire, Adam knew this was far better than what the Combine, or Mr. Red, would do to him.

The She-Wolf paced again, glaring under lowered eyelids. He caught her eye just as he probed Dieter’s foreskin and found the glans beneath.

“Try harder, Mr. Carmichael. Poor Dieter is bored with you.”

But how? He continued doing the same, and he heard Dieter sigh. Not a satisfied sigh, either. He mumbled something in German, to which Mirjam stopped, turned around, and bent over, giving Adam a clear view of her pussy and asshole–or at least the fur covering it.

Yes, he had a dick in his mouth but he knew what he wanted. Adam drew back for a moment, caught his breath, and dove in one more, this time finding Dieter’s balls hidden beneath the black mat. He pried back the foreskin and gave the dick in his mouth a tongue-lashing. It swelled in his mouth, and he felt a pulsing in his hand just below Dieter’s balls.

“Ja, das ist gut,” Mirjam said. “Maybe your reputation with the ladies is a smokescreen?”

While he continued tonguing, he watched her rummage through the pile of clothes. Belts jingling, clunking, rustling. And now he tasted Dieter’s fluid on his tongue, noting it with a certain amount of satisfaction. At least he was doing it right.

Adam started to get into it, all the while thinking of taking what was his from Mirjam. But she stopped the blowjob with a sharp “Halt.”

Holding Adam’s stun-gun, and the same silver phallus he had found in her purse, she gestured at him. “Kneel. Show me your ass.” Now he realized that she was holding a metal buttplug.

A moment of hesitation, and he wiped his lips and obeyed, planting hands and knees on the jiggling waterbed. First, she stomped a boot in front of him at the edge of the bed. “Lick that for me, ja? I have something to arrange here.”

Adam’s face twitched as he lowered his head to her boot. Again he hesitated, then thought of the alternative, and licked the gritty leather. It tasted musty, like a military supply room, all mothballs and leather and canvas. Shudders crawled through him.

She reached to her ear, removing a large earring. It was a hidden garrotte wire, and she drew it out in one swift motion that made her tits sway.

“Christ, Mirjam, I’ll suck a man’s dick for you. But asphyxiation is a fucking drag, right?”

But she didn’t wrap it around his neck. She picked up the stun-gun, pried away one of its compartments, then attached the wire to the electronics inside. At the other end of the wire she fixed an alligator clip.

“Stay like this, and go back to Dieter.”

“What are you doing?”

“Do it now.”

So he did–Dieter had kept it warm for him, and he plunged his hands back into his pubes, gripped his balls, and tightened his lips around the man’s head.

The bed wobbled: Mirjam took up position behind him, stun-gun and buttplug in hand. Beads of sweat rolled down Adam’s face. He went down too far, then started to gag and pulled back.

It hit him. Right in his anus. Cold, hard, and a bit seductive. At least at first. He drew a sharp breath and held it.

“Mr. Carmichael, do relax. It will be easier.”

Dieter said, “Veranlassen Sie ihn, meine Nippel zu lecken.”

Mirjam chuckled. “Lick his nipples.”

“Aw, come on.”

“Do it. It will take your mind off your anus for the moment. Or you can take your chances with the Combine. Your choice.”

Dieter knelt on the platform, and his right shoulder jiggled as he worked his cock. Adam leaned forward, into that hairy chest decorated by a big gold chain, and brought his tongue around Dieter’s nipple. Seconds later, his anus opened up, and the buttplug slid in. He yelped, but continued licking. The fullness in his ass pressed against the base of his penis, and a strange tingling carried through his pelvis.

He pulled back. There was no way he could concentrate on Dieter with this thing in his rectum. Mirjam reached to his balls and attached another alligator clip.

Oh, shit.

“Lay back, now.”

He obeyed–at least it was a more comfortable position. He’d thought Dieter was out of the picture now, but the German just plopped onto the bed and watched, slowly working the foreskin around his glans.

The stun gun trailed two wires, and lay on the bed. Mirjam turned on the radio, and jangling guitars of The Deep Fix filled the room. She returned to the bed and picked up the dismantled weapon. Her pithair was now soaked with sweat, and when she briefly flashed her crotch to him as she settled, he saw thick beads of white pussy lube around her opening.

“Do you still love me, Mr. Carmichael? Like you told me two days ago?”

“Yes. Of course. Sure.”

Raising the weapon in a dramatic motion, she grinned. Pulled the trigger. Crackles filled the air. It took a moment for it to register–the swimming current in his anus, the convulsions, the rush filling his veins. He turned breathless, unable to call out against the onslaught of electricity in his groin, and his back arched and shook.

Time slowed to a crawl, each second passing as an hour, until Mirjam released the trigger. Deep breaths, and a lingering buzz through his cock. His chest heaved, and his vision became blurred and grey.

“Somehow I do not believe you.”

Click.

More spasms, painful convulsions. Cock twitching. Prostate shuddering. His ass gripped the electrified buttplug as if letting it go would set off an atomic bomb. That’s what they’d told him in the Marines during drill to keep his posture steady–pretend there’s a greased penny in your ass and if you let it go, it’ll trigger a nuke. But he would gladly sit through an explosion in place of Mirjam’s electro-torture.

As soon as a drip of semen started to flow from him, she cut the current again. He hadn’t come–the spasms were bypassing orgasm, filling his crotch with cum while denying satisfaction.

Once the buzz faded, he had to contend with the swelling; the sensation of his crotch coming to the brink of bursting under the crush of pressure. He writhed and groaned–he had no gadget, no trick, no way out.

“Do you love me?”

“Oh yes.”

Now the beads around her pussy had turned to a gush, and as she shifted on the bed it spread it around her hairy lips. He had a salvo of cum to add to it, if she’d just fucking let him–

“I believe you.”

He let his head drop back, thankful and relieved.

Then she pulled the trigger again.

He wished someone–Mr. Red, Donovan, anyone–would walk in and shoot him. It was worse than torture.

At last a reprieve. Throbbing cock, scrotum taut and blue.

Mirjam carefully mounted him, still brandishing the stun-gun. The wires danced on his skin, and each brush of the hot metal across his chest turned to a full-body shake. The same happened when she rubbed her cunt across his belly. Her pubes excited his electrified skin, and her juice poured onto him. But he didn’t want her on his fucking stomach. Her pussy was there, right there near his dick, his swollen cock that had suffered a multi-car pileup of cum reaching far back into wherever the fuck it went when it had nowhere to go–

“Enough,” he said.

“You’ve been good.”

He shifted his hips, but she pushed down to stop him. “I did not say good enough.”

He punched the waterbed, couldn’t even get the satisfaction of hitting something hard. “God fuck, this is ridiculous.”

Click.

With her weight on him, he convulsed less. This time she let up after five seconds. Then, before he could understand what was going on, she slipped him inside her and clamped down on his cock. And she remained absolutely still.

“Oh, thank fuck . . .” Heat flooded his pelvis, and Mirjam’s juice ran along his balls and between his buttocks.

“You may not move. You may not ejaculate until Dieter does.”

“You bitch!”

“And Dieter may not touch himself. So it is entirely up to you, Mr. Carmichael.” She reached into her boot and pulled out a dagger. “I am not fucking around now, you see. If you thrust your hips and ejaculate without my permission, I will cut your throat.”

She stopped, appeared in thought for a moment. She rolled off him, held out her legs, and mumbled something in German. Dieter hurried to her feet and pulled the boots off, and she mounted Adam again.

“The boots may become a problem later.” Mirjam’s legs were a continuation of the dark hair on her thighs. “Now, you will make sure Dieter comes. Use your hands, or your mouth. If it were not for the device in your anus, I would suggest that you let him fuck you, but I need you to remain electrified.”

Dieter knelt beside them, hands behind his back, and showing as much pithair as his overseer. But overall, she was still the hairiest in the room–ignoring her chest, though it still was covered in fine silver down.

Knife poised at his throat, considerable weight on him, and faced with that damned uncut dick again–Adam began to lose patience with the game. He ground his teeth, narrowed his eyes, while trying to ignore the fact that his penis was drowning inside the woman’s hot cunt.

Enough already. It was time to take control.

Pulse stuttering, blood surging through every limb, Adam snatched the dagger, batted the stun-gun away, and toppled Mirjam. He pinned her and started to thrust.

But before he could get off, Dieter seized him by the throat and held the dagger against his skin. All three froze.

“Dieter! Erlaubnis, jetzt!”

Without a word, Dieter released him and hurried out of the room.

“I did not want it to come to this, but you’re a stubborn man.”

She forced him aside, jolted upright, and straddled him. Adam snarled and pulsed his hips anyway. Nothing she could say would stop him.

Except–

“There were many experiments, you see.” She ran her hands through her black curls, showing the enormous bushes under her arms. “The Soviets have some interesting research programs.”

He stopped. “What?”

Mirjam shut her eyes for a second, and when they opened, Adam startled. Her eyes had changed to an unnatural, almost glowing red. She growled and bared her teeth. How, he didn’t know, but her teeth had turned to sharp fangs.

“What the . . .”

“Superior ability breeds superior desire.”

He felt her walls choke his penis, crushing him with silkiness and heat. No woman could grip a dick that hard with her hand, much less her vag. Mirjam may have been an experiment, some super-soldier who had escaped the lab, but that did little to quell his urge to keep moving.

“Do I need to electrocute you again?”

For a moment, he considered fighting on principle, and balled his fists.

“The drugs had dulled my abilities. I wanted so much to do this to you back in Novaya Zemlya. Now I have what I want.”

“Then take it already!”

She bucked and her face strained. They both panted, Mirjam letting out a few subdued yelps. They went faster, deeper, and Mirjam added a backward sweep with her hips. The move only intensified the tingling in his groin. A wave of spasms engulfed his dick. Mirjam’s head dropped back, staring towards the ceiling. As she screamed and ground her hips faster, the waterbed beneath tossed and pitched like the North Atlantic.

Eyes jammed shut. He came, vision a field of red. His ejaculation pumped and convulsed as if Mirjam had shocked him again, but this time he felt his load fire into Mirjam’s pussy. It dragged on and on, to the point where he winced at the pain radiating below his testicles.

Mirjam was off him by the time he opened his eyes. The crazed, red glow in her eyes had disappeared. Had he imagined it?

No. Otherwise he would have overpowered her and fucked her on his own terms. Something he swore he would do one day.

He lay there in a puddle of sweat, cum, and Mirjam’s fluid. “Christ, woman.”

“You are smarter than you look, Mr. Carmichael. Though, I was starting to wonder if I would have to kill you.”

Head spinning, Adam stumbled to his feet. “Now . . . about that document . . .”

The woman broke into uncontrollable laughter. “It is in your ass, my friend.”

Adam felt a flood of embarrassed warmth in his face. He’d forgotten about the foreign object lodged in him.“Are you shitting me?”

“Pull it out, twist it apart, and see.”

He reached behind and slid the out buttplug. It easily twisted apart, and inside he found a smaller canister with a Russian label on it. “Fuck me.” Why didn’t he think of that when he’d found it in her bag? He could have avoided the entire ordeal. Though, hadn’t it been satisfying in the end?

As he dressed, Mirjam went to a shelf in the corner and pulled out a small device. “The best part about it is that I still own you. Adam.”

A camera. Dieter. And at the time he knew he enjoyed it, if only because he knew that it was pleasing Mirjam. It would no doubt show on the tape.

“If you mention anything of my plans for the coming operation to anyone, I will probably just kill you. But, even if I do not, this tape will become public property.”

“Fine.”

“And I will have it arranged that should I die unexpectedly, the tape will be automatically mailed to every blabbermouth I know. So I’m afraid we will have to coexist for a while, Adam.”

On his way out, he nodded.

“Remember who owns you,” she called out, then laughed.

#

Mr. Red, surrounded by three empty glasses at the bar, tapped his fingers. Once he saw Adam stroll into the main area, he jumped to his feet.

“We’ve been waiting. What was the bloody holdup?”

Adam said nothing, kept a steely poker face and slammed the little black container onto the bar. “There’s Plan 49. Find someone else for Lord Seven’s little project. I’m out.”

Without waiting for a reply, Adam grabbed his coat from the rack, and made for the door.