Nina's Story About Why You Don't Want To Be A Spy

[sexy]

The people and events in this story come from my brain, not the real
world. Regardless of what that tells you about my brain, it means that I'm
not writing about you, your mom, your friends, or your friends' friends.
So you can't sue me. Neener neener.

If you're underage in your territory (and you know what I mean), then
read something else, please. If you're easily offended by sexually
explicit fetish content, may I suggest reading something else? If you're
easily offended by sexual content and are determined to help yourself to a
dash of moral outrage, I put it to you this way: you have too much time on
your hands.

Note: I know, I know. I've been gone a while. Here's a concentrated
burst (ew) of what backed up in my imagination while I was away. I chose
to do a short about Nina. You remember her, from the second Akiko series,
right? I'll be honest: I love her. Hopefully after this, you will too.
(c) 2002 by Aerosol Kid. Protected under the Berne Convention. Yes, my

erotica is protected by copyright law.

_____________________

September 29, 2003 -- Sydney, Australia

Yes, these are weird times. Terrorists talk about blowing up this or
that, and occasionally follow through. Since they're not formally attached
to any nation state, it's hard to fight them. The whole world is jumpy.
You hear people talking about Doing Something About It, and occasionally
someone decides to become a government spook. They're usually young,
idealistic types.

Like, oh, me for instance.

I know I don't look like a spy. Think about it! Would you want your
spies to look like spies? Anyway, I'm here to give you the details that
your friendly recruiter leaves out of his/her pitch. Think of me as the
voice of caution. I did a two-year stint with the Global Intelligence
Agency, and I can tell you that there are worse people out there than
extremist yokels with C4. While I was there, I endured things that hounded
me even after I resigned. I'm going to tell you a little story, and
afterwards, if you've got the apricots, then by all means, enlist. They
could use people like you.

My name's Nina Suenaga-Wentley. If you're reading this from where I
think you are, you probably know me through Akiko Masumi, and you know
where I'm going with this.

I'll start with Akiko. We didn't meet under ideal circumstances - we
were both deep undercover on what was essentially a tropical slave camp,
and this scary lady named Ophelia decided I was going to be Akiko's toy
girl. I'd been brainwashed, so I wasn't really in a position to argue, but
I took a shine to Akiko right away. She's so pretty it hurts to look at
her, and she has this way of making you feel important and special. Plus,
I've never met anyone so loyal in all my short life. When my cover got
blown, she really saved my brickies. She's gentle and sweet and funny and
I could go on all day.

I thought we were in love, but after the mission, things took a turn for
the weird. She holed herself up in this expensive apartment in Harajuku,
never went out except to drive in the country, and didn't ever check her
answering machine. When she would see me, she treated me like some dumb
little kid. Any time we'd talk about us, she'd start her sentences with
"When you're a little older," like she was fifty or something. I think she
was being irritating on purpose, and it worked because she pushed me right
out of her life. So I resigned from the Global Intelligence Agency and
went back home to Sydney with a brand new broken heart.

Yeah, I felt sorry for myself for a while. Took to chain-smoking,
sitting out in the rain, going out on benders with my friends. Eventually
I went back to music, which is what I'd done before that gung-ho recruiter
from GIA talked me into serving my country. (She never mentioned I'd be
doing it on my back, by the way, but more on that later.) I wrote a few sad
little songs and recorded them at my brother's studio, but none of the
labels I shopped were interested. The A & R guys would look me up and
down, taking in my perky bod, my tan, the platinum dye job and the blue
contacts. And they'd say, "Well, Ms. Nina Suenaga-Wentley, we don't think
your look matches your sound. Furthermore, the kids don't want to listen
to an hour of sad love songs." As if any of them actually remembered
puberty.

More rejection. Great, right? I got pissed, but the business wasn't
going to get less shitty because I was crying about it. My spy money
wasn't going to last forever, so I went back to the drawing board. Maybe I
wasn't Prozac-and-Ritalin-soup happy, but I could at least go through the
motions, and eight cheery pop songs later, yours truly was signed to Virgin
Records. And no, the irony was not lost on me. The Virgin marketing
people were in love with my mixed heritage (thanks to my loveable lunk of
an Aussie dad and my kooky violinist mom from Osaka). What I had, they'd
say in hushed tones, was International Superstar Potential. I'd just bite
my lip and giggle, while I made notes on my PDA of things to go over with
my lawyer.

These people were itching to break me into America, before I even sold a
record at home, so they herded me onto a plane to Los Angeles to meet with
producers. The label folks in L.A. spent an entire week wining and dining
me. I may be a little naïve, but don't think I let all the attention go to
my head. Flying first class was nice, and getting driven around in a limo
was fun. The all-day spa makeover was heaven, and getting randomly chatted
up at Nobu by Josh Hartnett was cute.

Okay, so maybe L.A. *was* affecting me. A little.

My minder for the week was Christa: a cute bundle of fun in a tan, tight
package. Unlike most of the locals, she had real lips, real boobs,
naturally curly red hair, and she didn't buy into her own hype. She was a
chronic party girl with expensive taste and - oh, the humanity - she was
straight. I can't tell you how many times I had to just grind my teeth as
I walked behind her, my eyes locked to her yummy, wiggling butt. And no, I
don't jump her bones later in this story.

On my last night in town, Christa decreed that it was time to let loose,
and drove me to a posh party. This shadowy millionaire held monthly bashes
at his estate, which were all the go with movie industry types. No one
knew what he did for a living, but he was in with the execs at the studios.


Now pay attention, because we weren't there twenty minutes before
everything went straight to Weirdville.

I was in a strappy, blue tissue of a dress, nursing a martini. Christa,
whose dress was translucently porn-worthy, ditched me to smoke a joint with
some New York newspaper guy. After days of her leading me around by the
nose, I was kind of at a loss.

[sexy]

The other guests were strictly Beautiful People. They were here to
schmooze, and I was roundly sick of all that. They were so into talking
shop that no one noticed me all alone on the couch - an experience I hadn't
had since just before puberty. Halfway through my martini I got up to
powder my nose. Some giggling girls emerged from a narrow hallway, which I
guessed was the way to the can. It was dim, and I was a little tipsy, so I
stuck my hand out to steady myself against the wall.

Halfway down the hall, I saw a burly bloke coming toward me. Before I
could ask him to point me in the right direction, he smiled and spritzed me
in the face with something. My eyes fluttered reflexively against the cool
mist. It smelled delicate and flowery. "Mmmm, nice scent," I remarked,
thinking it was perfume. The bloke's smile widened. "Do you always go
around spraying it on unsuspecting girls on their way to p-"

That's when my tongue stopped working, my knees went on strike, and the
hardwood floor got very large. Before I hit it, strong hands scooped me
up. "Hey," I warned. But it sounded more like I was answering a phone call
from a close friend in the middle of the night.

I felt exactly the same as the time my friend Bev made me do eight
shooters, specifically when she wiped the puke from my lips and tucked me
into bed. Only this time I couldn't protest that I really *did* want to
get up on the bar and flash my tits. I was being carted off somewhere, in
the manner of a bad monster movie. My shoes knocked against the walls, as
my heart pounded very loud and fast. Then my assailant - whose support I'd
quickly got used to - dumped me into a chair and secured my wrists and
ankles. Everything happened so fast, I hadn't had time to get properly
scared.

"I'll give you a chance to make this very easy," a man said in a musical
(South American?) accent. I didn't know the voice, but I could tell he was
used to getting his way. With effort, I opened my eyes and squinted at a
tall, tanned man in a sleek black suit. Sharply dressed assistants flanked
him.

Less than five minutes ago I'd been at a cocktail party. I couldn't
think of a neat social label to pin on what was happening now. I licked my
numb lips in preparation for the pasting I was about to give him. "What.
In the *fuck.* Do you think you're doing?"

He was unfazed. In fact, he drew back his hand and struck me across the
cheek. I yelped in surprise, because it stung like hell. But curiously,
my old spy training kicked in, so I ignored the heat from the blow and gave
him a frosty look. My reaction seemed to interest him greatly. He knelt
in a little too close and said, "I'll give you one more chance to make this
easy. Tell me what you are doing here."

What a ridiculous question! I fought angrily to keep my head from
wobbling so much. "You gassed me and dragged me in here to ask me that?
I'm with Christa. You invited us here, you fuck!" The sedative was wearing
off, and adrenaline was kicking in.

He clearly wanted to hit me again, but he changed his tack. His face
was still millimeters from mine. Pretty blue eyes, but his expression gave
me the willies. "Ms. Suenaga-Wentley, please. Let's skip the part where
you pretend to be something you aren't. Yes?"

My mouth opened and shut. He knew my name, but beyond that I couldn't
make any sense out of him.

His fingertips grazed my forehead, making me blink. "If you don't, I'll
be forced to get inside your head. Now, I know that you're a fucking
little spy from GIA..." The last few words were delivered quite a bit
louder than the rest. "...And I need to know why you're here."

Now I understood. Christ, this guy thought I was still an agent! Of
all the parties in L.A. tonight, Christa had taken me to the home of
someone who felt he needed to worry about government surveillance. That
probably meant he was dangerous. And if he knew me from my GIA days, no
wonder he was freaking out. I still had my poker face on, but I wanted to
cry.

I knew I was facing torture, or worse: mind control. Which I wasn't too
excited about re-experiencing. But I really *was* in America to find a
producer, and I really *was* at this party to have fun, and really *not* to
spy on this suave Latino bloke. I pretended to break down, sputtering,
"Look, I don't know you! I just got signed to Virgin, and my friend
Christa told me she was taking me to a good party, and now I'm tied up in
this chair, and you hit me, and..." I paused to sob dramatically, "I want
to go home!"

I can be a pretty good actress when I have to be, so it was gratifying
to see my captor blink and jerk his head back. He straightened, motioned
one of his flunkies over and whispered terse things in his ear. His vibe
was, "Are you sure about this?" I made a point of continuing to cry. There
was more whispering, then my ungracious host knelt and squeezed my
shoulders. "Nina, Nina. Shhh. You may call me Arturo," he soothed. "I'm
sorry to pull you away from the party." Like drugging me and tying me up
was a trivial thing that partygoers endure every day. Nice. "But my men
tell me that you are definitely listed as an agent of the Global
Intelligence Agency."

Leave it to outdated government records to put me in a pickle. But I
sniffled dramatically, and decided to stick with the truth. "I know. Yes.
I was a spy. But if you'll just check again, you'll see that I left GIA,
in the spring. I really *am* here to find a producer. I'm supposed to fly
home tomorrow!" I didn't see a way out of this if they didn't believe me,
so I started to get really rattled then, damn it all, and my captor sensed
this. He gave me another friendly squeeze.

I thought I was getting through to him, because he withdrew, to huddle
with his henchmen. But when he reached into his jacket pocket and produced
a syringe, I knew I was fucked. I ignored the needle, swallowed hard and
asked, "Can I please go now?"

He smiled, shaking his head at the tragedy of it all. "I'm afraid not.
A man in my position must be careful. You will have to be interrogated."
That last sentence didn't sound good at all, the way he said it. "I have
two ways of extracting information from people. Pleasure and pain. And in
your case..." He made a lascivious show of running a finger across my lips.
"I think pleasure will better serve."

I flinched away from his questing fingers, and glared at him. "So you
lost the nerve to beat on your party guests, and now you're going to rape
me?"

He stowed that bad temper of his. Smiled. "I look forward to
interacting with you, sans the mouth."

I drew a sharp breath. "Wait! You can't do this!" I pleaded, as he
stepped behind me. I felt the swipe of a cotton ball on my right arm, then
a jab. "Ow!"

Arturo, suave and gracious now, explained, "Soon you will feel much
better. And you'll be more receptive to my questions. After I'm
satisfied, you can go."

I tried to plead with him some more, but I was already fading. The guys
passed some time by doing a few lines of blow, waiting for me to go all the
way under. While they got jacked up, I got warm and dizzy. I squirmed,
because my little dress felt more and more like a giant winter parka. Then
I groaned, and the guys got very interested in me. Just as I started to
worry about a gangbang, Arturo curtly dismissed his assistants, and stepped
behind me again.

He undid the restraints on the chair, which felt nice. Then he brushed
the hair from my damp forehead and pinned it up, which felt even better.
When he slipped the straps of my dress down over my shoulders, I grabbed
his fingers. "I-I'd rather you didn't," I murmured.

He kissed the back of my neck. Ew. "In a moment, you'll rather I did."

I heard him open something, and I swear to God I'm not making this up:
he started to rub me down with baby oil. He'd warmed it up in his hands,
before working it into my neck and shoulders. And it was *so* icky. Did I
mention I'm gay? I switched teams when I was fifteen (thank you Cassie
Perlington, wherever you are), and never looked back. At first, his touch
was so repellent, it shocked me. I wasn't used to rough, thick *man*
fingers on my person. I winced as he worked my shoulder blades, but he hit
this pocket of tension, and as I relaxed, waves of dizziness washed over
me.

He whispered, "Yes, Nina. The more relaxed you become, the more you'll
enjoy yourself."

Fifteen minutes later, I could not get enough of Arturo's slick fingers
on my skin, and I started loving the way my shoulders were slipping around
in his hands. It was like I was watching myself in a movie. There were
things he was doing to the nape of my neck that nearly made me drool. The
very ickyness of everything that was happening - me, drugged and
incarcerated, getting molested with a Johnson & Johnson product by a
coked-up gangster - was making me feel way sexy like a porn star.

Then his lips were at my ear. "Do you feel like talking now?"

"Oh..." Experimentally, I pictured his face between my legs.

"I injected you with something very nice," he explained, rubbing my
back. "Nearly everything I do to you will put you into a deep, relaxing
trance."

"Deep..." I breathed.

"That's right. I just want you to do two things: relax and obey."

I leaned into his hands. "Relax... And obey."

"Yes, that's it. Now I will ask you some questions."

I felt more and more conversational as he peeled my dress down and
palmed my boobs. My nipples jutted out enthusiastically.

"What is your mission?"

[sexy]

That was a tough one. I frowned. "Relax and obey?"

He laughed softly, then licked my ear, which made hot sparks dance in my
'gina. "I mean, why did they send you here?"

"But I told you," I complained, while I wriggled around against oil and
hot fingers. "I'm not a spy anymore. I'm signed to Virgin."

"Your resistance is impressive. But I want you deeper into your trance,
Nina."

My head lolled forward. "Yes."

"I want you to go much, much deeper."

"Yes."

"What are you doing here?"

"I came to the party with Christa."

"What is your mission?"

"I'm not on any mission." I shifted around in the chair. I was
perfectly happy to answer more questions, but I had an unfamiliar craving
for a hard dick.

He sighed. "All right. I will ask you again, after you are more
relaxed."

More relaxed? My head was buzzing, my mouth hung open. There was a wet
spot on my chair. It was hard to imagine being more relaxed. Behind me,
Arturo briskly undressed himself. I turned around to get a look at him,
but he faced me away, steered me over to a desk, and had me kick out of my
heels. Then he slipped my panties down, flipped up my dress and bent me
over.

Before I could prepare myself, there was a substantial meat-stick
sliding into me. It was that fast. I realized with a certain drug-addled
satisfaction that the sight of me - glistening, with my dress bunched up
around my stomach - must have made Arturo very hard. It was so strange,
getting banged over a desk by a stranger. By a man, even. And it was that
strangeness that made my cheeks flush. Made my clit swell. Made me creep
up on tiptoes to improve the angle.

Whatever he'd dosed me with, it was making sex very, very good. In
turn, the sex was making me more docile each passing minute. Sex was
hypnotizing me: it was his rhythm, not his meat that was making my wits run
down my thigh. I focused on his slow gait, the way he took me to the hilt
with every stroke. I was so tight, and every nerve ending in my labia
blazed. I began to see a flash of color every time he pulled back. My jaw
worked in time to the colors. In a minute, there was a noise along with
the colors. It took another minute for me to realize I was cooing in time
with him.

He grabbed my hips to improve his leverage. I backed into him eagerly.
He gently bit my ear and said, "I want you to come for me, Nina."

I was *so* wet. But I wasn't so far gone that I could peak on command.
I wanted to say, "Well, then take care of it, Captain Bend-Me-Overton."
What I actually said, well, panted was, "I can't come like this. Turn me
around."

He withdrew, spun me around roughly. There was a great crash, as he
swept his hand across the desk, pushing everything to the floor. Then,
with great care, he got me out of my delicate blue dress. Now I was
starkers, and he scooped me up in his arms, deposited my bare bum onto the
cool desktop. I'd barely opened my legs to him before he slipped back
inside me. And we were off!

His thumbs were brushing over my nipples as he licked my collarbone.
Oooo, that's what I'd been missing. I threw my head back and gasped. If
you ask any of my ex-lovers, they'll testify that I'm a wildcat in the
sack. I clamped my little legs around Arturo like a vice, and scratched the
hell out of his back. All that just egged him on. One of his big hands
gripped my arm, while his other hand stroked my back, just above my ass.

Clever Arturo changed his thrust, grinding into my clit. My skin
tingled alarmingly as I shook and groaned. I crammed my open mouth against
his chest and made a noise intended as encouragement. Possessive fingers
cupped my ass. The center of my life was our slippery, rocking point of
contact, and the shivery waves emanating from that point. I gulped for air
so I could keep making the sounds that were connected to the waves that he
was giving me, one after the other.

Presently, my clit became unbearably hard. My cheeks burned. My thighs
began to buck around him. My chest was scarlet. My mouth was frozen in an
"o," but it seemed like hours before the scream actually left my lips.
Sweat broke through baby oil, as I keened and convulsed and melted away,
until I felt warm and invisible.

Arturo had a savage orgasm himself, but I barely noticed. He was right
about the drug: after I came, I was so deeply entranced that I couldn't
even stand up on my own. I'm sure I looked like a passed-out sorority
bimboid, freshly date-raped after unwisely hooking up with the star
quarterback. And my troubles were just beginning.

***

I remember being gently roused by Arturo. I was naked, on a soft couch
in a large guest room. He'd put his suit back on, and was thoughtfully
washing my vee with a warm cloth.

"That's right," he coaxed. "There's my lovely spy."

It seemed like only a few minutes had passed, but I couldn't be sure.
And since I couldn't even formulate a sentence, I just squeezed my thighs
around the washcloth.

"I must make an appearance at my party, and tend to some business," he
said. "Before I go, you will make a call to your lovely friend. I'm told
she has been looking for you for about twenty minutes."

He gave me some elaborate instructions, which I seriously doubted I'd be
able to follow. I was mildly surprised to find myself dialing Christa's
cell, even more surprised at my chirpy voice when she answered. "Hey girl!
Where you been?"

Christa sounded a little high, but professional. "Chillin'. I was
going to ask you the same. Where are you? Don't tell me you left without
me."

I giggled knowingly. "Up in Arturo's room..."

Christa was scandalized. "*No you are not...*"

"I'm afraid one thing led to another," I explained. Arturo smiled his
encouragement. He was being very thorough with the washcloth.

"Do tell!" Christa implored. But I stuck to my lines, apologetically
informing her that I'd be staying the night, and possibly flying back to
Sydney later in the week, and would she be a dear and let everyone at the
label know? Christa assured me that her feelings weren't hurt, and that
she'd pass along my travel plans. Then she asked, "Catch you on the
flipside?"

I blinked, unsure how to answer, but Arturo had instructed me to act
naturally. I decided on a cheerful "Hoo-roo!" and closed up the phone. He
took it from my hands and pocketed it.

Instead of getting the wild, intimate night I'd hinted at to Christa, I
was left alone in a big bed, in the dark. The only thing I wore in the
chilly, air-conditioned guest room was a pair of headphones. As I drowsed,
Arturo's voice tickled the inside of my head: a series of suggestions
repeated over and over.

Eventually, the sun began to seep in through the curtains. I remember
servants fussing over me, treating me like some sort of concubine. I was
bathed, fed, carefully anointed with suntan oil, dressed in a lime bikini,
and placed outside, in a deck chair next to a ridiculously large swimming
pool. I still felt pretty much the same as the moment Arturo blew his load
into me, so I lazed in the sun without a care in the world.

I was about to fall asleep again, when I heard movement, and twisted
around in my chair to see what was up. Two Secret Service looking guys
quietly emerged from the house and flanked the back door. Just as I
started to turn back around, Arturo appeared, exchanged a look with the man
to his right, and walked briskly toward me.