Agents of the West were some of the most brilliant in the world; cunning, calculating, able to vanish without a trace. At the time of the current decade, as the political situation in Russia’s capital reached a breaking point, a young woman was dispatched from Paris to ascertain the leaks of a potential, imminent nuclear strike against the European nations. A power struggle was being waged within the KGB, the Russian secret service that operated underground, after the public destruction of their headquarters in Moscow. With the sitting President likely to resign over a failed campaign in the Middle-East, funneling stolen oil deposits from Iran, the rival, Democratic Party sought to gain control of the government by any means necessary. Amidst the turmoil, however, one group in particular emerged from the annals of old Siberia to lay claim to the country’s long-dormant nuclear arsenal in a bid to secure the future of the Motherland.
Striding down the marble corridor of the government building, the French spy pushed her glasses up her freckled-nose, a pair of deep-amber eyes surveying the interior of the complex. There were staff everywhere, conversing and pacing between doors with folders under their arms. Most carried briefcases, wore cheap suits and kept their heads down as they passed armed-guards, using key-cards to gain access to secret rooms. As she adjusted the collar of her white pea-coat, she pretended to read over a document by the corner of a fountain, tapping her ear in a subtle manner. The earpiece she wore picked up on the conversation of the politician she’d tagged earlier, before pursuing him to a sealed entrance. She’d already been warned not to enter the area as it was deemed restricted to public access, a couple of guards escorting her target out of sight. Still, as she smiled pleasantly at the receptionist, she knew it would only be a matter of time before she collected the evidence in-hand.
Voices echoing within her ear betrayed the goal of the domestic terrorist organisation known as ‘Second Sun’; a notorious crime syndicate with rumoured connections deep inside the KGB. The politician conversed with a shadowy figure, as her sparkling gaze cast over the two silhouettes pacing back and forth behind closed-blinds. She learned that the syndicate was smuggling weapon’s grade Uranium, enriched for atomic development, underground to be delivered to Leningrad. One of Russia’s foremost scientists, a relic of the Cold War, was reported to operate in the city, exchanging scientific knowledge for cash. Second Sun had taken such an interest in Dr. Vasilov’s research, that they sent their most cunning agent to silence those who sought to expose him for the fraud he was. Over the past few weeks, members of rival political parties had mysteriously disappeared. Kidnapped from their homes, stolen away from existence as though they never graced it. The means of their abduction was unclear to the Russians, though some expected Siberian Separatists had a part to play in the spree of criminality. However, as the Parisian spy took a step forward with her heeled-boot, her interest piqued, she was met with a firm hand on her shoulder.
“Anastasia,” spoke a tall, imposing figure, “what brings you to Mother Russia of all places? Surely you’re not sightseeing?”
There was a threatening, almost teasing tone to her voice that unsettled even the hardiest of soldiers. To Anastasia - her true identity now exposed - it was daunting. Before she could even utter a single syllable, she took in the beauty of her unexpected greeter. A tall woman, lithe, clad in black leather, dark make-up and piercing, ice-blue eyes, she recognised her immediately. It was only then, as her lips quivered uncharacteristically, that she felt dread wash over her like a hot blanket. “Xenia.”
Without warning, almost as swift as their reunion had been, there was a sudden, muffled cry as Anastasia was taken into the Russian’s arms. The guard on duty remained motionless as he heard the commotion. Nothing could be done for the spy as she felt the strong embrace ensnare her in a vice-like grip, the very air of her lungs escaping in a rapid exhale. She tried to resist, to summon her many years of combat training to mind in that moment, only to succumb to the application of a cloth-gag to her pert lips, sealing them - and her pitiful pleas - entirely. A strange sensation gripped her senses. The noxious chemicals rubbed over the cloth, chloroform, invaded her cavities, flooding her veins with a numbing agent that would render her utterly still. Xenia had practiced the art of capturing her victims, to the point where they never even heard her approaching, stalking like a cold-blooded assailant, teasing almost in her movements until she decided to strike. Ensnaring this - as she smiled evilly with crimson lips - admittedly lovely thing was all too easy. She’d practically thrown herself into her clutches, the claws of an ex-KGB agent well-versed in the exquisite art of seductive torture. Extracting information was her profession. Everyone had a breaking point. The fun in it all was to ascertain where their breaking point was, when they’d completely fold under her charms, as the French informant was now doing.
As she faded, feeling the tingling, numbing sensations spread around her body, Anastasia’s eyes loomed up at the source of her capture. Her whimpers died down to a gentle hum, twitching as she battled to remain conscious, eyes unwillingly drooping, until darkness took her. An inky blackness that was all-encompassing, but not before she was consumed with the Russian’s bewitching features. A playful grin framed by a near-unblemished face, with a strong accent to match her tough, yet somewhat graceful form, concealed as it was under black leather. The chase had been short-lived, as Xenia had known of the Frenchwoman’s arrival to Moscow from the moment she passed border security. Hacking into the mainframe, the group she worked for informed her of Anastasia’s presence. With a Western spy snooping around, taking her out of the picture required her experience, and she was more than willing to provide - for a price. What most feared, some entertained, indulging in erotic fantasies that were otherwise outlawed or outright illegal in the country. Anastasia had only heard whispers during her brief time with the agency, enough to know of Xenia Gregoria Onatopp, the Georgian-Belorussian assassin of the KGB. Seeing her in the flesh after their prior, fateful encounter on the streets of Berlin five years ago sent her stomach into knots. As her eyes dimmed, and the nagging pull of slumber claimed her, she watched as Xenia’s eyes gleamed with delightful anticipation.
Both women knew all too well, deep down, that the Western spy would crack under the lightest of methods. Tickling came to mind, as well as her most infamous talent: body-scissoring. A British agent had met his untimely demise between her muscular, shimmering thighs, wrapped around his torso as she squeezed the very life from him, reaching a degree of sexual climax - as well as satisfaction of her victory - as she bit her lip, even drawing blood. For this one though, this little thing, pretty though she was, Xenia had other ideas in store. As the Frenchwoman collapsed in her arms, she was swung over the assassin’s shoulder and carried from the corridor. Not far away, hidden between two office studios, was a staircase guarded by an electrified fence. A simple, somewhat coy nod granted her access, allowing her to navigate a dark, winding staircase. It spiraled down into the gloom, deep beneath the structure, where a number of hidden stockpiles of weapons, drugs, equipment and treasures could be found. Some were even placed there by Xenia herself.
A muffle caught her attention. Stood in the corner, out of sight and mind, was a young man she’d taken a few days ago. He was completely cocooned, imprisoned within a series of intricate belts and wrappings, arms crossed over as though he was in a straight-jacket, the lasso of the brown leather wound around his torso, connected in strips across his chest. He was conscious, though barely, hardly aware at all of his surroundings as she approached. The Frenchwoman over her shoulder could wait a while longer, after all, she had guests to attend to. She whispered his name like a venomous snake. Colton. The very air she breathed was laced with heated undertones as she caressed the fabric around his inner-thigh, drawing long, ruby-nails over his most erogenous region. How long he’d been trapped in his mummified state was unclear, and it was even more unknown as to when he would be permitted liberation of any type. Seeing him still awake, holding onto his fracturing resolve, tickled her somewhat. He was tough, stronger than most she broke to her will, but - like all the others - a splinter would form that would eventually widen into a chasm. And out of that chasm, secrets of the most heinous sort would come spilling out, with Xenia, being the most gracious recipient she was, would lap them all up without hesitation. The American was just a fling, though, as she heard an adorable sigh slip from her new toy, and so she cupped her palm around his mouth, choking, denying him the precious air he received, as she reassured the unfortunate man that she’d return in due course, expecting to find a shell of his former self for her to mold into whatever shape she saw fit.
The means of transportation were easy enough, especially in the world of the underground where the black market was a thriving business. Utilising a new piece of technology, Xenia placed the Frenchwoman into a storage container, sealed from the inside so as to further torture the occupant with hope of escape. Escape that would never be granted, as the controls could only be unhinged by the press of a finger-scanner on the outside. She didn’t regain consciousness to experience it in time, but when her eyes did begin to flutter open, her world was transformed.
A pair of crimson-heels tapped against the wooden floorboards of the apartment, overlooking the snow-capped city-scape of Leningrad. It was the only sensation Anastasia could comprehend, as she began to stir at last, feeling the effects of the chloroform wearing off. She mumbled something under her breath, some indiscernible curse in her native tongue that persuaded a wicked grin to appear on the cheeks of her captor. Hours had passed since she found herself eavesdropping in the corridor, only to fall to darkness. And now, as she tried to lift an arm to defend herself out of pure instinct, she heard a discernible stretch. Something compressed from all sides; form-fitting as it was oddly elastic to the touch. As her senses returned, she discovered that most remained subdued. Kicking her legs did little to help her cause, feeling the same, constricting sensation pressing on her long legs. The only gap in her daunting prison was a small hole at the top, which connected directly to the exterior world via a breathing apparatus. Xenia crept closer, a coiled-whip strapped to her hip, her luscious, desirable form now clad in amethyst-black rubber, accentuating every curve of her supple body. Her long, silky black hair was bound back, hidden beneath an officer’s hat that carried the insignia of the Soviet Union, heralding her true loyalty to the communist ideal.
Fully cognisant after adjusting to her new surroundings, Anastasia began to whimper once more, though far more girlishly than before. To her horror, she was trapped, completely naked, in a tight sac of pure latex, doubled in strength by a coating of sticky, adhesive glue that squelched against her tender skin as she moved, thrashing at first, only to find her arms failed her. They were pinned to her sides, and no matter how much strength she conjured to peel them away, barely managing to contort the amber, rubber coffin that shrouded her entire, slender body, they simply snapped back into place with another stretch. The substance that covered her was gooey, almost pleasantly so as it tingled with each pore it encountered, its inevitable spread aided only by her erratic movements. After a few more moments of struggling, she finally subsided, allowing her host to take control of the situation.
“Do you know what happens to a woman’s breasts when they’re trapped in vacuum-tight rubber?” Xenia inquired, hanging on a response as she lingered over the mummified woman, the tip of her tongue flexing against her teeth, “would you like to find out?”
As she motioned to speak, a sudden flick of a switch caught her off-guard. The air inside her prison was hewn from her, sealing the already-restrictive material even tighter against her body. A pitiful gasp was all she could muster as she clawed for breath, shuddering as her lungs were set ablaze. The cocoon was now like a second skin, grinding with each shake of her clenched fists, before they too were unwravelled with digits lying flat against her thighs. The breathing apparatus she’d been so quick to rely on stole oxygen away for well over forty seconds. In her panic-stricken state, as her heart thundered along at pace, she began to convulse, screaming in silence for air, twisting her body to somehow unsettle the resolve of her elastic prison.
Xenia’s malevolent expression only deepened the longer she watched the Frenchwoman’s struggles, the rubbery cacophony filling the vacant apartment space. Before any permanent damage could be administered, she flicked the switch once more, allowing a steady flow of air to return to the cocoon. Anastasia almost passed out as she finally inhaled, but her movements were now even more restricted as the rubber material clung to the damp, sticky parts of her upper-body, framing her breasts perfectly. It was humiliating, degrading - even - to be treated in such a manner, stripped bare of her disguise, completely naked to the darkness. Here, under the watchful gaze of the gorgeous assassin, showing her true, sadistic side, she was doomed.
Almost immediately, Xenia heard offers of information from the spy, and - as delighted as she was to receive it - she declined. The more she struggled, the more air was taken away from her. With each long pause between breaths, she was granted less of it in return, until there was barely enough to settle the fire raging in her chest.
By all accounts, Anastasia was stunning in her own right. Of French origin, she possessed naturally auburn-blonde hair, cut to a medium-length, with a pale, slender form that was looked upon with lust by many of her male colleagues. She was young, perhaps in her early-twenties, fresh out of the academy, and passionate as a patriot of her country. When she broke within minutes of being tortured, shame washed over her. Embracing the terrifying sensation of being completely immobilized in an inescapable cocoon, she set about remaining quiet, denying the assassin her satisfaction.
Such acts only served to encourage Xenia further, though, as she practically threw herself to the floor to press her hand over Anastasia’s lips, crushing the breathing tube between her other fingers. “If I were you, I would abandon those fleeting feelings of hope you’re clinging to,” she whispered, like a masochistic, long-lost lover, “they will only bring you pain, and I - pleasure. One way or another, you will divulge your secrets; of ‘Operation Red Dusk’, and - most importantly of all - the identity of your German accomplice.” Xenia’s grip tightened, her thighs trembling as she breathed, her own arousal growing by the second. “She has slipped through my net far too often, and now that I have you, oh…” There was a momentary pause in her tone as she inched closer, trailing her long fingernails over the contours of Anastasia’s shimmering, mummified form, “I have no doubt she’ll fall for the trap.”
There was a muffled sound filtering through the sealed-sac. Anastasia managed to convey a message, but one that only added to her captor’s carnal satisfaction. “I won’t give you what you want.”
Xenia ran her index finger along the breastbone of her prey, ruby lips parted, savoring every last wisp she formed across the rubber prison. “No?” she chuckled, “but, you’ve given me so much already. You’ve granted me the means of capturing your associate.”
The flow of air was cut off once more. The signature, crackling squeeze of the unyielding latex, combined with the sticky, adhesive muck coating her naked form allowed the material to remain glued in place. Unable to breathe, she couldn't help but cringe as she felt the teasing digits of her host run along her smooth, inner-thighs. She held on for as long as she could, feeling her resolve weaken with each passing minute, her lungs blazing as her parched lips begged for air. As time passed, she shuddered, her body crumbling as the lack of oxygen finally broke her will. The more she resisted, the less she was able to endure under Xenia’s cruel, yet sadistically erotic torture. Part of her thought back to the young man completely wrapped up in the corner, strapped in place like a helpless, mumbling mummy come to life. The notion of sharing a similar fate was what persuaded her to give in completely.
Halting her torment, Xenia straddled herself above the spy’s hips, bound together as they were, and asked. “Have you had your fill of my company, or...should I continue?” There was a glint of malicious intent in her eyes. “Perhaps you would care to experience something a little more...stirring." The Russian had desires of her own making. She seldom refused her heart, and it throbbed for the opportunity to wrap her impossibly strong thighs around Anastasia’s waist and crush the life out of her, appealing to her most charismatic talent.
The muffled, feeble response returned, her voice already failing as the air was deprived from her throat. Mm-hmm. The muffled, feeble response returned, her voice already failing as the air was deprived from her throat. She strained against the rubber, the slick, glossy surface unyielding from her form as it compressed against every square inch. She felt a new, almost alien sensation vibrating across her pelvis. There was an audible buzzing sound emanating from between her inner-thighs as her host positioned herself just above her hips, slowly rolling something over her most sacred region. Heat was flushed from her muscles to the surface of her glue-covered skin, the moans of despair quickly dissolving to ones of forced pleasure, clenching her fingers into fists as the sensations sent tingles rocketing through her young body. She put up little resistance. The rubber confines she was imprisoned in prevented any type of movement. Even as she bit her lip - failing to ignore the effects of the humming device being rolled back and forth across her pelvis - Anastasia clung to her resolve, but she knew the longer she spent in such a helpless state, listening to the Russian's joyful laughter and suffering her erotic teasing, it would only be a matter of time before she broke.