Spy Games

Katie, our next maid of the month, helped me celebrate my nineteenth birthday with a wake-up blow job. It was a delightful habit that she continued for the rest of her stay ... with the understanding I would reciprocate in kind every evening.

The occasion coincided with my first anniversary under Mrs. B's tutelage. The original agreement was for a twelve-month internship after which I would either go back to living with my parents or move on to some other pursuit.

Living with my parents was no longer an option. I hadn't heard from them since we moved to London and didn't have a clue where they were.

"I can't tell you," Mrs. B said when I asked. "Their current assignment requires a deep cover. Only a handful of people in the Company are privy to their mission."

"Can you give me a hint? Are they in Russia or China?"

"Does it really matter? Even if you knew, you wouldn't be able to communicate with them."

"If you can't tell me where they are, can you at least tell me when they'll return?"

"I honestly don't know. Possibly later this year, but they could be gone for another full year or maybe more."

"So, what happens to me? Am I to put my life on hold until they return?"

"I was hoping you'd stay with me. Your trainers are impressed with your progress and I've yet to get any complaints from our maids. Your life certainly isn't on hold. You're doing what every other young man your age should be ... learning a trade."

Not having any other suitable options, I stayed.

***

The months and maids kept coming and going. Laura, Maria, Nadine and Olivia all served during my medical internship.

In addition to my continued combat training, I spent hours with Dr. Bob, the man Mrs. Bancroft referred to as the "Company pharmacist". This was a four-month crash course on the different drugs I might find useful in my chosen line of work. Everything from poisons that killed within seconds to knock out drops that slowly rendered the recipient unconscious. I learned the best techniques for delivering the different pharmaceuticals -- be they powder in a cup of coffee or a quick needle in the ass -- and which drug was best for each situation.

Doctor Bob thought it important that I experience some of his concoctions ... like the three-drop dose of clear liquid that gave me the runs for four straight hours ... and a particularly nasty injection that left me completely paralyzed but aware of my surroundings for a terrifying ten minutes. I even got to sample one of the earlier versions of Rohypnol (the infamous date rape drug) although I don't have any memory of it.

It was also essential that I get some hands-on experience administering the drugs in a real world setting and observing their results. For that, I needed some unsuspecting guinea pigs to work with.

Before I continue, it is important to know that none of the maids suffered any permanent physical damage or mental anguish while helping me master the wonders of modern medicine. Yes, most of them had several hours of unaccounted for time in their lives, or in Maria's case, an entire week. Nadine was already a frequent visitor to my bedroom before I slipped an aphrodisiac into her wine glass. That particular evening was the first and only time a woman begged me for more, long after I collapsed in exhaustion. And the things that Laura and Olivia told me while under the influence of a truth serum -- while certainly interesting -- were not incriminating. Laura's preference for purple, double-headed dildos and Olivia's desire to do it in an elevator with a stranger were certainly nothing to be ashamed of.

The point is, I spent another four months under Mrs. B's tutelage, constantly challenging both my mind and body, without questioning why I was there or what I was doing.

Until tragedy struck.

It was a Monday. A crisp fall day. We were between maids. Olivia was gone and Penny wasn't due until the weekend. I got back from the pistol range a little earlier than expected and immediately started dinner preparations. Mrs. B was due home at 6:00, but she liked to shower and enjoy a cocktail before the evening meal, so I planned dinner for 7:00. I wasn't too concerned when she wasn't home by 6:30. London traffic was no better than any other big city and the local public transit union had been threatening a strike for over a week.

I called her cell at 7:00 and was immediately sent to voice mail.

I called her office at 7:30 only to be told that she was unavailable. Not an uncommon occurrence although I should have known something was amiss. Her secretary usually went home at 5:00 sharp.

Dinner was done and well on its way towards cremation at 8:00 so I ate alone and set Mrs. B's portion on the counter.

All subsequent calls to her cell and office went unanswered.

Not knowing who else to call, where to go or what to do, I plopped down on the living room couch and turned on the TV ... not wanting to go to bed until I knew Mrs. B was okay.

***

"Wake up sleepy head. It's time for your lessons."

It wasn't an uncommon dream ... hearing my mom's voice whisper in my ear ... feeling her gentle touch on my back. Not uncommon or unpleasant. One of those dreams I yearned for. A "roll over, nestle into the covers and enjoy" dream.

She touched me again. This time on the arm. A tug that pulled me into that middle world between sleep and awake.

"It's three in the morning. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine mom. I'm waiting for Mrs. B."

"Oh, my poor young prince. I am so sorry."

Mrs. B propped me up and held me in her arms.

"Where have you been?" I asked when fully awake.

"At the office. We had a situation that needed my attention."

"I called. Several times. When you didn't answer ..."

"Somebody was supposed to call ... to tell you I might not be home. I guess that didn't happen. Again, I'm sorry."

"It's okay," I said. "I just overreacted. If I'm going to be a field agent, I should probably get used to long nights and unexpected situations. I'll get to bed so you can too."

I swung my legs off the couch and tried to get up, but Mrs. B held tight to my arm. That's when I saw the tears in her eyes.

"This is probably the wrong time to do this, but I sure the hell can't think of a right time."

"To do what? Why are you crying?"

"The reason I didn't come home ... the situation ... I'm sorry, I thought I'd be better at this."

"You're scaring me Mrs. B. If I've done something wrong ... if you have to fire me ... just say it."

"Nothing of the sort. It's nothing you've done. You are absolutely perfect in every way."

"Then what?"

"Your parents are dead."

***

I had never lost anybody. I didn't know my uncles, aunts, cousins or grandparents. There was a good chance that at least one of them had died in the last decade or so, but if they did, I wasn't told. I'm sure most kid's my age had lost at least one close friend to cancer, an automobile accident or perhaps a random shooting. I only had one friend and, last I heard, he was alive and well.

Because of my extremely sheltered upbringing, I had never experienced personal grief and had never been around someone when they were grieving. So, when I learned of my parent's deaths, I didn't know how to act.

"Take time to grieve," Mrs. B told me the following morning. "Take the week off. Go to a museum or a concert. Watch the changing of the guards at Buckingham Palace. Do something you'd wouldn't normally do ... anything to keep your mind busy."

"Will you go with me?"

"I dearly wish I could. There is nothing I would like more than to whisk the two of us away to a deserted island and cry until we run out of tears. But I have a job to do.

"Your parents' cover was compromised. A team of enemy agents broke into their apartment, killed them in their sleep and disposed of the bodies. We just lost two very special people and I need to find out why."

***

I'm not a big fan of museums, concerts give me a headache and who the hell wants to peer through an iron gate watching a bunch of Brits prance around in fancy uniforms. What I needed was something or someone to beat on.

As soon as Mrs. B left for work, I went to the Special Air Service training facility, where I got twice weekly lessons in unarmed combat. My normal instructor wasn't there. I spent a few minutes working over a punching bag until one of the younger SAS troops offered to spar with me. He was a couple of years older than me although not quite as big. I had an inch or two of reach on him which I used to my advantage. After several minutes -- during which I landed numerous jabs to his chin plus a good right cross to the ear which nearly decked him -- I suggested we take a break.

"Is that how's it going to go Yank? You get in a few lucky punches and then quit?"

"Not at all. I just thought you might need a breather."

"I'm a Lance Corporal in Her Majesty's Army. I can fight all day and fuck all night."

"Fine by me. Just don't complain when I whip your limey ass."

"Not bloody likely. Before I'm done, you'll be screaming for your mummy to come rescue you."

Yeah. It was just the standard trash talk that goes between two guys in a boxing ring. Under normal circumstances, we would have fought for another half hour and then gone to the pub together for lunch and beers. He didn't know I'd just lost my parents and was completely unprepared for what followed.

My mind snapped right after he mentioned mom. I went from grieving boy to maniacal killer in a milli-second. Our Queensbury Rules of Boxing match quickly degraded to a no-holds-barred fight to the finish. And finished him I would if two senior SAS troops hadn't pulled me off the bruised, bloody, barely breathing body of the unfortunate Lance Corporal.

My little show of rage and fighting skill won me a free ride back to Mrs. B's apartment in the back of a military truck -- in handcuffs -- with two armed escorts. They told me that the only reason I wasn't arrested and thrown in jail was Mrs. B's diplomatic position. Good chance they also wanted to the avoid the embarrassment of admitting one of their elite trained killers got his ass handed to him by a teenaged American civilian.

"I'm sorry," I said as soon as Mrs. B came in the door that evening.

"Don't be. I heard what happened."

"I could have killed the guy."

"But you didn't."

"You're not mad?"

"Not at you. Well, maybe a little. You came very close to ruining your life. But I mostly blame myself for that."

"Why? You told me to go to a museum. I was the one who went out looking for a fight."

"Yes, that part was entirely your fault. But I'm responsible for everything that led up to that point."

"I don't understand. I was mad because my parents were killed. That wasn't your fault."

A look of total anguish came over her face as she stared at the floor. After several seconds her teary eyes looked into mine again.

"I have a confession to make," she said. "I am responsible for your parent's death. I sent them on their mission even though I knew full well the risks involved. They asked me to find somebody else ... a couple who didn't have children. But there was nobody else. They were the only agents who could have pulled it off. So, I gave them an ultimatum. Take the mission or leave the Company."

"Was I part of the deal?"

"That was the only way they'd do it. They agreed to take the mission if I promised to personally take care of you ... for as long as they were gone."

The anger returned. I looked at Mrs. B like I'd never seen her before. The woman standing in front of me was not the caring person who always had my best interests at heart. No longer the combination lover, mentor and friend I trusted with my dreams and desires. She was a stranger. A purveyor of lies and half-truths. A businesswoman who would stop at nothing to further her career ... even if it meant sacrificing the lives of her two best employees and turning their son into a robotic gigolo / assassin.

"Fuck me."

The foreign words came from Mrs. B's mouth ... proving she was no longer the person I thought I knew.

"Don't make love to me. Don't worry about my feelings. No foreplay required. I want you to rip my clothes off and fuck me as hard as you can."

Two strong hands grasped her blouse. The first pull shot buttons across the room like popcorn thrown into a fireplace. Subsequent efforts sheared the fabric from top to bottom leaving only shreds of material hanging from her wrists. As adept as I was at unfastening bra clasps, in my state of rage I preferred brute force over technique and tore the delicate piece of lingerie into two separate pieces. Her skirt received similar treatment and was soon a ripped circle of cloth puddled around her feet ... joined soon after by her panties.

As soon as I had her naked, I half carried, half drug her up to my room and bent her over my bed ... feet on the floor, ass up, tits down.

"Do it," she said. "Shove your cock in me. Punish me for my crime."

I spread her legs and stabbed a finger into her slit. It was dry and tight.

"What are you waiting for? Pull out your dick and spear me with it."

I knew it would hurt her. I knew that putting even a slender finger into an unprepared pussy would be uncomfortable, and an intruder as large as my now rigid cock would be excruciating. But, at that moment, I needed to inflict pain and Mrs. B was begging for it. So, I positioned my weapon at her entrance and pushed -- as hard as I could -- all the way.

Mrs. B let out a primordial scream of agony.

"I'm sorry ..."

"Do it again. You need this a much as I. Keep fucking me. Keep punishing me. Don't you dare stop until you come."

I pulled completely out and repeated the assault, eliciting another cry of anguish from Mrs. B.

"I'm the one who sent them to her death," she cried out. "Avenge your parents. Punish the woman who forced them to leave their only son an orphan."

She's right. It's her fault. If not for the cunt in front of me, my parents would still be alive.

I pulled back and slammed into her again. Her cry was replaced with a grunt as the power of my thrust pushed her against the side of the bed.

"Use me like I used your parents. My body is inconsequential. I deserve whatever you do to me."

I grabbed her by the waist and pumped in and out of her pussy like a mass murderer with his knife.

"Yes. That's it. Fuck me until I die ... and then keep fucking me. Don't stop. Please don't stop."

And I tried. Continuously. God only knows how long I tried to satisfy my anger by squirting a gallon of sperm into the woman who killed my parents. But it wasn't working. No matter how hard I fucked her, I still felt empty and alone. I started smacking her ass with my hand, hoping the extra punishment would get me off. And when that didn't do the trick, I flipped her over onto her back, pulled her legs vertical and looked at her with accusing eyes as I slammed balls deep back into her pussy.

The eyes that looked back at me were not those of a cold-blooded murderer. They were the tear-filled eyes of a woman who was as distraught about losing my parents as I was. A woman who was willing to let me hurt her so I wouldn't feel the need to hurt others.

"Why did you stop?" she asked.

"It's not your fault."

"It is. I sent them. They were my responsibility."

"No. You were doing your job. Like you're doing now. You're sacrificing your body to save my mind."

"No, my young prince. Letting you make love to me is not a sacrifice. It is a pleasure, one that I won't have for much longer."

"I wasn't making love to you. I was punishing you."

"You were, at first. But the line between pain and pleasure can be extremely thin. Feel me know. Feel me with your erection. Is he in an unwilling vagina?"

I gave her pussy an exploratory penis pulse and was surprised to find it well lubricated.

Not sure when that happened.

"Keep going please," she said. "Continue what you were doing. Or do whatever you want. Forget everything I've taught you. Do what makes you feel good. There are times that the only thing a woman wants is to satisfy the man she is with."

That was the first time Mrs. B and I slept in the same bed. We had done pretty much every other thing else imaginable between the sheets, but I always retreated back to my bedroom when the sex was done. That night, after a long and satisfying session of sexual pleasure, we not only slept together, we did it in my room.

The next morning, I woke to the comforting warmth of Mrs. B's butt nestled up against my belly and took the opportunity to enjoy her again.

"I want to see Amanda," I said after we were done.

Normally, telling one woman that you wanted to see another was not a smart move. Especially when your dick was still inside the recently satiated pussy of woman number one. But our relationship was far from normal. Mrs. B was not only a sexual partner, she was also my boss, tutor and, due to recent events, a surrogate parent.

"I thought we discussed this. Once we've dismissed a maid, you weren't to be involved with her again."

"I don't look at Amanda as a maid. She was my first love. And I don't need to talk to her. It's probably best that she doesn't even know I'm there. But I think just seeing her, knowing she's doing okay, will help me."

"Help you do what?"

"Move on with my life. Realize that not everybody I love is gone from this world."

"Do you think you're a jinx."

"I don't know what I think, except I want to see Amanda."

"Alright. I guess that can be arranged. But you're not to approach her. Just a quick look to ensure she's still alive and well. Would that suffice?"

"Well ... maybe one more thing."