Young and exceptionally bright, Sheila Hurtz had joined MI7 when she was just 19. She'd been with the Service and without a public identity for nearly a decade when she was assigned to spy on the young Russian prime minister at the time, Fillyp Dombrovski.
Often MI7 agents weren't given all the details of the reasoning behind their assignments, and such was the case this time; Hurtz knew her own job, but had no idea what Britain's interests were. It didn't trouble her.
Dombrovski had been vacationing on a tiny uncharted island in Fiji which the Russian government in cooperation with the local government sometimes unofficially used for retreats. Britain had no legal jurisdiction there, so Hurtz had been cautioned to be particularly subtle in her methods. But the job was easy: simply record the prime minister's conversations for the duration of his stay on the island, and report them to MI7 Headquarters via radio as they were received. A cake walk.
Smuggling herself onto the island with fake i.d. as a Russian waitress had been easy. Dombrovski was staying in one of a row of a dozen or so romantic grass bungalows on the beach. They were modest, yet immaculately maintained and even luxurious by some standards. Hurtz simply let the attached adjacent grass hut and stuffed a state-of-the-art micro-microphone into the grass wall facing Dombrovski's room. She trailed him at a distance whenever he left his hut and picked up and recorded his speech with a directional mike hidden in the cute blonde bun her hair was done up in atop her petite head. At night she would transcribe whatever the mics had recorded, and radio them directly in to MI7 Headquarters using a plastic micro-satellite telephone hidden in one of the stiletto heels she had packed in her suitcase. She'd then burn the transcript and wipe the microchips clean of any evidence.
Dombrovski made a few personal phone calls on the first day and spent the first night alone. During the course of the second day he picked up an American lover; an 18-year-old blonde student by the name of Tiffany Johnson. Tiffany had wound up on the island through an exchange program with a Russian university. The girl she was 'exchanging' with had been interning with a large Russian catering company. Hence, she was traveling/interning as a cocktail girl on a beautiful beach in Fiji, and sleeping with the Russian prime minister. Hurtz had seen stranger things before... on occasion.
When the pubs finally closed around two, Tiffany and the prime minister teetered back to his grass hut laughing arm in arm where Hurtz was already in position in her own hut with the curtains drawn, completely inconspicuous. She decided to catch a few hours of shut-eye while the mics did their work before waking up to transcribe and radio in whatever they'd picked up a little later.
'Wish I had me a big bloody cock,' Sheila muttered to herself as she settled into her comfortable bed for a few hours rest. 'Lucky bastards...' she yawned, her hand unconsciously massaging the fleshy moistening lips of her immaculately waxed-smooth cunt, and fell asleep.
Hurtz awoke at five and made coffee quietly in the nude. Next door, all was silent. She pulled on a clean, extremely skimpy white string thong but left her large breasts bare for comfort in the heat, retrieved the mic, sidled up to the hardwood desk and sat down, put on soundproof earphones and began transcribing what she heard into shorthand, pencil on paper, in the following way:
(Sounds of them (Fillyp Dombrovski and Tiffany Johnson- voices earlier confirmed) loudly (drunkenly) entering Dombrovski's hut, laughing and with shuffling steps.)
Dombrovski: 'Is you! You make me drink so mach!'
Johnson: 'Oh, no! No WAY, Fillyp! YOU made ME drink so much!'
(Laughter. Sounds of kissing and things crashing about. Sound of them falling onto the bed together and laughing, still kissing. Sounds of both of them becoming sexually aroused, i.e. moaning and increased breathing, and likely disrobing.)
Johnson: 'Well! What's that, Fillyp?? It's fucking big!!'
Fillyp: 'Is you; you make me so beeg, you are so beautiful, Teeffany!'
Tiffany: 'Ah-ha! Less sweet-talking Fillyp, and more sixty-nining!' (Some shuffling noises) '...Let me show you.'
(Intense moans of pleasure from both parties.)
...
Sheila Hurtz was trying to remain professional and just do her job, but was finding herself becoming quite aroused by this particular assignment. Still, she kept her hands off of her cunt for the time being and got back to work.
(Sounds of young miss Johnson sucking the prime minister's cock. And him apparently licking out her pussy.) She scratched that out and wrote, 'administering cunnilingus.' (More sexual moaning. Same noises continue for several minutes.)
'O, what can it hurt?!' Sheila thought, and went and fetched her pocket-rocket vibrator from her case. 'There- aaaaaah!' she sighed in her mind as she pressed the vibrating bullet beside her thong and onto her wet clit. 'I can still work just fine like this...' she thought smiling lustfully to herself.
Tiffany: 'You want me to sit on it now? Yeah? Yeah?'
Fillyp: 'Oh fuck yeah, girl. Sit on my fucking cock...'
(Moans of pleasure intensify greatly. The rhythmic slapping of flesh on flesh audible as they begin to copulate.)
Tiffany: 'Oh yeah, fuck my cunt you big stud! Oh! I'm so wet! Oh yeah!' (Several minutes pass similarly; sex sounds/dirty sex-talk continues.) 'Fuck me from behind...'
(Some shuffling sounds, then sex recommences, more vigorous than before.)
Tiffany: (Wails with pleasure. Much rapid slapping of wet flesh on flesh.) 'Ooooh! Aaaaah!...'
Fillyp: 'I vant to fuck your ass...'
Tiffany: (No hesitation whatsoever) 'Do it! Fuck my tight fucking asshole! Just go slow at first...'
