Karina 4

This short story was written for the

Heroism - the Oggbashan Memorial Event 2023

.

I did not know Oggbashan personally, but as a long-time reader and, more recently, writer, I am very much aware of his profoundly positive impact on the Literotica community. Like the other writers here, I owe him a debt of gratitude.

My heartfelt gratitude goes to

TarnishedPenny

, not only for coordinating the event but also for helping me refine my story. Similarly, I extend my appreciation to beautiful

lilshyminx

, and to another beautiful anonymous beta reader for their invaluable help to improve my story.

This story is a lesbian spy romance. It is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of the characters to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

This story is dedicated to Ogg.

Karina

We can be heroes, just for one day

We can be us, just for one day - David Bowie, Heroes

Victoria Strickland. A forty-five-year-old, boot-wearing, god-fearing evangelical. A lover of freedom, barbecue, and the good ol’ US of A. And the junior senator from Montana.

Unless you’ve lived under a rock, you’d recognize her from her overwhelming presence on social media or her regular Fox News guest spots, where she frequently delivers biting rebukes against the White House and her political opponents.

She is a Gold Star wife, meaning that her husband died in the war years ago. She had used that fact expediently and unabashedly to shore up her political career. With that and the tremendous cult-like following she amassed with her brash ‘don’t-tread-on-me’ persona, she had risen meteorically from humble widowed housewife to junior senator.

If you are a fan or aren’t, you might think you have her pegged. To her supporters, she is a gun-totin' Annie Oakley cowgirl. A rebel with a cause. A defiant and fearless woman standing against the woke socialist takeover of her beloved country. To her detractors, she’s a conspiratorial-minded demagogue that should never be near the nuclear codes. To all the political wonks, she is the most serious contender for the Republican nomination for the presidency next election cycle.

Because of her unapologetic brashness, it's hard to think that there’s anything else to her personality than what she shouts out at the world through her many megaphones. But don’t be fooled by Senator Strickland. She holds many secrets close to her heart that might surprise you. So close, in fact, that only a handful of people know them. I am one of those people.

And who am I?

Call me Karina.

I am far different from Senator Victoria Strickland. Polar opposites, if you will. As she adores the limelight like a moth, I thrive in the shadows like a bat.

She presumes I'm an escort, which is what I want her to presume. I worked hard to cultivate that image. As quiet as a finch, as elegant as a swan, I carry an air of luxury of only the highest order to attract the most refined tastes. Lush onyx curls that cascade to my shoulders. Eyes that shimmer like emeralds. Breasts which, an artist once told me, were akin to those Giorgione must have dreamt of when he painted the 'Sleeping Venus.' I’ve never seen Giorgione’s Sleeping Venus, but I’ve seen the dreamy look in the eyes of strangers when their gaze falls upon my breasts.

In truth, I am no escort. What I am is a manifestation of Victoria Strickland’s greatest fears.

***

Senator Strickland first appeared on our radar well before her run for the US Senate, back when she was a housewife to a war hero and the daughter of a wealthy Montana rancher. We initiated a dossier on her, meticulously collecting any available intelligence, as we habitually do for all American politicians of any significance. After years of diligent scrutiny, our psychoanalysts proposed an intriguing hypothesis: Strickland was in the closet.

To validate this theory, we gingerly attempted to coax her into considering my services as an escort for the past few months. Our success so far is how I found myself standing at the entrance of a penthouse suite in a hotel on Pennsylvania Avenue, adorned in a luxurious black fur coat, wearing beneath a beautiful black cocktail dress and very sexy lingerie.

I carried a Louis Vuitton purse, specially modified for this mission. In the latch at the front of it, a high-resolution camera and a microphone meant to record everything that would transpire tonight.

The objective of this mission was not necessarily to ruin her political career but to persuade her to work for us as an asset.

This was the most important mission in my relatively young career. So far, my experience has exclusively been with middling bureaucratic ‘cut-outs’ – those not important enough to have access to intelligence themselves but do have access to the people who have access. Should this recruitment be successful, Senator Strickland would be my first direct contact. As one who might very well become the next President of the United States, she represented the holy grail for any spy. I needed this to succeed.

I shut my eyes momentarily and breathed in deeply, slowly out to force calm into my being. Then after uttering a small word of encouragement, I knocked on the door.

The door came open immediately. I was surprised by what I saw.

I already knew Victoria Strickland was beautiful. She was once Miss Montana, after all, and she had the voluptuous body, the beautiful blue eyes, and immaculate blonde curls to prove she was.

I was surprised because for as long as I was familiar with who she was, I had never seen the senator the way she appeared before me now. Absent was the caked-on country-girl aesthetics – the Dolly Parton level of eyeliner around her eyes and lipstick thick with the ruby red of a South Dakota sunset. Her blonde hair came down to her shoulders, not in bouncy curls but in a natural, flowing way. She wore a delicate blue dress that was simple and elegant, not the skimpy affair meant to please her male-dominant base. She had on enough makeup to be elegant but not enough to conceal the lovely little wrinkles at the side of her eyes as she smiled.

“Hi,” she breathed nervously. Quickly, she beckoned me into the suite.

I gave a polite curtsy, sauntered in, and immediately began assessing the room. It was a beautiful corner suite with a large wrap-around terrace. The Washington Monument rose prominently out the window, its nacreous glow spearing the black velvet night. A baby grand piano sat in the shadows of the room’s far corner. Its polished black paint gleamed in the soft light of candles thoughtfully placed throughout the living room. A bottle of red wine sat on the counter of the wet bar to my right. Malbec, most likely. The senator’s favorite was Malbec, which, incidentally, was not an easy fact for us to obtain because if you were to ask her, she’d tell you she drank beer or whiskey, but if she ever did drink wine, it’d be wine from the wineries of the great state of Montana (none of which produced Malbec).

“K-Karina?”

I turned to face her and nodded.

“Hi, Victoria.”

I was careful not to call her senator. I did not want to risk her getting cold feet by reminding her of her station as a civil servant.

“Nice to meet you,” she replied with a smile. Not a smile containing any of her usually sharp Western charms, but a smile like the softness of a lamb.

“You know, I don’t normally, um…”

Her lips quivered as she floundered. Fright grew in her eyes. A surprising lack of confidence that was a stark difference from the Victoria Strickland with whom I was duly familiar. She was on the verge of getting cold feet. I could not allow that.

“Victoria, I am very excited to be here with you, and I assure you, I will make this night amazing for you.”

I took a measured step towards her. She took a half-step back.

“Can I take your coat and purse?” she asked.

“Let me take care of it,” I replied.

“Oh, ok, then... um... h-how about I pour you a glass of wine?”

I couldn’t help but find her fumbling for words incredibly cute. It was especially cute considering the juxtaposition with her public-facing firecracker personality.

“I’d love some wine,” I said, pulling my purse off my shoulder.

“It’s a Malbec. Do you like Malbec?”

“My favorite.”

“Oh, ok, perfect.” She walked to the bar counter, pulled a corkscrew out of a drawer, and opened the bottle.

I hung my purse on the coat rack, positioning it to get a good, unobstructed view of the room. Then, making sure she was glancing my way and sensing the moment as appropriate to draw her into my web, I flung off my coat to reveal the black cocktail dress underneath. I gave her a wink as I casually draped my coat on the hook. A soft whimper, like a kitten’s mewl, escaped from her, causing little sprites of delight to crackle through my chest. To have such an effect on powerful people was one of the few pleasures I savored in life.

By the time I sauntered over to the bar, the wine glasses were full. She handed me mine.

“To whatever may happen tonight,” she pronounced timidly.

“To whatever may happen tonight,” I echoed, and we clinked our glasses together.

I watched her intently while I sipped my wine. She blushed and averted her eyes to the floor while she sipped hers.

I sat on the bar stool closest to her and leaned in so she could smell my perfume. She sat guarded. Like a teenager sitting next to her crush. A reaction so unbecoming I could not help but smile.

There was an awkward silence filled with all sorts of trepidation between us. On her part, perhaps for wondering why she ever thought this was a good idea, and on my part for fear that my mission might be cut short. My minder did not like failures, even if the likelihood of failure was high.

“So, this must be quite new to you, too,” Victoria said.

“In what way?”

She cocked her head. “To have a client that’s a, um….”

“A woman?”

She shrank behind her wine glass. “Well, I was going to say someone of my stature.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Victoria, I am a high-end escort in D.C. Who do you think my clients are?”

She nodded, her face reddening. Another awkward silence. We both sipped our wines. She poured it to refill our glasses. Her hands trembled.

“So, is this your first time then?” I asked.

“With someone like you?”

“With a woman.”

She laughed and took a deep sip. I took a deep sip with her to ensure I kept up. It was a very fine Malbec.

“I kissed a girl once in college.”

“I’ve seen the video.”

A well-known controversy. A fuzzy video from her college years surfaced only a week before election day. A torpedo aimed at her dreams of a senate seat. It backfired, thanks largely to her remarkable response. With elegant finesse, she shrugged off the incident as the innocent curiosity of a young college girl while underscoring her repentant, ‘born-again-Christian’ roots. Her response to the video was perhaps the reason she won her seat.

Victoria nodded. “Are you surprised that I would ask for a woman?”

I shook my head. “No. I understand the appeal of women.”

She laughed. “I suppose you might. But you do think me a hypocrite, don’t you?”

“Sure. But we are all hypocrites,” I replied.

“Is that so?”

“Of course. America exists on hypocrisy.”

She laughed. Her eyes crinkled at the edges in the endearing way they did.

“Sounds like you’ve been in D.C. far too long,” she replied.

“Perhaps,” I replied. “But I don’t mind it. I love it.”

“What? The city or the hypocrisy?”

“Both.”

She grinned at the retort and took a thoughtful sip of her wine.

I didn’t truly believe my own words. The hypocrisy here sickened me. The people sickened me. At least the ones in the circles I navigated: the greed, the lust for power, the empty voices making empty promises. The air was thick with all of it. As thick as the smog.

As far as I was concerned, Victoria Strickland was one of the primary culprits. She was everything wrong and sick with this country. But of course, I didn’t say any of that. I played the part of a sycophant. After all, the point of my mission was to thicken the smog.

I squeezed my forearms against my breasts as I took a sip of my wine, causing my breasts to bulge out of my little cocktail dress, gathering her gaze.

Her eyes grew as they fixated on my cleavage. Her wine glass slowly went to the countertop. She swallowed nervously.

I didn’t want to give her too long to stare. I wanted to entice her to want more. After my sip, I stood and sauntered nonchalantly to the floor-to-ceiling windows to look upon the grandeur of D.C.

I shifted my shoulder to let one of my shoulder straps fall while giving the senator a seductive glance. I affected a demure flutter of my eyelashes as I replaced the strap. She came over to me to pretend to watch the city with me, but I could feel her eyes paint my naked neckline.

“So, Victoria. What fantasy would you like to fulfill tonight?” I asked, keeping my eyes on the nightscape. I was genuinely curious and, admittedly, a bit excited to hear her response. Women ignited my desire far more than men, and it’s been far too long since I’ve been with a woman.

Her perfume had a wonderful, heady fragrance. Orange peels in tea on a summer morning.

“Well, to be frank, Karina, I don’t know. I reckon you could help me figure that part out.”

Her voice was tremulous. Her eyes shimmered with lost wondering and sexual arousal akin to fear.

I turned to face her fully and gently touched her shoulder. She let out her held breath with a shuddering exhale. Her chest fell. As timid as a mouse in the paws of a cat. My hand fell along the side of her arm, taking one of her dress straps.

“It’ll be my pleasure to help you figure out what you want, Victoria. On only one condition: I get to do what I want.”

She shut her eyes and nodded.

“Good. Then you will not forget tonight. The first thing I will do, is take off your dress.”

“Ok.”

I glanced sidewise at the purse to ensure it still had an unobstructed view of the scene while I removed her other dress strap. Her shoulders became naked, but her dress stayed floating, held up by her ample breasts. I helped it, peeling the dress down slowly with my fingers to reveal her lovely black laced bra.

Once fully peeled over her breasts, her dress fell limply to her hips. I then caressed her face. Touching my fingertips against her cheeks – the final seduction before the strike.

“Was the last time you kissed a woman in college?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Such a long time.”

“It was.”

“Do you think about it often?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think about women when you pleasure yourself?”

“…Yes,” her voice cracked. She shivered.

“Mmm…I like that,” I whispered. I put my mouth to her ear. “I like to imagine you pleasuring yourself to the thought of women.”

Her body swayed as I coaxed her mouth to mine with my hands. Her mouth went open.

I put her up against the window, pinned her against it by the wrists, and kissed her, putting my tongue into her mouth. At first, her tongue was shy but soon found its confidence. She kissed with awkward excitement like she had never kissed. And it was hot. There is no better kiss than the awkward neophyte kiss of teenagers, which is how Victoria Strickland kissed.

She stretched out her neck to me as an offering. I gladly accepted it, planting kisses from her jaw to her collarbone. Delicious. So delicious. So, I needed more. I was hungry.

To satiate my hunger, I went for her luscious breasts.

I curled a finger around her bra and tugged it away from her skin to glimpse her erect nipple. A beautiful thing, her nipple. Coral pink. It’s large, puffy size and the large size of her areola concomitant with the size of her breasts.

Slowly, I brushed my lips back and forth across her nipple, warming it with my breath. Her face twisted into delightful shapes of excruciating pleasure. When I traced circles around the edge of her areola with my tongue, she braced herself against the window, her mouth gaping open. When finally, I sucked, she squealed, “

Oh Lord!

”

How intensely wonderful it must be to have a woman suck your tits for the first time after wanting it for so long.

I unclipped her bra and tossed it aside, and similarly attacked her other nipple while I used my fingers to pinch and fondle the former. Finally, I rolled her dress over her hips, causing it to fall loosely into a pile around her ankles. Then I went to my knees, planting kisses down her front until I reached her black-laced panties.

Through the intricate lacework, I could see the blonde patch of her bush. I could smell her sweet sex. I could feel her pulsing heat. I could see her glistening wetness.

By this point, the purse camera had caught more than enough to jeopardize her career. From here, I could do anything I wanted. I could even stop if I wanted to. I could stop and leave and not give her all she craved. But I didn’t want to stop. I wanted to taste all of her body, and I wanted her to taste my body. It had been so long since I gave my body to another woman. I needed it now, even if that woman was Victoria Strickland.

I traced my tongue down and up the curving creases of her thighs. I kissed and nibbled at her soft skin while her fingers threaded through my hair and clawed at the back of my skull.

“Oh, Karina,” she gasped. “Oh yes. Ple-ee-ase!” She begged with the stilted intonation of a deeply possessed soul.

To hear the ecstasy in her voice made me so hot. Suddenly, she wasn’t a senator anymore. She wasn’t a target. She was a woman desperately in need of satisfaction, and I wanted to be the woman to give it to her. I wanted to hear her scream when I slid my tongue into her slit. I wanted to hear her cry out my name again.

I pulled her panties down her legs. Her bush was downy soft, lush, and, in the dim candlelight, the color of strawberry cream. With two fingers, I parted her pussy lips, exposing her swollen, glistening clit to my tongue. She parted her legs to give me better access.

She moaned without inhibition. She uttered profanity. She writhed against the window, trying not to collapse under the intense pull of pleasure to her loins.

It had been too long since I had been with another woman. The last time was when I was still in training. Her name was Sofiya, and I was young, unbroken, eager, and in love for the first and only time. My mind frequently drifts to the alternative reality, where I ran off with Sofiya rather than choose my career. She always talked about Greece. She was enamored with an island called Naxos and always talked of escaping there with me to run a café on the coast. But then she died in a car crash. They said it was just a drunk driver. i suspected otherwise. I suspected our love had been discovered, and she paid the penalty. But I was too afraid to discover the real truth.

From time to time, I like to imagine that she never died but had somehow eluded her death and escaped to Naxos to live out our dreams. Such fantasies were a meager well-spring of happiness in my dark reality.

That was only five years ago. But it seemed like another life. Since then, I’ve only had men and none I was attracted to. But that didn’t matter. It was my job to be with them.

To my surprise, Victoria brought me a feeling that I had long thought lost. She brought back memories of Sofiya. She rekindled a long-forgotten fire inside me.

Full of desire and out of breath, I stood. I held her face and kissed her strongly with her sex smeared on my lips.