She should have been cold. The StealthSuit she wore was microns thin. She felt like she was naked and covered in a dusting of black powder. The Techs bragged that light slid off of the suit like water off a duck. The black body stocking was so sheer and felt so insubstantial that Natasha felt naked and exposed.
Natasha had laughed when she first saw the suit. It was no bigger than a Barbie Doll's costume. Yet it easily stretched to cover her 5'4", 120 pound body. The Tech who had helped her suit up hadn't been shy about staring. In the bright light of the TechLab, Natasha's nipples poked proudly through the fabric. The suit was so form-fitting that it was evident that the curls covering her pubic mound had never known the touch of scissors or razor. One could even see the slight ridge of the knife scar across her shoulder. But in the dim moon glow on the roof of the offices of CogicSystems, Incorporated, Natasha was as invisible as catshadow. She scraped frost from the skylight window. She should have been cold.
The mission couldn't have been simpler; slip into a CogicSystems office, enter a command into a computer and get out without leaving a trace. Simple. Insulting, even, for an agent of her caliber. But she didn't question her orders. Didn't even bother to ask the whats or whys. She just chewed on her frustration.
The mission was only the matter of a few hours, but they were hours that would not be spent in pursuit of the elusive Greystoke. Trapping that mercenary had been her primary operational objective for three years now, yet she felt no closer to him than she had that first night, as she sat in her office studying his dossier, and he was there, impossibly, miraculously, under her desk, the tip of his switchblade against her femoral artery, his tongue on her swollen clit. Or that night in an alley in Madripoor, protecting her undercover identity as a streetwalker, sucking Greystoke's cock as three piggish policemen looked on laughing, her knowing that they would arrest and torture them both if they suspected that they were anything but hooker and john. Or that night in her flat; Greystoke bound to her bed, only to escape, leaving behind a puddle of cum on her sheets and a red rosebud on her pillow.
Her controllers were growing frustrated with her, tossing these make-work assignments on her desk, knowing they kept her from the very mission they were impatient for her to complete.
Natasha touched a button on the edge of the sleek goggles she wore and they took on a yellow, cat's-eye glow, gathering the pale moonlight on the deserted rooftop. Bypassing the alarms and picking the locks had been the work of minutes. The building was not guarded, except for a sleepy rent-a-cop in the lobby. There was apparently nothing to steal, but she was there to leave, not to take. Slip inside, turn on a computer (even a secretary's would do) enter a few memorized keystrokes, then vanish into the night. She dropped through the skylight, landing as quietly as a cat. She slid down the row of cubicles like a shadow, choosing one far from the windows. She chose a cluttered desk, covered with papers and envelopes and a Dilbert coffee mug stuffed with pens and pencils.
She slipped the goggles down around her neck and pulled off the StealthSuit's hood. She ran her fingers through her close-cropped hair. A nudge of the mouse brought the computer screen to blue life. Its desktop photo was a picture of a tropical beach. A few tek tek teks on the keyboard and she was done. She paused at the desk, staring at the ocean waves breaking over the white sand, and the naked, tanned bodies glowing in the sun. Was it time? She had stashed away enough money in enough untraceable accounts to allow her to live out her days in comfort, if not opulence. Maybe it was time to walk away.
"You'd be bored to tears inside of a year," said a low, musical voice from behind her. Her spinning back-kick was on its way before she really even registered the voice. It had connected before she recognized it. As she settled into a fighting stance, she saw him, sprawled on the carpet, rubbing his chin. He was, as usual, dressed all in black; trench coat, suit, shirt and tie. A shaved head and a red goatee. A rosebud in his lapel. Greystoke. He smiled up at her.
"I always forget how quick you are," he said.
"What are you doing here?" she hissed.
"I came to stop you, though it appears I am too late."
"Stop me? Why?"
"Why? My, my, little spy. You don't even know what it is that you've done, do you?"
"What are you taking about?" she said.
"Mindless little agents, running here, sneaking there, do this, do that, kill him, blow up them. And never once ask why."
"I'm asking you."
"And I'm not telling. No matter. It will only take me a week or two to unmake the mess you've made. Time I would have rather spent on a beach in Tahiti, but such is life," he said.
Natasha's mind raced through her options. None of them were good. To protect the mission, she needed to eliminate or capture Greystoke. She had no doubt that her fighting skills were superior to his, but he was a foot taller than she and outweighed her by about 120 pounds. Any fight between them was sure to cause damage, and she was under orders to leave no trace of her incursion. She carried no weapons or restraints. She had no back-up. If she left him here, he might easily undo whatever it was she had done. She had already been inside too long. She needed to leave, and she needed Greystoke to chase her.
On the desk next to the computer, she had noticed an official-looking memo. It was merely information about a company Christmas party. Nothing that would be missed. But Greystoke hadn't seen it. Natasha turned on her megawatt smile, the smile that could make most men, and not a few women, weak at the knees. She held her hand out to Greystoke. He raised an eyebrow, dubious of her intentions, then reached out to her. She took his hand and hauled him to his feet. Then, using his own momentum against him, clapped her other hand behind his elbow and flipped him head-first into the cubicle. He landed with a crash, flat on his back.
Natasha snatched the memo from the desk, but not so quickly that Greystoke couldn't see it. Then she turned to bolt down the aisle. Greystoke's hand shot out like a striking cobra and caught her by the thin fabric of her StealthSuit, right at the base of her spine. The suit tore away, and like a run in a stocking, the hole spread wide. Natasha was left wearing a collar and sleeves. Her legs were still clad in the sheer, black fabric, but her breasts, stomach and ass were now bare. She looked like a black cat with a white belly. She turned back to Greystoke, a look burning in her eyes that was something between annoyance and anger.
Greystoke's eyes took their liberty of her pert breasts, her hard abs and the thick nest of black curls that covered her underbelly. He glanced at the tiny piece of fabric in his hand and broke into a Cheshire grin. When he chuckled, Natasha's anger got the better of her. She kicked him in his head.
As he fell back, he hooked a foot behind her knee and jerked her leg out from under her. She sat down hard, a jolt running up her tailbone to her skull, rattling her teeth. The adversaries sprang to their feet. Natasha whipped a backfist at Greystoke's temple, which he ducked, realizing too late it was a feint, and catching her knee under his chin. His head snapped back, exposing his throat. Natasha's hand shot out like a spear, jabbing into his larynx. He staggered back into the cubicle wall. She lashed out with a sidekick, pounding her heel into his sternum like a sledgehammer. He doubled over, and she stepped in, ready to drive her elbow down onto the back of his neck. But Greystoke lunged forward and rammed his head between her thighs. His hands caught her behind her knees and he stood straight up, lifting her and banging her head into the low ceiling. Then yanking down on her legs and bending sharply at the waist, he whipped her down onto the desk. Her head cracked against the hard, wooden surface. Her vision went white. She crumpled to the floor.
A look of momentary concern came over Greystoke's face and he stepped to her. Natasha lashed out with a mule kick. He pivoted just in time to catch it on his inner thigh, sparing himself a pair of ruptured testicles. But his pivot left him side-on to her, and with a sweep of her other leg into his heels, she cut his feet out from under him and he crashed to the floor. Natasha leapt up and bolted down the aisle.
She had covered only a few strides when she heard his footsteps behind her. He dove at her, wrapping his strong arms around her thighs in a perfect open-field tackle. They slammed to the floor, her legs clamped in his arms and his face buried in between the cheeks of her firm, bare ass.
Greystoke's arms were like iron bands around her legs. His weight kept her pinned, belly to the floor. She tried to spread her legs to break his grip, but succeeded only in forcing his face deeper between her ass-cheeks. She reached back to grab at his head, but his shaved skull left her nothing to grip. Her fingernails, clipped short as a burglar's and clad in the slick fabric of the StealthSuit, left her nothing to scratch with. They struggled like that for long seconds. She could feel his hot breath on her naked cunt. At last, her groping hands found his ears. She grabbed them and began to tug. She heard him groan in pain. The harder she tugged, the tighter he gripped her legs. Just as she thought she must surely rip his ears from his head, he plunged his tongue into her bunghole.
Natasha shrieked, and with newfound strength, flipped the two of them over. Now his face was smothered by her ass. Had she the time, she could wait until lack of oxygen caused him to pass out, but she had already been in the building to long, and the sounds of their struggles might not have gone unnoticed. She sat up, her full weight now smooshing her ass into his face. She grabbed the pinky fingers of his hands and began to bend them backwards. Just as his grip began to loosen, she felt his teeth close around her clit. It became a test of wills. The farther she bent his fingers, the harder he bit.
And then her body betrayed her. Despite it all; the mission, the pain, the desperation, she felt herself go wet between her legs. She could smell her own arousal. His face buried in her muff, the scent must have been overpowering to Greystoke. He could not fail to notice. And he did not.
