A Swallow's Bite Act 03

PUBLIC BETA

Note: You can change font size, font face, and turn on dark mode by clicking the "A" icon tab in the Story Info Box.

You can temporarily switch back to a Classic Literotica® experience during our ongoing public Beta testing. Please consider leaving feedback on issues you experience or suggest improvements.

Click here
RAMJET69
RAMJET69
12 Followers

Nothing is said as they untangle themselves. Depleted, breathless and dripping with sweat, they lay side-by-side on the cement deck. Rolling over, Viktor buries his face in the softness of Tomiko's thrusting stomach. Dominika feels his foot slowly caressing her pussy, one toe paying attention to the little diamond. To the tune of bubbling sounds from the Jacuzzi, he's asleep in a few minutes -- as is she.

Dominika's wide-awake gaze flicks to the revolver. It's still sitting on the table a few feet away.

S.P.R. REPOSITORY, PUMPING STATION 69.

2:48, 2:47, 2:46 . . .

THE SAFE HOUSE.

Two metallic clicks stab the bubbling silence. Dominika's eyes jerk left.

"Freeze or I shoot you dead," Tomiko says in a low threatening voice. "I fucking mean it."

Dominika withdraws her hand away from the weapon and looks at the naked girl standing in the shadows. "Sorry, but staying alive is an old habit."

Tomiko gestures with the revolver she's holding. "Step back from the table."

The waist chain tinkles as Dominika takes three steps backward. She holds her stare on Tomiko's naked figure. "I must say that you are the most tempting terrorist I've ever met. Viktor has excellent taste."

A smile spreads across Tomiko's mouth. "It was fun. Too bad we're on opposing sides. We'd make a good team. By the way, I meant what I said. Nobody's ever kissed my ass like you did."

Dominika laughs uneasily. "Or gave a blow-job to your boot either."

She chuckles. "That was pretty kinky."

The dangling waist chain bounces lightly as Dominika steps nearer.

"That's close enough," Tomiko warns, raising the revolver.

Dominika raises her palms and stops. "Okay, okay. Say, that was some orgasm you had."

"Orgasm? Ha. I was play-acting."

"Bull-fuckin' shit. I had my legs wrapped around you. Did you know that your backbone weaves during your orgasm?"

"I don't know from backbones. Hey, that diamond is so rad. What's it mean?"

"It's an award for valor in the line of duty. Shouldn't we get dressed?"

"So you can tackle me when I'm putting on my shirt? How dumb do I look?"

Dominika takes a deep breath. "Tomiko, I won't jump you. Now I know you're going to kill me anyway, so do a girl a favor and tell me what I'm dying for?"

"Because you're a spy and expendable," Tomiko says staring at Dominika's breasts.

She's probably jealous, Dominika thinks privately. "C'mon, okay? Grant a condemned girl her last wish."

"Guess it won't hurt. Ever heard of America's Strategic Petroleum Reserve?"

"Vaguely. It holds millions of barrels of crude oil, doesn't it?"

"Ten point nine-seven, to be exact."

"Where?"

"One place is about five miles south."

A chill runs down Dominika's spine. Play the bimbo, instinct whispers. "So they got a big gas station five miles from here and you need a fill-up?"

"I'm already filled."

"Okay, so you set off a bang and burn and the Americans put it out. Big deal."

"Oh there's more to it than that. We got dirty bombs planted all over the place -- not just one device, but a whole series at each Storage Depository here and in Texas. My people will have the installations in Louisiana wired about two hours from now. Remote triggers'll detonate them. The first explodes tonight."

"Where?"

"Tut-tut, that's my secret. But I plan to be about fifty miles away when the boom-boom goes boom. The sexy thing is that after the first one goes off, the radioactivity prevents anyone from defusing the rest of the bombs."

"It's the ultimate terror attack," Dominika whispers.

"You bet your fat ass it is."

"America's emergency oil reserves fall under Arab control."

"al-Gama'at al-Islamiyya forces to be exact."

"There's economic chaos, panic, world oil prices shoot through the roof."

Tomiko smiles like a Cheshire cat. "Russian oil prices babe. You see, our secret corporation has been quietly buying honest interests in your oil fields."

"You'll be millionaires."

"No, billionaires. And your perfect ass arrived just in time Gypsy Danger. Because I'm going to see that you're there to personally witness the attack."

Tomiko steps forward and trails a fingernail around the bottom curve of Dominika's left breast. "You got great boobs. Such a waste. When the fire's out, all they'll find is radioactive wreckage, bits of burnt bone and a few charred teeth."

Gooseflesh ripples across Dominika's naked rear.

"Oh, there'll be enough left for DNA sampling and a positive I.D."

Dominika grits her teeth. "Then Russia gets the blame. Brilliant."

"You bet it's brilliant."

"Tomiko, I'm impressed. Whose idea was all this?"

"Mine."

Dominika stares at Tomiko. Her body language reads absolutely no remorse in the international crisis she's about to cause. Suddenly Dominika feels horribly alone, like someone's dumped the world's problems right on her shoulders. Stall for time is all she can do. "Niguri's already dead, you know. Viktor murdered him."

Tomiko looks down and shrugs her shoulders. "Niguri was an -- unfortunate -- sacrifice."

Sensing something in the way she'd spoken, Dominika steps closer. "You loved him, didn't you?"

"Love Niguri? Ha. I was fucking him. I liked fucking him. He made me feel good."

"What about Viktor? I understand how you got to Dmitry, but how'd you manage to turn Viktor into a rat-fucker too?"

"You of all people should know the power of the pussy. Part of Viktor's payment was our little sex-game. He's useful for now. When I grow tired of his cock, he'll be sacrificed too. Then I and a few Afghan imbeciles will own everything."

"And the Yakuza?"

"With all our dummy corporations and Swiss bank accounts, they'll be chasing their tails for years then give up."

Dominika stares at Tomiko trying to decipher what makes this dangerous woman tick and what deception or trick will put a stop to her maniacal plan. Nothing triggers but helplessness.

Tomiko motions with her revolver. "In the bedroom. You can borrow a pair of my jeans. Then we take a little ride."

UTAH S.P.R. REPOSITORY, PUMPING STATION 69, ONE HOUR LATER.

The hood over Dominika's face fills with pungent fumes. Footsteps and one second ticks echo across the eerie chamber. A cone shaped flashlight beam cuts through the cold darkness.

Tomiko swings her flashlight beam to the denim stretched incredibly tight across Dominika's jutting rear. The waist-chain sways and the denim creases slightly with each forward step. The greenish camouflage greasepaint on Tomiko's face ripples into a scowl. Her teeth grind together. "Damn that perfect ass," Tomiko mutters to herself, "that swaying, rolling, man-pleasing ass. That fuckin' Russian's butt hole gave in to a man's cock and mine wouldn't."

To Tomiko Kasawara, that meant humiliating failure, intolerable failure.

Through the hood's small eye slits, Dominika spots an aluminum box. Her heart rate doubles. Viktor stops, turns to Dominika and jerks the hood from her head.

"On your knees Patroph," he says, his breath blooming in the frigid air.

"Viktor, please? Don't be a fool. She's using you. Can't you see that?"

"I said kneel."

Dominika kneels, her ears transfixed on the ticking sound, her eyes glued to the bomb's blinking numbers. Options? Try to jump them? Viktor weighs 170 and scored high in GRU paramilitary training. Tomiko's holding a gun to her back and won't hesitate to use it. Odds? Bleak at worst, discouraging at best. Her knees touch the oily cement. Viktor pulls her arms behind her back. Her butt thumps on to the cement. Oil instantly soaks through the denim. There's a ratcheting sound as cold metal clamps around one wrist. Viktor threads the handcuff's chain through a handle on the aluminum box then fastens the other side to Dominika's opposite wrist. He jerks the handcuff's to confirm their solid hold.

"Viktor," Dominika pleads. "In the name of God and Mother Russia, don't let her use you like this. She has plans to take you out too. She told me so herself."

Tomiko laughs. "Pull in your pussy Gypsy Danger. You can't lie or fuck your way out of this."

Dominika's gaze rises from Tomiko's pointed steel-toe boots up her tight black jeans across her braless breasts to her camouflaged face. "I'll see you both in hell."

Tomiko laughs softly.

"Let's go," Viktor says.

Tomiko turns. "Hold on Viktor. I almost forgot." She squats down and loosens Dominika's belt.

"What the hell are you doing?" Viktor asks.

"Getting something to remember her by." She unzips Dominika's jeans and works them over her hips. "You won't need it where you're going."

Dominika squirms as Tomiko's fingers stroke her pussy lips and fondles the diamond. "Viktor, give me those wire cutters."

Dominika grits her teeth as cold steel presses on warm skin. There's a soft click. Dominika squeals in intense pain.

"Oh my," Tomiko giggles, "did I cut you by mistake?" She stands and tosses the diamond up and down in her palm. "Gag the fucking bitch."

Viktor stuffs a cloth rag into Dominika's mouth and ties another tightly around her jaw line.

"Some Hard Man you are Gypsy Danger," Tomiko needles. "Your bosses in the Kremlin should see you now, just an unfucked Barbie Doll with a gagged muzzle and a bleeding pussy. Have a nice life sex-spy. I figure you got about an hour left."

"I'll get you," Dominika mutters through the cloth gag as they turn to leave.

Tomiko turns and gives her the finger.

GATE 27, SALT LAKE CITY MUNICIPAL AIRPORT.

A uniformed airline attendant swings the Jet-way door open. Passengers file out. A curvy blonde in white emerges, her blue eyes scanning the terminal like high-powered surveillance radar.

PUMPING STATION 69.

Cold oily cement grates on Dominika's bare butt as she struggles with handcuffs. They won't budge. Her big amber eyes stare at the deadly mechanism. Blinking red numbers sizzle into her head: 1:05:49 . . . 1:05:48 . . . 1:05:47. She yanks furiously on the metal cuffs. Twisting her head, her eye-line zeros in on the metal bar holding the handcuffs to the aluminum box. Four Phillips head screws are the difference between life and international disaster. "God-damn, I'd give my left tit for a fucking screwdriver," she mumbles, her voice barely intelligible through the oily, foul-tasting cloth gag. She looks down. At least she's not bleeding any longer.

SALT LAKE CITY MUNICIPAL AIRPORT, BAGGAGE CLAIM #3.

"Please check your luggage tags carefully as many look alike," a monotone voice drones over the loudspeakers. Among the travelers is a tall, good-looking man in his mid-thirties. He wears a dark business suit and sunglasses. Somebody catches his eye. She's a shorthaired blonde with luscious curves enclosed in a white camisole top and low-rise wafer-thin tight white pants. He chuckles to himself. If that's my rabbit, she needs a CIA course in concealment. He steps toward her. "Miss Sveta Novoshev?"

Sveta's blue eyes zero in on the man's attractive face. "In the flesh."

"I'm Pastor."

Sveta's face turns icy. "Sorry pastor, I'm not religious. So quit lookin' at my boobs and buzz off."

"Sorry. Wait, you don't understand." He leans closer to her and whispers, "Name's Michael Pastor, with the CIA's Counter Terrorism Go Team. I'm assigned to be your Escort Officer."

"I don't need a nursemaid, Mr. Pastor. But let's talk over there."

Mike Pastor lets out a mental whistle as he follows Sveta to an unoccupied part of Baggage Claim. No wonder the Russians code-named this diva Busy Bikini. "Did you have a nice flight Miss Novoshev?"

She turns to him. "Look Mr. Pastor. I just got off rough mole duty in Afghanistan. My body clock got jettisoned somewhere out over the Atlantic. So let's dispense with the fat and get down to the bone. Have you found our agent Dominika Patroph?"

Pastor nods. "We tailed her and the Kasawara woman to a mansion near Cedar Valley. They left about an hour later in a black SUV, accompanied by an unknown male. Our men lost them in traffic. Salt Lake police have an APB out. Hopefully we'll hear . . ."

The cell phone on his belt rings. He listens. Sveta fidgets.

"Okay. Continue ghost surveillance." Pastor clicks the phone closed and looks at Sveta's naturally flirtatious face. "Local police just spotted the SUV northbound on highway 40, south of the Strategic Petroleum Reserve complex. Only one female occupant."

"Was the female blonde or brunette?"

"Too dark and snowy for any positive I.D."

"You've gotta arrest whoever's driving that vehicle and fast."

"Huh? On what charge? We can't just arrest . . ."

"You're the Central Intelligence Agency, so come up with something intelligent. Speeding, broken taillight, whatever. Look Mr. Pastor. Haven't they told you what this is all about?"

"Only that there's a remote possibility --"

"Sir, the GRU has solid information that extremists are planning a devastating attack on U.S. interests."

"Has this been confirmed?"

"Not yet. But in all probability, it's immanent."

"The target?"

"There isn't time to explain everything. But it's imperative that I question the Kasawara woman immediately."

Pastor frowns and flips his cell phone open.

HIGHWAY 12 SOUTH, NORTHBOUND LANE.

Mike Pastor drags his eyes away from what's under Sveta's thin camisole top and forces his attention back to the snowy freeway. As he looks over his shoulder to change lanes, his cell phone rings. He listens and clicks the phone shut.

"Good news. They just arrested Kasawara."

The phone rings again. "What I need is an unlisted number," he mumbles. "Pastor here." He nods grimly as he listens.

Sveta looks at Pastor, her mind buzzing with questions, dread turning her stomach into knots. "Now the bad news?"

"That was CIA Special Ops in DC. New Intel reports that al-Gama'at al-Islamiyya fighters trained Kasawara in Afghanistan. I know those boys. They're tough as ten-penny nails. My guess is that she'll slit her own wrists before revealing anything or betraying her co-conspirators."

Sveta's eyes flirt with his. "Wrong my American colleague. She hasn't met me yet."

THE SAFE HOUSE, 20 MINUTES LATER.

Blooms of flickering blue lights cut through the snowy night. At the front door, Sveta stamps chunks of snow from her brown suede cowboy boots and follows Mike Pastor inside.

Five uniformed cops stand around the living room. Tomiko is sitting on the sofa staring straight ahead. Her makeup is perfect, her lovely face no longer masked by camouflage greasepaint. Pastor introduces himself.

"She hasn't said a word," one of the officers says. "We've got her on a misdemeanor weapons charge."

Pastor nods. "Okay Sergeant. We'll take it from here."

The police file out. "Miss Kasawara, my name's Michael Pastor. I'm with the Central Intelligence Agency."

"I want a lawyer."

"You'll have one shortly. It's my duty to inform you that you have the right to remain silent . . ."

THE SAFE HOUSE'S KITCHEN, A FEW MINUTES LATER.

"Leave us alone Mike," Sveta says. "Let me handle this."

"Remember, Miss Novoshev. She's on American soil and therefore she has Constitutional rights."

Sveta nods then adds mentally, "Like I care about this broad's rights when she's got a Cobra Fang and a frikin' match." Pastor goes out the door. She looks at Tomiko. "Sit," she snaps suddenly.

Tomiko lowers herself into a straight-backed kitchen chair.

"My name's Sveta. I'm an interrogator. I -- MAKE -- people talk."

Tomiko just glares at Sveta.

Sveta's boots swish on the tile floor as she walks around Tomiko. Her eyes fall to the thongs peaking out from Tomiko's black jeans. Does this little bitch think that taunts a trained Swallow? Despite her aggressiveness, Sveta feels insecure, being far more proficient in sex sciences than interrogation methods. When Viktor went mysteriously missing, she'd taken a huge chance coming to America on her own. There'll be hell to pay at the Directorate if the next few minutes are unsuccessful. "All right Miss Kasawara. Where's Dominika Patroph?"

"Who's that?"

"The GRU agent you kidnapped."

"I don't know who or what you're talking about. I don't even know why I've been arrested."

The waistband of Tomiko's panties catches Sveta's eye. She grabs the elastic and yanks, and then twists it tight. "Oh you know all right."

Tomiko squirms as the garment grinds at her skin still tender from Viktor's powerful cock-thrusts. "Stop it," she whimpers. "You're hurting me."

Sveta pulls even tighter. "This can go down easy or very hard. It's all up to you. Now where's Dominika Patroph?"

"I don't know anybody named Patroph. I'm on vacation. Let go of my panties. Go away. I don't have to tell you anything!"

Sveta notices something odd on the back of Tomiko's neck. The substance is greenish in color. She touches it with her first finger and then rolls it with her thumb. A light goes off in Sveta's head. It's camouflage face-paint. This sneaky broad's been up to something -- tonight. To get it out of her, she'll have to bluff and bluff big.

Sveta grabs Tomiko's hair and yanks her head backward. "Listen you small-time bitch. I'm Russian. Moscow knows all about your terrorist activities. Now we Russians are very good at torture. The Federal Security Service trained me, so I know exactly how to correctly cripple and make a prisoner suffer."

"You don't scare me. And like that man said, I got rights. So don't you dare touch me. And where's my lawyer?"

Elastic snaps at Tomiko's backside as Sveta releases it. She takes a paring knife from a kitchen drawer and holds it near Tomiko's eyes. "Miss Kasawara, I'm going to tell you exactly what you have to fear."

Tomiko's eyes blossom as Sveta slowly drags the knife blade across her shoulder then down to the rigid nipples protruding through her black tank top.

"My last assignment was in Chechnya," Sveta says with an icy softness. "When prisoners wouldn't cooperate, military interrogators put them in handcuffs and sat them down face-to-face around a nice wooden table. Then they'd call me into the room. It was my job to nail the prisoners' tongues to the edge of the table."

Tomiko's eyes gape at the gleaming knife blade.

Suddenly Sveta slams the knife point into the table. "I don't got any nails just now, but as you see, this knife will do quite nicely."

Tomiko's eyes widen to the size of saucers.

"Now you little bitch. Start talking or lean forward and stick out your tongue."

PUMPING STATION 69.

Dominika struggles against the metal bounds circling her wrists. She twists her arm to try a different angle. No success. The timer on the bomb ticks like the clock in Red Square. There's only 40 minutes remaining.

HIGHWAY 12 SOUTH, NORTHBOUND LANE.

Blinding snow swirls outside the car's windshield. Sveta looks at Mike Pastor's face. His expression is tighter than her nipples.

"How long?" Sveta asks as she turns up the heater.

"In this blizzard, thirty-five minutes, maybe more."

"Can't you go any faster?"

"Not and get there alive."

"How about police escort?"

"They're supposed to meet up with us a mile ahead."

"Bomb disposal teams?"

"They're already on the way."

Sveta crosses her arms over her breasts cussing herself for wearing window dressing rather than a down parka. A bolt of deep concern rears up. "Damn fuckin' Arabs," she mutters coldly. Gorgeous, sexy Dominika, my friend, confidant and sometimes lover might already be lying dead on some cold cement floor.

PUMPING STATION 69.

Blood drips from Dominika's wrist. The tussle with the handcuffs has chaffed her skin nearly to the bone. Outside, a car door slams making her jump. There are booming noises then a grinding sound from the rollup door.

"They couldn't have gotten in here," a distant voice shouts. "Lock's secure, no sign of forced entry."

RAMJET69
RAMJET69
12 Followers