Eleon Trysts

"We should not be seen except in the cultural context now," he said. "I will contact you. In the meantime, collect whatever you think may be of interest to my government."

"Yes... master."

* * * *

Monday morning, four weeks later, with the foreign ministers of the NATO countries scheduled to arrive at the end of the week for three days of consultations. I was busy, but schedules are schedules. I left the country team meeting with the ambassador, went back to my office in the embassy, transcribed some notes, and then added those to some papers on the conference and slipped them into the pouch I'd devised on the inside of my left trouser leg. I'd take my gym bag and brief case. The guards at reception would go over both of those. Neither would run a hand down my pantleg to discover the papers I was taking out, though.

The Eleon tennis and swim club was only two lots over from the American Embassy and I navigated that on foot, just as I had established as my weekday routine. The Eleon had separate changing rooms off the central men's locker room. The doors to these rooms had combination locks on them. You could change the combination each time you used one of the rooms. I more or less had the same changing room each morning, as I was coming five or six mornings a week during a period when there rarely was anyone else there.

The changing room was small, but there were three lockers against one wall and a bench that was anchored to the center of the room. When I took my clothes off, I transferred the papers from inside my pant leg to a manila folder, which I put in the side compartment of my gym bag, changed into a Speedo, and put the clothes, the brief case, and the gym bag in one of the lockers. I had my own combination lock for that.

Locking the changing room door behind me, I padded out to the swimming pool with a beach towel and a paperback book to read a few pages in while I dried off after the swim. I slipped into the pool and had done ten laps the long way in the Olympic-sized pool before I saw him, Nikolai Kirov, dressed, standing at the end of the pool above the lane I was swimming in. When he saw that I'd seen him, he turned and walked into the locker room. He knew what combination I'd used for the changing room door, so he was waiting for me in there when I came out of the pool, dried off, and entered the locker room.

"Do you have something for me?" Kirov asked when I entered the changing room and closed and latched the door behind me.

"Hello to you too," I said.

He walked over, slapped me across the face, pulled my face to his for a deep kiss, and then released me and repeated, "Do you have something for me? The NATO meeting starts later this week. Surely you have a finished agenda you can give me."

"Yes," I said, putting my hand up to my face where he'd slapped me. It hadn't been a pat. Receiving it from him, though, with all that I associated with him now, I was going hard and my heart was beginning to race. We'd met here, like this, three times before and he'd fucked me in a new way each time when I handed over something he might feel useful. I went to the locker, opened it, pulled out the manila envelope, and handed it to him. He slapped me on the buttocks as I passed him. "This includes the agenda and a couple of position papers already sent in," I said as I handed him the envelope. "Also early drafts of initial press releases. You can see from them the tack being suggested to take on Russia and Ukraine. And, on Cyprus, the mainland Turks have made new demands of U.S. policy on the Turkish north. The ambassador gave us talking points on that in today's country team meeting."

He took the envelope and headed to the door.

"Don't you have something for me too," I said. It had to remain clear to him that his hold over me in all of this was sexual.

He turned and raised his hand to strike me again. I cowered, but I also went even harder. He could see from the close cut of the Speedo I was wearing that I was hard. He laughed, stooping down near the door and picking up a small leather bag he'd brought. "Oh, I wouldn't forget you--if only for my own pleasure. You'll be busy, I think, for the next couple of weeks and we probably won't be able to meet. Something special for today, then."

And special it was. We'd been in training for this for the past four weeks. He had restraints in the bag and a strap, latex gloves, a ball gag, and plenty of lube.

I was bound, belly down, on the bench, with my wrists restrained to base of the legs on one side and my ankles to the base of the legs on the other. The ball gag muted my wish to scream. He softened me up with lashes from the strap and then, pulling a glove on his right hand, waving it in front of my face, and liberally lubing it and my asshole up, we "celebrated" nearly four weeks of work on the technique by him being able to get his fist inside my ass up to the wrist and fist fucking me. Eventually, he pulled the fist out, mounted me from above and behind, thrust up inside me, and fucked me hard. As he fucked me, the gloved hand snaked under my thigh, spent some time--causing me to bite into the rubber ball gag and my eyes to water--in squeezing and distending my balls and then to milk my cock.

I should have known that this time he'd be extra cruel. But in various ways I needed him to be. I needed him to believe that this was why I sold my country's secrets out to him--not because he had compromising photos of me but because I could only reach the heights of sexual fulfillment from him torturing me this way and then finishing me off with him inside me. He needed not to be thinking of any other reason I would let him degrade me like this and that I've give him my country's secrets. But beyond that, I had to admit to myself that I had come to want this from him.

When he left, he'd released the restraints and I just lay there, collapsed on the bench. He'd threatened to leave me bound to be found there, and for a moment I had thought--as he had no doubt wanted me to think--that he would do so. But if I'd been thinking straight I, of course, would have known he wouldn't do that. I was a goldmine of information for him and the Russian government. He needed this to continue in secret. He needed me to continue spying for him--even if he reached a point where the sexual torture was no longer any pleasure for him.

* * * *

I hobbled back to the embassy, breaking my usual schedule of going to the American Center near the square where the parliament building and Cyprus Museum were located. I knew I had a visitor at the embassy. It was confirmed that I did when I entered the embassy's main reception area. I'd been expecting this and was prepared for it--mentally, at least, not so much physically as hard as Nikolai Kirov had just worked me over. My visitor would understand but I doubted it would make him show any mercy.

I went up the Station, which is what the offices given over to the CIA staff in an embassy were called. That's where I had an office. That's what I was, a CIA agent, in the half a day that I wasn't assigned to the American Center to work as the executive officer of the coming NATO foreign minister's conference. I was actually doing that as a CIA officer--a young one, though. This was only my third special assignment and, thus far, the most demanding one I had faced.

I went to the office of the chief of station, Jock Campbell. He wasn't alone. Waiting there for me also was my real boss, Sam Winterberry, chief of a special CIA operations unit called the Candy Store, which combined the world's two oldest professions, spying and prostitution, to pursue U.S. intelligence goals.

"Hello, Chris," Winterberry said when I entered the office (my real name wasn't Neal Ramsey either, the name I was going by on this temporary assignment). He didn't bother to get up from his seat. We all knew who was senior here. Winterberry was, in fact, a commanding figure even in his fifties. He's what a retired Marine colonel would look like at that age if he had become the CEO of a Fortune 500 company afterward and also was a noted mountain climber. "I came for the NATO conference and to wrap up that phase of your running the Russian spy. Jock here has been keeping me apprised at how well you've been playing this Kirov character, so I didn't need to check in before now. It's time, though. You've got him, don't you? He doesn't suspect you're running him, does he?"

"No. I'm sure he's convinced he fully controls me and that all of the stuff I've been feeding him is golden."

Winterberry laughed. "If his masters in Moscow believe in all of that crap we're feeding them through you, they'll be completely confused by what really happens. It could be weeks or months before they catch on to the disinformation scheme. You think you can hold out with this Kirov guy for as long as it takes? I hear he's one brutal muvva."

I had to admit that I'd been wondering about that myself, but before I could answer that someone came by and Campbell wanted to introduce her to Winterberry, who was a real legend in the Agency. When she'd moved on, Winterberry was ready to move on as well.

"I want you to go to lunch with me at my hotel now, Chris. Just you and me. I'm staying at the Hilton."

I knew what that meant. Jock Campbell knew what that meant. Everyone who had ever worked with Sam Winterberry or who had observed his method knew what that meant. Sam Winterberry kept his agents in line by owning them--by fucking them and mastering them. And he was forever reasserting his control.