Spy Games Ch. 01

Spy Games is a multi-chapter story that is both prequel to Realtor Games and sequel to Realtor Revenge. While Spy Games can be read as a stand-alone book, for the full effect, I recommend reading the trilogy in alphabetical order... Realtor Games, Realtor Revenge and then Spy Games.

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Spy Games

Chapter 1

Moscow. Eighteen years ago.

I didn't go to college. I also didn't go to high school or grade school. Because I didn't exist... at least not in the normal sense. Sure, I had the standard official documents that identified me as a human being: birth certificate, driver's license, passport, social security card. In fact, I had several... of each. Most from the US, but some from other countries. That's what happens when your parents are spies.

My childhood was far from conventional. I was raised by nannies and educated by tutors. I never stepped foot in a traditional classroom with people my age. When other kids learned their native language, I was taught four -- English, Russian, Spanish and Chinese -- each of which I could speak like a native. While other boys played soccer with their friends, I sparred with a Korean martial arts master. My version of a video game was a nine-millimeter pistol shooting popup targets on a tactical range. And when other young adults left their parent's nest for college, I had already lived on five different continents and, thanks to the best private tutors money could buy, could easily pass the final exams of most Ivy League undergraduate programs at the young age of eighteen.

So, I'm not impressed by formal education. And the "college experience" thing... it's highly overrated. My peers spent four years going to bars and fraternity parties, trying to figure out the best way to steal a girl's virginity.

I had Mrs. Bancroft.

We were living in Moscow at the time. I'd just turned eighteen when my father introduced me to Mrs. Bancroft.

"She will help improve your social skills", he told me.

At the time, I thought she was just another in what had been a long line of paid tutors/companions my parents thrust upon me to make up for my lack of friends. In retrospect, I was right... sort of.

Mrs. Bancroft didn't make a great first impression, at least not on me. She was dressed in a knee length skirt and matching blazer with a cream-colored blouse buttoned all the way up to her chin. Her hair was done up in a bun on top of her head and she spoke with an overly educated New England accent. In other words, she looked like a great majority of my other tutors.

I guessed her age to be in the mid-thirtyish range which, in the eyes of a teenager, was one step from the old folk's home. Because of her boring appearance and advanced years, I immediately ignored all other aspects of the woman. If removed from the room and given a pop quiz ten minutes after she first shook my hand, I would have been unable to identify her as tall or short, fat or thin, pretty or plain.

Due to a shortage of acceptable apartments in suburban Moscow, Mrs. Bancroft temporarily moved into our spare bedroom... the room I had previously claimed as my personal play/study/do-whatever-I-wanted space. I spent the rest of that morning moving my crap out and the afternoon carrying Mrs. Bancroft's possessions up the three flights of stairs... into what used to be my private domain.

After my third or fourth trip it occurred to me that... "if she is called Mrs. Bancroft there must be a Mr. Bancroft. Where the hell is he, why doesn't she live with him and why isn't he carrying all these damn suitcases?"

That was my first question to the woman, although I spoke it better than I thought it.

"Don't be fooled or impressed by titles," she said. "Dr. Jones may have never attended medical school and Mrs. Smith could be a stranger to the wedding chapel. Now go wash up for dinner. Afterwards, I will expect you to help me unpack."

Great. My new tutor likes to speak in riddles and thinks I'm her servant. I give her a week before we kick her ass out on the streets.

Because of their unusual occupations, Mom and Dad would brief me on proper topics of conversation whenever we were around strangers. Even the most innocent mention of where we spent a summer vacation or who had come to dinner the previous week might come back to haunt them if the wrong person heard it.

Nannies and tutors were usually a different story. They had all gone through background checks, and we could trust them to not repeat what they heard in our house. But those checks took time. Dad took me aside before Mrs. Bancroft arrived and said, "Your new tutor is still being vetted by The Company. We'll have to treat her like an outsider for a week or two, so watch what you say to her."

Dinner that evening was a quiet affair, unusual for our house. It was normally a time to share the events of our days and discuss plans for the future. But Mrs. Bancroft's presence limited the topics of conversation to the weather and my schooling. That's not to say I didn't enjoy the meal.

Mrs. Bancroft apparently believed in dressing for dinner. When she descended the stairs to join us, her boring business suit was replaced by an elegant scoop necked dress that made me literally sit up and take notice. Mrs. B has boobs. Not the humongous melons of an artificially endowed porn star, but nicely sized breasts that a well-constructed brassiere pushed up and nearly out of her dress.

While the adults politely discussed the advantages of home tutoring, I spent the entire meal, from the Caesar salad to the chocolate mousse, staring at her tits. I marveled at her near flawless lily-white skin, wondering if they had ever been exposed to the sun. Looking at the thin piece of material that separated my eyes from the unseen portions of her bosom, I speculated as to where the white ended, and her areolas began. It could have been my imagination, but as the meal progressed, I thought I saw just the hint of a nipple trying to poke through her bra. And the coup-de-grace, the climax of the meal, was when Mrs. Bancroft stood up, bent over the table, and ladled whipped cream onto my mousse... giving me even further proof that her boobs had to be the seventh and eighth wonders of the world.

"Hello. Are you with us son?" It was Dad's voice, slowly drawing me back to reality.

"Uh, yeah?"

"Where've you been boy? Mrs. Bancroft asked you a question."

"I'm sorry, I was thinking about... uh... never mind."

"Like we were saying," Mom said to Mrs. B. "He seems to get easily distracted as of late. That's one of the things we were hoping you could help him with."

"I wouldn't be concerned," Mrs. B answered. "What you're describing is extremely common among young men his age. In fact, I'd be concerned if his mind didn't wander off from time to time. An active imagination is the first step towards greatness.

"Now, young man," she said to me. "Unless you have other duties, would you mind following me upstairs? I will need your assistance hoisting my heavier possessions to the upper closet shelf."

Walking behind Mrs. B was almost as enjoyable as looking down her dress. Once my eyes weren't laser focused on her boobs, I noticed that her waist curved in nicely and her ass pleasantly swayed as her shapely legs climbed the stairs. Without realizing it, she had already taught me a valuable lesson.

Don't trust your first impression of a woman.

Entering her temporary bedroom, I expected to see piles of her belongings laying on the floor and bed... the stuff I was to help her put in the closet. To my surprise, the room was clutter free. Every box and suitcase I had delivered earlier in the day was unpacked and put in its place.

"Close the door," she said.

I complied.

"It is time you and I came to an understanding. Your behavior at dinner was completely unacceptable." She turned her back towards me. "What color are my eyes?"

"Blue?" I guessed.

She turned around and stared at me with chocolate brown eyes. "Starting today, you will look everybody you meet in the eyes. In case you don't know, they are located just above the nose, not below the neck. Whenever you meet a woman, I expect you to memorize not only the color of her eyes, but also the color and style of her hair, her jewelry and what she has on her feet. You may make a cursory assessment of her figure whilst transitioning from hair to shoes, but do not let your peepers linger on her cleavage. Do you understand my instructions?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Let's try it again."

"Uh, okay. Your eyes are brown and your hair --"

"No. We will start from the beginning. Leave the room. Close the door behind you. Count to fifty, silently. And then knock. When I give you permission to enter, I want you to pretend we are meeting for the first time."

Right. Nice tits and ass. But she's got a least a dozen screws loose. What the hell was Dad thinking when he hired this psycho?

Despite my concerns about her sanity, I did what she said and felt sort of silly when, a minute later, I knocked on her door.

"Please come in," she called through the closed door.

"Good evening young man. I am Mrs. Bancroft your new tutor," she said as I entered.

This time I really tried to look her in the eyes, and I did for a few seconds. But when she walked towards me with her hand extended, my eyes naturally glanced downwards and discovered she had removed her bra.

Yes. I stared. At her tits. Again. Not two minutes after she told me not to. But she wasn't playing fair. Not only did she take her bra off, she also purposely leaned forward, so I could see all the way down her dress to her navel.

"Are my breasts going to be a stumbling block in your education?" she asked. "They're permanently attached, so you will have to either get used to them or find another tutor."

Mrs. Bancroft paused in serious thought for a few seconds and then a hint of a smile came across her face.

"I wasn't planning on getting to this particular lesson so soon but, considering your debilitation, I see no alternative."

She turned her back towards me and told me to remove her dress.

"Ma'am?"

"You heard me. Pull down the zipper and remove the dress from my body."

My eighteen-year-old fingers trembled as I grasped the top of the zipper.

"There is a tiny clasp at the top," she said. "Make sure you unlatch it before moving the zipper."

I laugh now, but it took a good minute for my shaking fingers to operate a simple fastener.

"Now be careful with the zipper. Take it slow. I don't want you to ruin the dress."

There was a good chance that my idea of slow was three time faster than hers, but I managed to get the zipper nearly to the bottom when she stopped me.

"That's far enough. Now slip it off my shoulders and let it fall to the floor."

Which revealed an elegant pair of red lace panties which hugged an absolutely exquisite ass. She kicked the dress to the side but kept her back towards me.

"Before we proceed," she said, "tell me of your prior experience with women."

How did I tell a nearly naked woman, who was just inches away from my quickly hardening dick, that I had absolutely no experience with the opposite sex? Zero. Nada. Not that I didn't want to, but a boy who had never set foot in a classroom - whose only friend was the son of other spies -- had few opportunities to meet girls his age.

"My experience is, uh, extremely limited," I mumbled.

"Well, we need to change that. You cannot succeed in life with little or no knowledge of the gentler gender."

She turned around, giving me my first ever close-up view of a live woman's naked breasts and said, "Take off your clothes and make love to me."

I froze in place. The thirty something woman that I originally considered as nothing more than an over aged babysitter looked better than anything I'd seen in magazines or the internet. And trust me, my research was extensive.

Her pear-shaped breasts were big enough to form an appealing valley of cleavage but not so large as to sag. Her thimble sized nipples, mounted on perfectly symmetrical areolas, pointed slightly skyward, as if they were an extra set of eyes looking directly up at mine. Her waist was not the ridiculous shape of an anorexic runway model. It curved in sufficiently to form the desired hourglass shape and then flared back out to accent the womanly ass I had coveted from behind just seconds before. Michelangelo could not have formed a more perfect body.

"Well," Mrs. Bancroft said with an amused grin on her face. "Must I ask you twice?"

Still unable to speak, I quickly closed the space between us and tentatively put my hands on her breasts. I stroked them at first, like a young child petting a puppy. When she didn't complain, I progressed to a gentle fondling and then an outright kneading of her flesh.

"You can taste them if you like. Use your tongue. Start at the bottom, lick to the areola and then around the nipple.

"Good, now give my nip a little kiss and then hold it between your lips while you wet the very tip with your tongue.

"That's perfect," she said as I followed her instructions to a T. "Now increase the pressure with your lips and gently pull away until my nip slips out of your mouth."

I watched cross eyed as her boob stretched and then heard a satisfying 'plop' when the nipple escaped my lip lock and sprang back towards her chest.

"Well done. Now take both nips between your thumbs and fore fingers... Do you notice a difference?"

"Yes ma'am. This one is slightly bigger and harder," I said giving the recently exercised nipple a gentle squeeze.

"Do you know what that means?" she asked.

"You had an orgasm?"

"Not hardly," she laughed. "But it is one of many indications that I might have slightly enjoyed the experience."

"What do I do next?" I asked.

"Whatever you want. My body is at your disposal."

"But... I don't know where to start."

"Removing your clothes would be a good first step."

In less than ten seconds, I was stripped naked sporting an erection a midget could use for a chin up bar.

Mrs. Bancroft gave my body a quick perusal, with perhaps a slight hesitation when her eyes focused on my crotch and then, just as she instructed me, her gaze quickly returned to my face.

"Well, now that we know what we're working with, let's get started. When making love, you should involve as many of your senses as possible. I have already seen your magnificent body, now I want to feel your hands, lips and tongue on my skin." She kissed me on the lips, and the chin, and the neck, and the chest.

"I want to taste your sweat," she said as her tongue licked a path down to my belly button.

"I want to smell your musk." She took a deep breath, which made her breasts rise so that her nipples brushed against my thighs.

"And I want to hear your voice." She was now kneeling in front of me. Her hands on my ass. Her boobs just inches away from my cock."

"While we explore each other's bodies, I want you to talk to me."

One of her hard nipples brushed against my straining cock.

"Tell me what you did yesterday -"

Her tongue wetting my tiny slit.

"- and your plans for tomorrow."

She enveloped my cock between her boobs so that only my tip was in view.

"Tell me your dreams young prince. Tell me where you've been and where you want to go."

She pressed her tits around my erection with her hands and plunged my cock deep into her valley of flesh.

"Tell me who you are so I may best continue your education."

I did. I opened my mouth and words spewed out. And as long as I kept talking, she continued to fuck me with her boobs.

Three or four minutes was as long as my eighteen-year-old cock could last sliding between Mrs. Bancroft's marvelous tits. When I gushed a quart of cum over her chest and chin, I was sure my lesson was over. But to my great surprise and delight, she pulled a washcloth out of nowhere, cleaned herself up and said, "tell me about your parents," just before she took me into her mouth.

Somewhere, deep in my subconscious, a little voice was saying "don't tell this woman - who you've known for less than a day - all of our family secrets." But the odds of a teenaged boy listening to the voice of reason while receiving his first blow job are up there with those of a blizzard on the sun.

So, I might have mentioned that my parents were agents working undercover for the US Government as her tonsils tickled my tip and her tongue massaged my shaft. And when she spat my now super hardened dick out of her mouth, pushed me onto the bed and mounted me like a gymnast on a pommel, I continued my traitorous monologue. She moaned in pleasure as I listed all the places we had ever lived or visited. She told me I was better in bed than any man she had ever been with, right after I told her who my parents hung out with and where my only friend on this earth lived. No secret was sacrosanct. As long as her pussy pleasured my penis, I was a veritable Google of classified information.

In retrospect, she played me like a concert pianist, extracting every note of useful knowledge my mind contained before she finally let my body have the release it so desperately needed. And when she was done with me... after I whitewashed her womb with enough spunk to drown a small animal... she reached up, gave me a kiss on the lips and said, "clean yourself up and get dressed. We need to have a little talk with your father."

Shit. That can't be good. She's going to say I raped her and then blackmail us into paying her a huge sum of money. Or maybe she's a Russian agent and plans to force my parents into working for the other side.

Fifteen minutes later, we were both properly dressed and sitting with Dad in his den.

"How did he do?" Dad asked Mrs. Bancroft.

"Not well," she answered. "I spent less than an hour with the boy and have enough information to get you and your wife permanent residence in a Siberian Gulag."

"That bad?" he asked.

Mrs. Bancroft answered by detailing all the incriminating things I told her.

Dad looked over at me and I could tell I was in deep shit, but before he could say anything, Mrs. B came to my rescue.

"I wouldn't be too hard on the lad. You did tell him that I was to be his tutor and all his previous instructors were cleared by the Company, so he naturally opened up. He reacted like we would expect of any young man of his age, and considering the interrogation technique used, I'd wager several of our experienced agents would have also cracked under the pressure... albeit not quite as quickly."

Dad let out a heavy sigh. "I guess we have no other choice. Considering what happened tonight, is your offer still on the table?"

"It will be my pleasure," Mrs. Bancroft said. "Despite what happened upstairs, I believe the boy has great potential. He has a sharp mind and certainly possesses the physical tools. Give me a year with him and I think you'll be surprised with his progress."

"Uh, Dad," I said, interrupting the conversation. "What are you two talking about?"

"Son, I'm afraid I lied to you when I said Mrs. Bancroft hasn't been cleared by the Company. She has actually been with the Company for several years."

"You were testing me?"

"Consider it more of a lesson than a test," Mrs. B said. "What you told me upstairs could have ruined your parent's careers and, more importantly, put many people in danger if those words drifted into the wrong ears. But now that you know what can happen, you will be less likely to do it again."

"Son, your mother and I have talked about this and think it is best for all of us. As soon as Mrs. Bancroft finds a suitable place to live, you will move in with her. She will be your mentor. Her job is to fill in the gaps of your education and prepare you for a career with the Company. Please do whatever she asks with the knowledge that she has your best interests at heart."