tagErotic CouplingsTwisted Love

Twisted Love


Writer's Note: The music accompanying this is ATB's Twisted feat. Cristina Soto, but the best audio quality version of it available is Track 1 on the Progressive – Falling Star – Compilation 4 mix set; and, for the sex scene in the text below, the music is Airdrop – Changes Original Mix.


The Shaman is widely known as a Tungusic cultural element – Manchu peoples, Mongolian, Russian, North American Indian peoples all have this figure in their traditional lifestyles.

Today Tungusic people are spread out virtually across the entire globe among the modern human population, and possess the Haplogroup Y mtDNA.

Shaman can be tricksters, playing around with physical reality and entering and having influence in other worlds besides our physical one.

My friend Sarah is Shamanic and more than just a trickster. She is an artist. With high values. Being a trickster is not always a bad thing, and nor does it signify evil as many think that it does.

I never know when she will suddenly appear on the scene with some plan or other for the small team of us to carry out with her directing all of the moves. In the old days people like Sarah were called 'Station Chiefs' but that is no longer the nomenclature used to describe what she does exactly. She is more of a strategic commander-in-the-field; she makes decisions with recourse to no one else. All that ever happens between herself and one or other of the ambassadors wherever the thing is going on, is that she gives them a stated objective the team is going after, not the other way around.

If you want to really know, it's like this: the media these days unquestioningly assume that the Kremlin makes the choices, the decisions, the objectives, gives the orders, plans the missions. No; this is not the true reality. For many years already another system of distributive control based on ideological training and inculcation of basic values has been in use at the high end of espionage and active operations. The Kremlin reaps the benefits. It plays no hand in any other side of things. Maybe it does very early on in the career operative's life, during so-called 'cultural indoctrination' at various Universities and Institutions of learning; even sports academies.

Simply from an operational perspective – that is, standard operational perspective – the Kremlin, for example and in spite of the media version of things, has not colluded with the American Trump Presidency Campaign for instance on any cause of its own doing in recent events.

But yes of course there are 'independent' deep cover long-term cell structures throughout the world, including in the USA, with fundamental shared values from the seminal indoctrination programs, and skill-sets and internal (between themselves) structural self-awareness, and dynamic energy for continuous actions. But these are not 'Russian' as such. Not for a long time any more, these days.

You see, in the same way you could not say Adnan K* was any longer carrying out express orders from the King of Saudi Arabia – well in fact by now two actual kings have already long since died since he first was working for the Kingdom. You could not really say K* gave Soros orders any more... But that's where the money really came from.

Nowadays they – the Saudis - tended to be aligned, with Adnan K*'s strategic objectives. And that was all. Same as what the Russian equation is all about. It's about alignment, not direct orders.

Thus there are aligned interests and forces, but not directed, in-line interests and formally 'engaged' people. I mean let's face it, there are half a dozen European Hedge funds each of which could push the entire Russian economy around just on their own.


Sarah has two forms of distant interface with anything officially Russian: one through consulting psychologists from the Lumumba Hall Institution in Belgrade, which, although not Russian, maintains genuinely close ties between Russian State Security and Intelligence, and some of the Belgrade Academic Faculties, such as for instance, the Departments of Computing Science, and Strategic Military Studies.

And the other is directly with Russian Embassy officials ostensibly on account of her large financial business with Russian banks. Sarah is a huge hedge fund operator. She's quite well known in 'Londonistan' where she owns a moderately tall office block and a couple of warehouses.

She buys and sells off the Dubai rich kid market. She joked sometimes this was an unofficial Instagram '(un)-Listed Market.' She knows the K* kids too quite well and they know her. They do private parties for the extreme wealthy elite's kids – people throw their Ferrari keys and Aston keys (complete with their USB ID's and personal info) into big glass bowls in order to lucky dip for random sex partners for the evening. That's how they get rich people's personal details and sometimes it's a way to begin to 'hack' them. They have scanners operating when people's back are turned.

Everyone wants to get into Sarah's pants of course – because, for one thing, she has a hot body. With a symmetrical, if rather boyish, high boned and firm eyebrow featured face to cap off the virtual physical perfection. ...Long brown tresses that she puts up and it has a rather, well, somewhat pagan, even feral look!

She did a photo-shoot once for a 'fitness women' website and magazine.

Tonight she had this super-genius Russian psychotherapist Professor coming over to her place and she had called me over because I was meant to hear what he was going to be talking about. And yes, that makes me an 'operative.'

She had all those little platters laid out they always have at Russian get-togethers – gherkins, heavily flavored ham, soaked cabbage, dried chili flakes although I'm not too sure this isn't more – Hungarian, than Russian. I tell her this all the time when she sticks the chili flakes in things and she never takes any notice of me. ...And there was Russian sausage of course. ...Russian Imperial Standard vodka on the table too.

So today I did it again just to see what response I got this time: 'Sarah this is not Russian, this 'chili flake' thing. This is a Hungarian thing.'

This time she answered me about it. 'I look a bit Hungarian though, don't you think? More Hungarian than that, you know, snowy blonde-y Snegurochka look.'

'Snowflake girl.' I said, trying to show my literacy.

I imagined I just heard the hint of a quiet huff at me from her as she looked away into distance.

Sometimes she seemed distant as though almost looking over people, as it were, superior, somewhat...

But she was not cold; all of a sudden there would be this laser beam intensity of direct interest and almost motherly warmth.

So young. Er, so young-looking.

The sunlight had nearly all gone for the day. There were a few strands of golden orange behind tall skyscrapers. Even though Spring was here, it was still cold in London on any given evening or night at this time of year. And there was steam from building services outlets, mist in the air; fog coming down possibly.

The backdrop inside that area of her apartment where we were was a huge pane of glass, floor-to-ceiling and extending length-wise the whole of one side wall.

Much is made of Intelligence Services 'bugging' places these days but they almost never did it that exact way (wire-tapping); there is a vast suite of different techniques – one way was to locate a tiny red laser dot (shot from a distance) 'painted' onto somewhere on a surface within the room that would potentially vibrate to the sound of someone's voice, and then there would be ultra high resolution and very specialized cameras looking through the glass windows and recording the slightest microscopic variations of the dot's position relative to a co-ordinate marker point on the surface – and then these would be digitally processed through software and you'd end up with a clearly understandable audio signal.

Anyone who knew to 'look' with such technology into her windows would get some pretty stunning conversations. Some of these would make 'Christopher Steele's' pathetic and uncreative 'golden showers' 4Chan troll-piece quite pedestrian by comparison.


Sergei Bekhterev was Professor of Advanced Psychotherapy at the Viktor Frankl Co-operative Research Unit at the Moscow Institute of Psychotherapy. ...Advanced Psychotherapy.

In fact the full – and highly-classified – full title was: 'High Performance Advanced Kinetic Psychotherapy.'

PAK - was a favoured nomenklatura thing across every aspect of modern Russian government functioning. Performance Advanced Kinetics.

Kinetic Psychotherapy focused on the total ambit of all seven modern science-acknowledged senses: including kinaesthetic acuity and proprioceptive sensing. It wasn't about theoretical or academic theories, it was about physically applied research findings – in the field, with real human subjects, using physical stimuli and energetic action.


The natural ambient light outside had grown dark, leaving only street lights and the lights of buildings to underscore that the night-time had arrived.

And so too, the Professor. He was down in the car-park in the basement of Sarah's building. And it was, indeed, her personal building.

Sarah hefted a large black hard-shell equipment box onto the large, highly polished cherry-wood table. It said 'Face-Box' on the outside in neon 'tooth-paste' writing.

She opened it up and pulled out the fold-able parts and tray arrangements. There was a large genuine professional-grade silvered mirror in back of the top or that is, the 'lid' part of the large box. It was surrounded by large dual-light type Hollywood filming set vanity globes.

Deftly she got to work, showing amazing dexterity and trained skill. All over Manuka flower honey foundation cream first. Very minimalistic lipstick, light eye shadow, soft eyelashes. And then, strange streaks and just brushes of something – smears, and angular and some upward strokes and almost smudged lines. It didn't look like anything with the normal lighting on - almost dull brown and some bluish marks which didn't mean anything or make any sense on her face.

And then she turned the normal lights off and turned on the ultra-violet lights surrounding the mirror and her face was suddenly a futuristic and highly streamlined neon glowing war-painted warrioress.


I traveled in Sarah's Rolls Royce with her driving, and the Professor following in his car, uptown to a massive, three-story high ceiling interior nightclub. It was all cobalt blue lights in there. And then every now and again all the lights went out and only ultra-violet lighting was used.

I hung close to one end of a very long bar with the Professor and we drank things with soda in them. Sarah had already moved away from us into the crowded dance floor.

Sergei shouted into my ear: 'You know we don't actually know who she is – that girl.' He indicated with a hand full of high-ball towards Sarah.

I looked at him.

'Yes yes. We don't know who she is, where she came from, literally nothing about her at all. She doesn't exist as far as any official records are concerned. Not here, not in our country, not anywhere.'

I made some kind of face indicating incredulity, I suppose. I shouted back at him: 'How come you're working with her?'

'Ah. One day we get letters you see, telling us to expect a visit, and from whom, all with photographs, and then we get some very interesting papers and documents and reports that suddenly appear on the Senior Cabinet Secretary's desk, and then, one evening just before Mr. Putin is about to go home, she is inside his office.

'And then she says to VV -, well, apparently she tells him something and then he gives everyone orders to help her in whatever way possible without constraint of any kind. Not money, not people, not technology. No limits.'

I could only listen to the man. I wasn't in any position to gainsay what he was telling me. It could have been true. Maybe. Or maybe not.

'And then after that, I get this order from State Security about you. First they contact me at the Institute and they tell me I have to indoctrinate this agent with certain cultural values. Which is you. Because, as I understand it, your job is to create marketing propaganda in the West that is designed to influence an entire new generation of people. You must be some amazing marketing genius, eh.'

'Not really,' I replied. 'Like you, I just get told what to do and when and where. I also get irresistible amounts to do it. So of course I try to do it.'

'You have sex with this woman...?'

He suddenly asked, out of the blue, so it seemed.

'Am I supposed to tell the truth here -' I laughed.

He shrugged.

'What is truth, said jesting Pilate, and did not tarry to hear the reply.' He rejoined.

So I had to tell him something: 'The truth, is, my friend Professor, the ordinary public of the Western world, is fully inculcated already by Hollywood and several integrated modern cultural fantasies about Russia and Russians, and especially, about Russian spies. So my job is very easy. They basically are already in a position of wanting to believe anything I put out there along these lines. If I had to try and influence along a different line, then maybe, it wouldn't be so easy or even maybe it would be possible. Not in the short term, at least.'

Bekhterev leaned over to me. 'But then I will tell you another truth, my good friend – she, that lady over there, she told us about GCHQ. We tried already many times to penetrate in terms of direct Human Intelligence into the American signals establishment. It was more or less impossible. The full-time career personnel, they are a closed community – they live and work and even play, inside large gated facilities. They don't go to nightclubs in New York City... Field officers and agents are of course different but they don't have access to the main archiving system. Whereas the British, as we will shortly see, do that kind of thing – they go out to nightclubs and social functions. They are arrogant and fearless. They are high and mighty. They are very confident. They live in city apartments and town-houses. Some live in countryside houses. They have worked their way into the Americans. All the way in. And now that is how we get in. Through them but so far they don't suspect.'

Professor Bekhterev motioned to his ear and I understood what he was indicating. We both had tiny wireless ear-pieces with noise cancelling filters which we could activate and hear what Sarah was saying and what was being said to her or even being said around her.

I could see why he was making for us to listen. Sarah had evidently made contact with another woman. Beautiful, too. Tall, very dusky blonde, honey-colored bare skin on her shoulders and upper arms. Ridiculous, fantasy porno blonde woman – another totally unrealistic acquisition by our female chess-player nonpareil.

They were dancing together, moving almost in slow motion, and then not, on a stronger beat in the music -, but whatever the tempo, always in sync. Arms up sometimes. You could see Sarah inhaling the effluvium of the other woman's underarms. Maybe her own as well, at least it looked that way to me.

And there were other people too, looking at the two skilfully moving, and extraordinarily sexy women. Scanning the big room I could see at least two men, one just a little under middle age, the other not much more than twenty. At one point I was sure I saw Sarah making something like a supercilious eye raise at the younger one, almost as if to say, 'look what I can do and you can't.'

I turned the digital volume control up as high as it would go.

'Like my flat shoes?' Sarah was asking the other woman.

'What flat shoes? You're not wearing flat shoes...'

'Well d'you like my short hair then.'

'You're not wearing short hair!'

And then there were knowing looks and a wink from Sarah. And she moved her face close by the other woman and they almost touched cheeks but didn't quite.

The music took a turn up to a harder, faster beat, and they seemed to be throwing themselves into the sound waves and the rhythm.

'My very VERY good friend -' Sergei got his mouth close up to my other ear and was shouting quite loudly. 'It looks like we will be missing out for action tonight unless we pay for some of our own women of low social responsibility.'

I couldn't help but laugh at that old school Soviet turn-of-phrase. ...Which he was obviously using as a piece of ironic humor.


Sergei and I put away quite a few Bourbons as the evening wore on for us. There was pretty much only the alcohol. The women were having all the real fun. And then somehow they decided it was time to go and holding onto the tall blonde's index finger, Sarah brought her over to us and the Professor and I kind of said 'hello' in a silly, trying-to-be-friendly but more so probably a drunken way, and then the whole lot of us made our way out and went down to the car-park.

'Bekhterev, you can't drive home tonight. You shall come with me.' Sarah ordered, definitely.

'As you say, First Commissar,' he saluted, more or less blind drunk.

And so we piled into the rear seats via the large suicide doors, with the blonde having been given the clear privilege of the front passenger seat. And it wasn't too long out of the driveway ramp up and out of the place before Sarah's free hand had moved onto the blonde's thigh and then stayed there all the way home more or less.

Even over the directed shafts of warm conditioned Rolls Royce air being blown inside the car, you could feel the warmth of the two women and smell their sweat mixed in with the blonde's soft floral, ultra upscale cologne and Sarah's vanilla-laced lipstick and cosmetics.

'Tovarish -' Bekhterev said, trying hard to look directly at me with his eyes as clear as he was able to make them.

'Yes, comrade.'

'We are confronting in today's world, the cultural Marxism beyond even Antonio Gramsci's wildest conception. This is an important thing for you to know in your work of viral propaganda,' he said, and then, with a frustrated head shake and then a little grudging nod, Sergei Bekhterev fell asleep, pretty much, more or less, right away.

Before too long he was snoring like a wasted farm worker who had been laboring all day long.

The good Professor Sergei Sergeevich Bekhterev – 'SS' for short to his friends - ended up sleeping the night in the back seat of Sarah's Rolls Royce.


As I turned away from the two women down a passage towards my own study, the last thing I heard was the blonde saying to Sarah that she saw one of the two men take hold of her Lana Marks purse on the 'private patron security' standing table it was on and go into it and quick-scan her ID with a small device...


Inside my office I quickly turned on the multi-screens and the computers. I didn't want to miss anything.

The women were already in an embrace. Not tight, not loose, breasts touching lightly.

Slowly, the shoes came off, and then hands slipped beneath dresses and the multiple Ultra High Definition cams picked up the black lace panties in hands as they came down and Sarah took the blonde's from her hand and balled it up and moved it up close to her own face.

There was not a single smile in the place - it was all going down with some degree of seriousness and a hot, focused intent.

'You like men too, right -?' the blonde asked Sarah casually but loudly enough to be heard very clearly on the mics.

'Sure... I like...' Sarah cupped a hand around the other's breast tentatively, still beneath the fabric of blouse. '...Men.' she answered. 'But they don't fuck as good as a woman can.'

With measured and progressive precise movements, and yet showing a lot of warmth and tenderness, Sarah undid the buttons of the other woman's blouse and released the breasts and nipples to the relative shadows and low-lit ambience of the room they were alone in; physically alone in whereas of course they were totally not alone...

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