Perqs of Being KGB ChiefbyJMaxwell69©
So imagine you are walking down the sidewalk of Tverskaya Ulitca one fair early autumn day. You're returning home with a bread ration, and you get an odd sneaking feeling. You turn around to see there is an opulent limousine - the kind only Party dignitaries have -slowing behind you. After you turn to look, it begins to accelerate past. You can only see a faint silhouette through the tinted glass, but it appears the head of the individual in back, who's sitting forward in his seat, turns to follow you as the car moves past. You are creeped out, but breathe a sigh of relief.
Just as you are about to climb the steps that lead to the entrance of your apartment block, a boxy black sedan screeches to a stop, and two men swiftly get out of the back. Flipping badges, they each grab you under an arm, and, with no explanation, toss you into the back. The men get in, book-ending you on the cramped back seat between their broad-shouldered ex-military physiques.
"What is this about? I haven't done anything wrong." You say without conviction. In a world in which everything is illegal, everyone is a law-breaker, but you have no idea for what, precisely, they have picked you up.
The men ignore you, and continue to stare straight forward. You expect their driver to turn to the East and head out toward the treacherous Lefortovo prison, but they do not. Shortly, you find yourself in a residential neighborhood, but it is residences unlike any you are used to seeing. This is where the high and mighty Party elite live. They are massive multi-story houses once occupied by the family members of the Czar and wealthy industrial magnates.
You are delivered to a dining room, and are sat down at the end of massive slab of table. Steaming dishes of food are already on the table. It smells so good. There are foods on the table, fruits and such, that you have never seen but know of by way of photos and descriptions in books. A door opens, in comes a squat hunched gentleman with a bottle of wine, a servant serving a sommelier at the moment. He pours red wine in a glass at the other end of the table, and then in yours.
"Excuse me..." You try to ask, to get some handle on what is happening, but are ignored.
You think about fleeing, but are sure the two burly ex-Spetznaz soldiers are most certainly right on the other side of the door. So you look around at the elaborate ornate moldings and gilded frames on the paintings, and up at the high ceiling overhead.
Then another door opens, and in strolls a uniformed man in a very tidy NKVD tunic. You recognize the face under the receding hairline immediately. You don't know who he is precisely, but you know that whenever Stalin makes an appearance for a parade or whatnot, this man seems to be in the immediate vicinity.
He makes a beeline toward you. "Hello, my dear, thank you for joining me." He punctuates the absurd statement, as if you had any choice in the matter, by kissing the back of your hand.
You are about to stand, retract the hand, and slap the man indignantly, but are stalled by the recollection of a rumor that you once heard. According to the rumor, a pretty woman picked up by the NKVD was "disappeared" never to return to her family. The details were said to be gleaned from a prisoner who had the good fortune to return from the Gulag, and who delivered a message as promised to the abducted woman's family. The woman had been brought to a mansion and raped by a man. She fought. When the henchmen took her to the car, a servant handed her a bouquet of fresh flowers (a prestigious rarity in Stalinist USSR.) The woman had slapped the flowers from the man's hand. As the story goes, instead of delivering her back to where they abducted her, they took the woman straight to Lefortovo, were she was tortured on trumped up charges for several days before being "sentenced" to life in the Gulag.
The remembrance stuns you into silence.
"What is your name, dear girl?" Beria asks.
You tell him.
"Please, let us dine." Beria says returning to his seat. He rings a bell, and the small hunched man returns. He ladles soup into your bowl and then into Beria's.
The soup is exquisite. There are flavors you have never experienced before. It is so far from the usual crude stews you normally eat that, at best, have scraps of grisly meat amongst the potatoes and limp vegetables. This has chunks of prime cut meat.
"How do you find it, my dear... the soup?" Beria asks.
"It's delicious." You reply.
"Try the wine; it is some of the best dry wine the Georgians produce." He says.
You comply, and find it is far superior to what you are used to drinking.
The meal goes on in this manner course after course. You try to not offend while at the same time not encouraging the repugnant man from pursuing you further. You answer his questions, but directly and without elaboration or good-humor. He is not without his charms, but you cannot get past how you were brought here or past the concerns about where it all is going.
After dessert and coffee, Beria pushes back from the table and wipes his mouth on the linen napkin. "My dear, I have some brief business to attend to, my men will escort you."
He leaves the way he came. You pray that this is over, that the men are about to return you home or even dump you off the estate grounds, but it doesn't ring true. As soon as the door closes behind Beria, the two soldiers burst into the room from the double doors through which they brought you. They each strongly grab one of your upper arms and whisk you from the room. They take you down two halls past old paintings and into a massive hardwood paneled office suite that actually has stout round timber columns rising to the ceiling to further exaggerate the opulence of the room. The walls are lined with shelves of musty leather-bound volumes that likely predate the current occupant.
"Strip!" One of the men says in a crude low-brow Caucasian accent.
"I will not." You respond indignantly.
The man pulls a pistol out from inside his jacket and presses the oily-scented blue-steel Tokarov barrel against your cheek.
"Strip!" He repeats.
With shaking hands, this time you comply. As more and more clothing comes off, the two soldiers' concentration on you becomes more rapt. Eventually, they are staring at your naked body like two jackals at an animal carcass. Once you are nude, the one without a pistol in his hands hauls you over to one of the columns, and forces your hands around it as if making you hug the column. You struggle and fight, but your kicks and elbows thud into the beefy soldier impotently. The one with the gun snaps cuffs on your wrists. Once you are essentially pilloried, the two men leave taking their time and getting a few gropes in under the pretext positioning you.
They close the doors behind themselves and you are left in disconcerting silence. You can hear the blood rushing through your arteries; it's so quiet.
It seems like an eternity before the silence is broken by the doors being thrown open once more.
"Oh, my dear, you are even more gorgeous than I expected." Beria says admiring your nude form from a distance.
He approaches. Each clacking footfall sends a reverberating wave of nausea through your stomach.
"Don't. Please don't. I'm not the one you are looking for. I haven't done anything wrong." You implore.
"You may be right about the latter statement, but you are definitely incorrect on the former, my dear." Beria says as he runs a hot hand over the naked flesh of your back.
You kick back at him instinctively, and your heal bounces off his shin.
"Oww." He says as he snatches a fistful of your hair and bounces your forehead lightly into the solid wood column. "I like a girl who plays coy and has a little fight in her." He says, but then wrenching you down to your knees by the grip on your hair, he ads in an ominous hiss, "but only a little fight."
Keeping one hand locked into the strands of your hair and turning your head sideways to face him, he unzips with the other hand. He wrestles out an already erect member and presses it to your lips. You resist at first, but when he gives you a slap, and you look up into his demonic eyes, you open up and accept the fleshy stalk.
Now you change your approach with the idea that maybe you can get this all over and done, and, unlike the lady who resisted, go home. You force yourself to suck him with all the relish you can muster, intending to end your torment rapidly.
You are pleasantly surprised when, after just a dozen or so oral thrusts, the Chief of the NKVD tenses and shoots a premature - but sizable - load of his seed into your mouth. You quell an impulse to spit the slug out onto the beautiful teak flooring, and instead swallow while fearing the lump of thick goo in your throat will trigger a vomit reflex.
Your hopes that this momentary satisfaction will end your torment turn out to be fallacious. Instead, as Beria kneels down behind you, you realize that he intends to continue and with the endurance of a man who has gotten his first overly-excited nut out of the way. Your cheek and shoulder are pressed roughly into the column as Beria goes to work thrusting into your pussy. He seems to revel in the dry forced entry before your body's preservation instinct triggers a flow of natural lubricant. However, he picks up speed once your body has offered its readiness. You sniff, and tears flow down your cheeks, but you offer no resistance.
Your instinct that his endurance will be great is confirmed. It seems like your torture will never be over, he keeps thrusting for what you can only estimate is a half hour or forty-five minutes before he sends his second spasming shot deep inside you.
"Thank you, my dear, that was most pleasant. I have State business to attend to, but my men will see you home." Beria says, and he leaves as he arrived.
You slump to the floor, having grown weak from the trauma of this ordeal.
Soon, the two goons return. They haul you up onto shaky legs, and then uncuff you from the post. They hand you your clothes, and make no effort to give you privacy as you attempt to get dressed.
When one of the men notices you searching through the neatly folded stack of clothes in a perplexed manner he says by way of explanation, "He keeps the panties for a souvenir; you'll have to go home without them."
You put back on your bra, your dress, your stockings, and try to find something you can wipe up the vaginally regurgitated cum that is trying to evacuate down your inner thigh. You end up wiping it into your skin like some disgusting skin product.
On the way out, the manservant hands you a bouquet of flowers. You take them and cradle them in your arm as you are dumbly led back to the boxy black sedan that returns you to your apartment block.