She picks out a pair of panties and I start beating my dick like it stole something, stroking with reckless abandon…my death grip on my rod as tight as possible.
Then she reaches for the bottom of her dress and quickly pulls it up and over her head.
“Oh fuck! Oh fuck, me!” I say as her hands move around behind her back and unclasp her bra.
With my free hand I slam the computer shut just before a geyser erupts from my cock, the fucker’s so hard it’s pointing back at me and I shoot a huge load right over my shoulder and onto the wall a good three feet behind me.
My stream is so powerful I hear it hitting the paint, like someone turned on a garden hose straight to the highest setting.
My heart is pounding in my ribcage as I try and catch my breath.
A minute passes, and then another and finally my head slumps forward, my chin finding my chest.
Damn. I just couldn’t do it. It’s not right, which is a pretty fucked up thing to say based on what I’ve already done, but my conscious is clean.
I waddle into the bathroom, my pants still at my knees and my crisp white dress shirt now with one shoulder covered in a cream color from the aftershocks.
Damn, that was powerful. The amount of pressure I was holding inside wasn’t healthy. I can only imagine what’s going to happen the first time, of millions of times, that I finish inside her.
I’m going to breed her so fast we’ll be picking out baby names before we catch our breaths.
I take a quick shower and go back to the computer. I open it, but don’t enable the remote camera access to her machine.
Instead I run a script to see what’s going on with her machine.
What the fuck?
And now my fucked up behavior is justified. I see someone is trying to hack her machine. I pull up her command line, and type in code designed to prevent such an attack. The hackers get around it quickly, but they still haven’t accessed what they want.
I run a more sophisticated script, and see that they’re stuck.
“That’s right assholes! She’s mine.”
That was never in question.
But the question is who are these people that are messing with my woman?
I run a traceroute back to their machine but they quickly drop their attempts and disappear into thin air.
They know they’ve been seen, and they also know it wasn’t by her.
All the work I did up to the point of the hack leaves no digital footprint, so in no way what I did makes what they were trying to do easier.
But protecting her might have just gotten a lot more challenging now that they know someone else was on her machine, trying to keep them off.
I’m up for the challenge, and I’m not going to stop protecting what’s mine until I get to the bottom of this…and know that she’s safe…forever.
CHAPTER 11
Ivan
I approach the convention center at ten till seven to find her already standing in front.
“Good evening,” I say.
“Good evening.”
“Ivan, by the way.”
“Willow.”
“Nice to meet you, Willow.” I pause for a second, seeing the lights from the expo hall from behind her lighting her up in an incredible way. Her light eyes are almost catlike in this moment and I feel my cock harden already. “Do you eat meat?”
“Yes.”
“Great. I know a nice place downtown where we can go. Let me just get us an Uber.”
“I had a place in mind already,” she says.
“Oh. Okay. Should I cancel the car?”
“Yes, we can just walk there.”
“The…hotel nearby?” I ask, almost slipping and revealing that I know the name, which might tip her off that I know more than I’m saying.
“There’s actually a Carl’s Jr. very close by.”
“Carl’s Jr. The fast food place that’s also known as Hardee’s in some states in America?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
“I don’t feel very gentlemanly taking you to a place like that.”
“It’s okay. I’m a burger and fries kind of gal anyways, and it’s close. It gives us a chance to walk a bit, which is good after being inside all day.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, my eyebrow raising.
“Absolutely. Let’s go,” she says.
I am totally impressed. I don’t know any woman who would turn down a chance at the restaurant I picked out in the city center. Granted I didn’t tell her the name and being that she’s from abroad she probably wouldn’t recognize it, but still.
But what really impresses me is that she’s smart. She’s not going to get into a car, especially one that I’m requesting. She’s also suggesting a place that will have food court style seating most likely, which means our meeting will be very public and without places for anyone to hide, unlike an unfamiliar restaurant which could be a setup.
Either this girl has watched a lot of Italian mafia movies or she’s smart as a whip. I’m betting on the latter.
It’s one thing to have beauty, which she possesses in spades, and another thing to be smart. Often they are mutually exclusive, unfortunately. Not with her. And not only is she smart, but she’s clever, which is different than just being able to memorize things which unfortunately school systems in many countries reward as “smart” these days.
We walk back towards the hotel and there’s a feeling inside me that I can’t remember the last time I felt. The feeling of being out on a date. Damn, it feels good, and it’s all because of her.
But I have to stick to the plan. I have to know more about her, both what she wants me to know about her and what I want to know.
To pull this off I have to get information out of her using more of a velvet glove approach, as is known in the intelligence community, not a stick.
And that is my main question.
What kind of “intelligence” does this girl have, and does she have intelligence on me?
As I walked over to pick her up just now I thought about that script that was running on her computer. Those hackers were running scripts that I’ve often come across when surveying intelligence communities. This means it was likely one of three different sources.
It could be the C.I.A., which wouldn’t come as a surprise especially considering the incident at the bar last night and the corresponding incident which happened outside of it.
It could be the F.S.B., the principal security agency of Russia and the main successor agency to the USSR's Committee of State Security (KGB).
Or it could be the S.V.R., which is tasked with intelligence and espionage activities outside the Russian Federation.
And the biggest question, is she involved in any of this or simply the target?
We exchange small talk as we make our way over to Carl’s Jr., which I still can’t believe is happening, and we order some burgers.
This is about as American as life gets and I can’t help but laugh.
“What’s so funny?” she asks.
“This. Us. Here we are in Moscow eating at a popular American fast food burger joint.”
“Do you have something against American food?” she says in a feisty manner.
Damn, I like this. She’s got spunk and what appears to be pride in her country. Enough to work with their government spy agencies? Time to find out.
“I like American food from time to time. I’m just a little surprised you turned down a fancier meal in a nicer place.”
“I’m not motivated by money,” she says almost too quickly and too perfectly.
In the intelligence game, the C.I.A. looks for four basic human motivators when they are trying to find intelligence sources. These motivators are described by the acronym M.I.C.E.
An agent or recruit who is motivated by money, a venal person, will do anything for money, but sometimes enough money can also convince them to switch sides as well…and work for the highest bidder. So the M in M.I.C.E. is for
money. My first question was designed to run right down the list and she batted that right down like a kitten pawing at a hanging string.
The I is for Ideology. An ideologue, or more importantly someone who has lost faith in her ideology, or someone who’s “carrying a banner,” might do things that aren’t safe when it comes time to steal secrets. By asking me if I “have something against American food” she’s practically planting the seed, without my coaxing, that this isn’t the case. But often times someone who’s this direct and aggressive, without provocation, is hiding their true feelings. Noted.
The C in M.I.C.E is for conscious. Sometimes this kind of person has a cross to bear, and will take more risks with an unnatural disregard for his or her own safety. I don’t see that as the case, although she did come to Russia alone, on her own accord.
The final letter of the acronym stands for ego, and this is a very strong one. It has everything to do with self-worth, and is often the driving motivator for me, and more so women these days. And that’s the one I’m most interested and can try and gather information on once I know her true goals and aspirations.
“Nor am I motivated by money, but nice things are by definition…nice,” I say.
The cashier calls our order number and I excuse myself to gather our food.
I bring it back to our table and once we both get our burgers out and our fries salted and ketchup squirted on the wax paper we stare at each other in almost a stand off.
“Bon appétit,” I say.
“Bon appétit.”
I forgot how good greasy burgers taste, even so I’d rather be tasting her lips. A bit of ketchup catches on her lower lip and now those sultry Carl’s Jr. commercials suddenly make sense, although none of those celebrity vixens can hold a candle to this girl, my girl.
“What brought you all the way over to Moscow for this expo? Not a lot of people from outside the country attend.”
“You attended and you’re not from here.”
I smirk. Damn is she ever a firecracker. I’m up for a little verbal tennis if she wants to play.
“Aren’t I?”
“Well your name is Russian but your company is Israeli. Israel has a population of over eight million yet the country is home to a core Russian-Jewish population of 900,000 and an enlarged population of 1,200,000.”
“Someone has been doing their homework.”
“It only makes sense in this day and age, especially considering what happened at the airport and how it was handled and who handled it. A girl can’t be too careful these days, not to mention we are at a hacker conference. I’m sure it’s in my blood as well as yours. So…what did you find out about me?”
My dick is hard as a rock. I wouldn’t necessarily classify myself as a sapiosexual, but intelligence and the human mind are definitely one of the most sexually attractive features in the opposite sex, especially the way she is showcasing hers.
“It’s not what I’ve found out about you…it’s the answers to the questions I’m still searching for.”
“And how to do you plan to get those answers?”
“You know if you put a ‘Mr. Bond’ on the end of your sentences, I’m sure you could successfully audition for the next film in the James Bond franchise,” I say, taking a sip of my Coke, without ice, from the biggest waxed paper cup I’ve ever seen in my life.
“They say spy craft is the world’s second oldest profession, and unlike the first I’m not trying to get fucked.”
Damn, she has a dirty little mouth on her. I’m shocked at how hot she makes profanity sound.
“Who said anything about sex?”
“If anyone is sexually frustrated it’s you. No wives or known lovers yet you have all the money in the world and women lining up at your feet to please your every whim, yet you’re here, now, eating processed meat, and I don’t even know what they’re trying to pass off as French fries, and then washing it all down with carbonated high fructose corn syrup with me. So I have to think the gossip mags have your motivation all wrong.”
“Humor me, as I don’t read what others write about me.”
“Some say you’re gay. Some say you’re asexual. Others say you’re the world’s most desirable bachelor.”
“So I’ve got both spectrums covered.”
“And most of the middle too.”
And sliding my dick right down the middle of this tiny tornado’s tight little pussy is the only middle I’m thinking about right now.
“And just what do you think you’ve gotten yourself in the middle of?”
“I don’t know, and that’s what I’m trying to find out.”
“So that makes two of us,” I say, taking a bite of my French fry realizing she’s right…I don’t think there’s anything resembling a potato inside. The real question is what’s going on inside that sexy brain of hers?
“Why don’t you go first?”
“Why are Americans always in such a hurry to get what they want? It’s vulgar.”
“Vulgar is the attempts by undercover intelligence agencies trying to pass themselves off as guest speakers out to help and inspire youth when they’re actually here to recruit for their own nefarious purposes.”
“Oh I’m not here to recruit.”
“Then why are you here?”
“You.”
Her French fry drops from her hand and her mouth hangs open. She quickly gathers herself and goes right back to grilling me.
“How did you know I was coming?”
“I saw the guest list.”
“Why do you care about me? What made my attendance interesting to you?”
“It doesn’t work like that. You get an answer and then I get an answer…a truthful one for a truthful one.”
“How do I know you’re not lying?”
“How do I know you’re not lying?”
She says nothing.
“So we either have to trust each other or not. Of course that could mean we both let our guards down and try and figure this out together, or one, or both of us, just plays a game passing off false information in the hopes of getting the real information we want, but I don’t see that happening.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re much too clever for that.”
“Flattery doesn’t work on me.”
“Nor me, but I’m speaking in strictly practical terms. If I were to try and recruit you, as you say, for my company or for whatever nefarious purposes you think I have up my sleeve, and I do so using coercion you would only be resentful, brooding, and most likely prone to disinformation. So as you can see that approach would backfire instantly, and is a path I wouldn’t choose, especially with such a formidable adversary.”
“Are we adversaries?”
“Isn’t that what we’re both trying to find out? Friend or foe?”
“And what conclusions have you drawn so far?”
“That regardless of what you’re up to there will be only one outcome.”
“Which is?”
“I will have you…as mine.”
CHAPTER 12
Willow
I enter my room and set the box of chocolates down on the table.
After Carl’s Jr. we walked off some of the calories and then stumbled upon a chocolate shop called French Kiss just around the corner, and promptly consumed some more.
Ivan bought me a nice little gift box of chocolates specifically from Russia and then walked me back to the hotel.
The strange thing was he never touched me once all night. He didn’t even try and kiss me, which was shocking after his comment about having me as his.
I just brushed it off at the time and guided the conversation to more casual things.
We were getting too heated in our attempts at figuring out what was going on underneath the surface when it came to the other person.
One thing that we learn in cyber security is that the cyber battlefield has replaced old-school espionage, and espionage doesn’t have to be like what you see
on TV.
In reality it’s a simple as stealing credit card information, as in the case of the big Equifax hack not long ago.
Sometimes credit card information is stolen with the intent to use the credit cards to buy things needed to commit crimes, but often it’s simply for spending sprees at the whims of the thief.
Jealous Russian Stalker (A Man Who Knows What He Wants Book 92) Page 5