Impasse (The Red Gambit Series)

by Gee, Colin

  Stranov repeated the cries of love as he proceeded to repeat the visual experience, showing no less a quantity of fluid than before, except ensuring that he covered Tatiana’s face and hair before ensuring a sufficient deposit was given to her breasts.

  Tatiana started coughing and everyone froze.

  The obstruction was soon cleared, and she continued with her drugged slumber.

  This time, Stranov needed a few minutes of rest before he was able to resume his violations.

  Now the finale commenced, one that was not without risk, but one that Beria had specifically choreographed to produce a fitting end to his production.

  The script required a different approach this time and Stranov’s acting skills came to the fore.

  He swept Nazarbayeva up in his arms, feigning passionate kissing and intimate contact, done so well that the watchers were all impressed.

  Even though vertical, she remained in her comatose state.

  Side on to the camera now, the men behind the mirror had a close up view of a lover’s embrace, the woman’s legs wrapped around her sweetheart as he plunged inside her, pulling her up and down with his hands on her buttocks.

  Slowly.

  It had been agreed that it would be slow and brief because of the additional risk, a risk that the Colonels and Stranov had questioned, but Beria really wanted the shots of the proceedings, and so it was risked.

  The final stage commenced.

  Whilst the act of placing her on the bed, head away from the camera, was imperfect, no-one who saw what followed would be in any doubt that it was Tatiana Nazarbayeva who was being violated by the huge cock.

  He spent a moment squeezing her breasts, remembering to ensure that the scar of her most recent wound could be seen and recognized.

  As Beria watched Stranov drive himself into the same place he himself had orgasmed some while beforehand, the moment overtook him and his own gentle strokes produced a wonderful repeat, brought to a full intensity by watching the woman anally raped before his eyes.

  The act was prolonged and brutal, the huge cock driving as deep as Stranov could manage.

  Even though that was what his orders directed, he would have anyway, so sweet was the sensation.

  The camera and the Leica both worked hard, catching every thrust, and every bead of sweat.

  As he came close to his end, Stranov swore he felt a response, a gentle rising up of the woman’s rear, almost as if beckoning him further inside.

  He exploded and, this time, remained inside her, filling Tatiana with his remaining cum.

  His words of love rang clearly through the room, the tape preserving every syllable for whatever audience would have the pleasure in the future.

  He rolled off, totally spent, permitting the close-up shots to be taken; close enough to see the product of his labours exit her body.

  The curtain came down on the play that Beria had directed, and the three men exited the secret room to take some refreshment before, finally, the encore commenced.

  0837 hrs, Thursday, 19th December 1945, NKVD guest dacha. Kuntsevo, USSR.

  In the manner of those waking from a deep sleep, Tatiana started to come alive by section, feeling the aches and pains of her body, some familiar, some the things of memory.

  The covers were soft and warming, the itch in her non-existent foot ever-present.

  The smells of...?

  ‘Eh?’

  The cock...?

  ‘Cock?’

  Her eyes flicked open and she made herself lie still, realising that there was the sound of gentle breathing by her side.

  In her hand was something that she instantly recognised by touch alone, although it should not have been there.

  She risked a look and found the orderly fast asleep beside her, his huge flaccid penis held firmly in her grasp.

  Her senses then lit off with aches and pains from parts that should only have been available to her husband.

  She touched her hand to her vagina, feeling both the moisture and raw flesh, immediately knowing that the cock she held had taken her.

  She sat up carefully, suddenly aware that the huge penis had done much more than that, the sharp stabs of pain reminding her of the first time that she had surrendered herself completely to the love of her life.

  Automatically, she ran her hands over her breasts and knew what it was that made them sticky.

  The hint of bruising tainted them, indicating rough handling.

  She looked into the big mirror and her hair told its own story.

  There was pain now, real pain.

  A hint of blood on her nipple betrayed a bite that had exceeded the necessity of passion.

  She touched her vagina, and the rawness was almost too much, the very pressure of her fingers bringing tears to her eyes.

  Looking at her breasts, the residue was obvious, silvery and shimmering in the lamp light.

  But it was her back passage that screamed the most. Inside she felt battered and she understood why. She looked at the sleeping man, and knew that he had been inside her very depths with his monstrous appendage.

  Reaching round her sex and down to her anus, the pain was very real. The mixture of semen and blood upon the sheet beneath her proved her violation.

  If she needed proof.

  ‘What have I done? Oh, my husband, what have I done!’

  As if on cue, Stranov awoke and cupped her breast playfully.

  She pushed his hand away and got out of bed.

  Naked.

  Her ravaged state was recorded in still and movie formats. Clearly the participant in a sexual adventure of some sort, the GRU officer looked like she had been through a hurricane, which, in some ways, she had. But, each man conceded to himself, she had lost none of her sexual charm.

  “Comrade General… Tatiana, my love…”

  She turned on him, her eyes flashing with anger.

  “What has happened here, Comrade Orderly? Tell me truthfully.”

  Stranov gave his best hurt and puzzled look.

  “My Princess, my Tanyushka, wh…”

  His use of the endearment blew her fuses.

  “Silence! I want to know what happened here!”

  Feigning more confusion, Stranov stumbled through a brief résumé.

  “You came back early, feeling unwell, Tan… Comrade General. You went to bed and I left you alone.”

  He rolled over, revealing his continued and growing interest in the woman in front of him.

  Tatiana snatched a curtain off the pole and wrapped herself in it.

  “Show’s over,” she said emphatically.

  “Show’s over,” agreed the cameraman.

  “Maybe. Keep the thing running, just in case, tovarich.”

  Sarkisov adjusted the focus, now that natural light was filling the room.

  “Carry on,” Tatiana demanded.

  “Well, you rang the bell for my attention. It was my fault, I suppose, Comrade General. I had no time to dress properly and, as I knew you were unwell, I came as quickly as I could. I was wearing only my underwear.”

  “What did I want?”

  “Water. You said you were thirsty and wanted water.”

  “And?”

  “I filled a glass for you… and then it happened.”

  “What happened exactly, Comrade Orderly?”

  “You grabbed me, Comrade General.”

  “Go on.”

  “You grabbed me and pulled me towards the bed... I didn’t know what to do, Comrade General.”

  He lowered his voice, acting his heart out, portraying a mind that had been caught between a rock and a hard place.

  “You’re a General… I’m a Serzhant. I didn’t know what to do; you wanted to suck me, so I let you. I don’t see that I had any choice, Comrade General.”

  Those secreted in the special room were glad that they had continued filming, the celluloid preservation of Nazarbayeva’s look being priceless beyond measure.

  “Go on.”
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  “You were wonderful, Tat… Comrade General, truly you were… are! What a woman! Your brea…”

  “Shut up! Shut up!”

  She now fully understood that the aches and pains she felt had been earned in close coupling with the hugely endowed orderly.

  She slipped into language normally beneath her.

  “So we fucked. You fucked me?”

  “No, no, Comrade General. It was lovemaking. You were wonderful, so passionate, so responsive.”

  Nazarbayeva’s mind was spinning, partially as a result of the narcotic residue in her system, partially because she would never do such a thing. But Tatiana could not deny the evidence offered by her aching and battered body.

  “Enough, Comrade Orderly. I do not remember any of this,” she held up her hand to silence his protestations.

  She gathered her thoughts, dealing with it as best she could.

  “I do not remember this… but it has happened… and I’m sorry for it. I will always be sorry for it.”

  She shook her head, speaking in a way as if she was almost trying to convince herself.

  “Maybe it was the drugs and the alcohol?”

  More than one eyebrow rose in agreement.

  “Possibly I drank too much, maybe the food was off… but for you and me it never happened, nor as far as anyone else is concerned. I must make that clear, Comrade Orderly.”

  Stranov’s wounded face was worthy of an Oscar.

  “But our love? What we had last night?”

  “We had nothing last night, nothing at all, am I clear? It never happened… and it will never be spoken of.”

  She took the plunge.

  “My position offers some advantages, and I can be of use to you after this war has concluded. Your silence will ensure my support. Are we agreed?”

  “If there’s no chance for our love t…”

  “None. Never, Comrade Orderly. There’s no future in this. I have a husband.”

  Behind the mirror, there were smiles, as the husband might one day have a front seat at a special film show, depending on how his wife responded to certain suggestions in the future.

  “Then I agree, Comrade General, but I wish it was otherwise, for I’ve never made love with a more desirable woman.”

  “Enough. Now, get out and never speak of this.”

  Stranov couldn’t resist a sneaky look towards the mirror as he left the room, pausing only to pick up his shreds of clothing.

  Truly, the show was now over and the three NKVD officers removed themselves and the equipment as Nazarbayeva showered, painfully scrubbing away the residue of her night of ‘passion’.

  In the confines of the bathroom, she cried. Tears of anger for the abuse she had suffered; tears of hurt for the pain that wracked her every movement; tears of grief for the husband whose trust she had dishonored.

  And then she cried no more.

  0801 hrs, Saturday, 21st December 1945, US 130th Station Hospital, Chiseldon, England.

  “Good morning, boys.”

  The nurse’s smile always brought joy to the small ward simply known as number twenty-two. It was her domain, eight beds filled with what was left of men retrieved from the horrors of the front.

  Not a man was intact, with wounds ranging from single amputations up to the loss of three limbs.

  Chiseldon Camp’s medical facilities had been established in 1915, to help deal with the huge influx of battered soldiers from the Great War.

  In the Second World War, it became a focus for US units training to join the fighting in Europe and, on 7th June 1944, the 130th arrived and set up a receiving station for battle casualties that were to be flown in from the Normandy beaches.

  The arriving wounded were assessed, treated, stabilized, and sent on, if it was safe to do so, a string of hospitals in and around the area set up to receive men for specialist treatments.

  Most of the camp had been returned to civilian use after May 1945, but the 130th remained in its base, expanding again when the violence recommenced.

  Ward twenty-two had started as an experiment, providing early intervention in amputation cases, dealing with the mental, as well as physical, aspects of the injuries.

  The experiment had been successful, and there were three other such wards on the site, each with a dedicated team of nurses to bring the wounded through the traumas of their loss.

  Twenty-two was now an ‘Officers only’ unit, and the nurse who they all called ‘Florence’ was a Major with a bedside manner similar to an unsympathetic poor house manager, an attitude that her patients all saw through.

  Her first port of call was the man who had only lost one leg; an artillery major who had just stepped on the wrong piece of Germany and detonated a mine.

  The explosion had ‘only’ removed his foot, but the explosive blast had done awful work, travelling up inside his leg and degloving the bone, forcing gaps in the tissue all the way to the thigh, gaps which accommodated the expanding explosive gases.

  The chances of saving the limb had been next to nothing, but that had not stopped the130th trying.

  Major Jocelyn Presley administered the pain relief and checked the dressings on the Artilleryman’s leg, knowing that the efforts had failed. She wrote her findings on the chart in the clipped non-descript words that clinicians always use around bad news.

  The doctor’s rounds would confirm her fears soon enough and the middle-aged national Guardsman from Virginia would lose his limb all the way to the hip.

  Moving on, she found the armless bomber pilot still asleep. The rules of Ward 22 were to let people sleep unless the medication was time critical, so she marked the chart that the pain relief had not been administered.

  As always, the eyes of patient three burned brightly.

  “Good morning to you, Major.”

  “Good morning to you to, Florence.”

  She feigned anger.

  “How often do I have to tell you guys? It’s Major Presley to you. Strictly formal, no nonsense, even for our British cousins!”

  Ramsey grinned, understanding that the normal morning routine would not be the same without the ‘name game’.

  “So, how are the twins this morning?”

  It was part of the psychology of the ward that the loss of limbs was dealt with up front, without avoiding the issue. Ramsey called his stumps the twins as, after skilled work by the surgeons at an anonymous casualty clearing station in Holland, the remaining parts of his legs were identical in every way.

  “Well, I know they are there, Major Presley.”

  By Ramsey’s standards, that was almost a desperate cry for pain relief.

  Presley prepared some oral analgesia.

  “Your wife is coming to visit today. I thought you would like to know so you can tidy up a bit.”

  Ramsey’s smile almost needed stitches, it was so wide.

  “She badgered the War Department apparently. Didn’t take no for an answer.”

  Ramsey choked and spluttered as he consumed the pain killer.

  “That would be her for sure, Major Presley.”

  Making more notes on Ramsey’s sheet, Jocelyn Presley cracked one of her rare grins, as she was truly happy for the delightful English officer.

  “Well,” she made a deliberately studious examination of his paperwork, “Soon enough, you’ll be able to go home to her and leave this horrible war behind you.

  Ramsey looked at her in a way that made her wonder exactly what she had said.

  “Major Presley, nothing could be further from my mind. I will walk again, and I will contribute again… and there’ll be no argument on the matter either!”

  The grin was there, but she could see his eyes.

  Normally full of mischief, they were now hardened, and she knew that behind them lay a brain resolved to somehow return to the war.

  She returned the silent stare, sending her own message to the Black Watch officer.

  ‘You’re a goddamn solid gold hero, man! You’ve done your
bit and paid a heavy price, John Ramsey. Please, let it go now and return to your loved ones, eh?’

  His eyes sent back a silent reply.

  ‘I’ve lost my legs, not my mind. There’s work I can do… and I will do it!”

  The medication started to kick in and he felt drowsy.

  “Sleep well, Major Ramsey.”

  Nodding at ‘Florence’, he fell asleep.

  Presley dwelt by the bed for just a moment, looked at her sleeping charge and whispered her thoughts to sleeping ears.

  “Actually, I don’t doubt that you will, John. Wouldn’t bet against it, and that’s a fact.”

  Which, for Jocelyn Presley, was actually quite sad.

  We draw our strength from the very despair in which we have been forced to live. We shall endure.

  Cesar Chavez.

  Chapter 124 - THE ROLLCALL

  1800 hrs, Sunday, 22nd December 1945, VNIIEF Facility, Workers Camp, Kremlyov, USSR.

  They had been arriving for the past two days, trains and trucks bringing the rag-tag assembly of men together in the one new facility.

  Actually, facility was an overstatement.

  The handful of huts, each built to house forty men, thus far contained an average of one hundred and ten souls each. Simple maths brought the number of POWs to at least seven-hundred and fifty, and the new guests were arriving every hour.

  Old tents were available for the late-comers, and these were pitched, despite the best efforts of the growing storm.

  The NKVD officer in charge of camp security sat on his verandah, rocking backwards and forwards absent-mindedly as the vodka seared his throat, his eyes seeking out every detail of the panorama laid out before him.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the previous commander approaching.

  “Comrade Kapitan Durets, to what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “Comrade Mayor, the latest transport has deposited two hundred and three prisoners here. This brings the number assigned to this camp to…” he checked the figure to get it absolutely right, “Nine hundred and seventy-three.”