by Ally Miller
He could feel his cock beginning to tingle in his pants. He reached down and squeezed it.
Kowaski turned towards him, eyeing his face, then shifting down to the bulge in his crotch. She quickly turned back to the road. Her face turned even redder.
He smiled, confidence flooding through him.
“If only you knew, Kowalski. If only you knew.”
“Didn’t I tell you that I was going to you?”
“Well, I’ve got something hard and stiff that needs to be shot.”
She shook her head. “You don't ever stop, do you? Everything is just one big dirty joke to you. Isn’t it?”
“I just don't know how to act around you. The young girls do that to me sometimes.”
“Well, the old guys creep me out sometimes.”
“Who you calling old? Thirty-seven is old to you?”
“Not necessarily. But on you it is.”
“Didn’t I tell you that you talk a lot of shit, Kowaski? A lot of shit.”
“Yeah, I know. What are you going to do about it?”
“I haven't figured that one out yet.”
She turned down a side street and cut off the engine.
“Why are we waiting here?” he asked.
She didn't answer. Instead, she pulled a pair of binoculars from under the seat. Moments later the back door of building opened. A man with a briefcase exited. He walked past their car and raised his hand in the air. A black car stopped in front of him. The door opened. He got in. The car zoomed off. Kowaski turned the key, revved the engine, and they were off.
“Is that your Russian lover boy?”
She nodded up and down. “Yeah, we’re gonna get this bastard. Sooner or later. I promise you that.”
He looked at her and nodded approvingly. He loved her attitude. Her determination and grit. It reminded him so much of his younger self. His better self.
Chapter 3
Sergei rubbed the leather briefcase on his lap. He could only imagine what was in it. They never told him. Maybe they were empty. Maybe this was all just a test. Moscow’s way of playing with him, trying to determine whether or not he would be loyal. Whether or not they could trust him with an important mission.
He had never imagined living this type of lie. Just a few years before, he'd been a struggling actor, good-looking, charming, a real lady killer, but not very good at his craft. He never liked attending acting or preparing much for his roles. He preferred to just show up and wing it. That hadn't gotten him very far.
Despite his lack of acting success, shortly after his 30th birthday, he had come to the attention of Russian intelligence agents. They must have seen his usefulness. They would send him to the United States where he would move in and out of politically connected circles. He wouldn't do it as a diplomat, but rather as a heartthrob Russian actor. The government had funded films that he stared at. None of them were that good. But that made sure that journalists and critics were afraid to write anything but glowing reviews about the films. Once that work had been done, his cover was complete.
He would be paid handsomely in his state-sponsored mission. And even so, everything he wanted—food, drinks, hotels, women—would be paid for. He wouldn't have to worry about toning down his party lifestyle. That was a great relief to him. All he really wanted was to lead a carefree, playboy life. And that’s exactly what they had offered him. It was almost too good to be true. And according to his doting Russian mother, it was in fact too good to be true. She had begged and pleaded with him before he got on that plane to DC. Don't trust them, she'd said, crying, pleading with him. It never ends well. Never.
His mother had always been a worrier. So, he didn't take her words that seriously. But 18 months into his mission, he had begun to notice that some of the other Russians who worked for intelligence agencies were no longer around town. And nobody had heard from them back in Russia. Where had they gone? It was a question that made him tremble. A question that made him regret ever getting involved with this life.
He was 33 years old. He should've made more out of himself by now. But this was the life he was stuck with. At some point, he hoped to return home, return to the party scene in Moscow, with stories to tell and money to burn, women hanging off his arm. He looked forward to that. But for now, he would continue living this playboy lifestyle, moving in and out of important circles.
How much longer could this go on for? He wasn't sure. What if his mother's words turned out to be true? Would his desire to live the high life, the playboy, fast life, come back to haunt him?
The car swerved quickly. He lost his balance. The briefcase fell from his lap.
“Fuck. What are you doing?” he said to the driver.
“That car. The black one. With the two cops. It's following us again.”
He turned around. He could see the car turning the corner, about 20 feet behind them.
“Don't worry about that. It's not a big deal.”
“Are you sure, boss?”
“Don't call me boss,” Sergei snapped.
“Yes, sir.”
Sergei shook his head. He was about to say don't call me “sir” either but figured it wasn't worth it. Boss. It was the kind of word that got people killed.
The black car. With the two cops. It had been following them for the last… he wasn't sure. But he had first noticed it about three weeks ago. FBI. He feared. Maybe some special Russian investigations’ division. Tensions between the two countries had grown over the last couple years. That damn election. The Americans were still complaining about it, at least half of them were, still accusing Russia of having plotted to undermine the losing candidate’s campaign.
He shook his head. Those silly Americans, he thought. They go around the world meddling in everyone's elections. And now they expect the whole world to feel sorry for them.
But politics wasn't his game. Drop offs and pickups. That's what he did. Socializing with DC's elites was what he did, as well as rolling in expensive beds with models and actresses and more than a handful of women who were neither.
He was still waiting for the next part of his mission. When would things get serious? He wondered. This couldn't be all there was, could it? No, at some point they would require a decisive action from him. That thought kept him up at night, sometimes and sometimes it woke him up in the middle of the night, sweating as the images of former spies with their brains blown out came back to him. Those were the pictures he had been shown in Moscow just before taking off. They were a reminder that if he ever tried to take the money and run, attempting to start his life over again, they would come after him. They would find him. They would kill him.
He had gotten the message. But he wouldn't allow himself to think about that. It was probably just posturing anyway. Those pictures might’ve been fake.
Sergei turned around. The black car was gone. He smiled, rested his head back in the seat and closed his eyes. A smile crossed his lips. Diana and Caroline. Two buxom California beauties. Models, actresses, whatever. He looked forward to seeing them. Hopefully, they wouldn't have to leave the hotel room. They would order food and booze and a little bit of the white powder. They would play. They would sniff and snort, suck, lick, and nibble. He looked forward to it.
These days, he didn't want to play with anything less than two women at a time. He had the stamina, the muscles, the big driving cock. Two women at one time. It was easy. Lick them up, then dick them down. All in a day’s work for a Russian playboy. The American girls loved his accent. They also loved that he would get rough with them, a little bit dirty with them, slap them around on the ass, across the face with some choking and spit spitting, for good measure. Sergei loved pushing women past their limits and seeing what they were capable of enduring. He loved it. It got his blood boiling and his cock throbbing in his pants.
The car pulled to the curb. The driver got out, came around and open the door.
When he walked into the hotel lobby, he saw two women at the front desk wearing s
hort skirts and heels. He smiled. One blonde, one brunette. Diana and Caroline.
“Ladies?” he said in his deep gruff voice.
They both turned and smiled, batting their lashes, playing with their hair. They both had huge fake breasts that looked like they were screaming for air, begging to be set free, sucked and nibbled. He would take care of that in due time. They had all night to play.
He went up to the brunette Caroline, hugged her, squeezed her ass and kissed her on the cheek, looking over her shoulder and winking at the blond Diana. She stared back, lust and jealousy in her eyes. He let Caroline go and opened his arms wide for Diana. He squeezed her tightly. Her huge silicon breasts felt so nice against his chest.
“I can’t wait to fuck you,” she whispered in his ear. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about your cock.”
Kowaski parked the car a few blocks away from the hotel. Trump Tower. She had never been inside. And she had no desire to ever be. But tonight she would be going inside, both of them would, at least virtually. Cameras had been set up in the room that the Russian spy Sergei visited a few times a week. He was careful to keep moving around the city. But she was onto him. She had teams of guys who could get into any hotel, wire it, set up cameras, and audio in under 10 minutes.
She pulled a mini laptop out of her bag and set it up on the dashboard.
“This is some crazy shit,” Nolte said, shaking his head. “This guy is pretty wild, isn’t he?”
“Let’s just focus on the investigation,” she replied.
But she couldn't deny it. She could feel the desire, the hunger, the loneliness, bubbling inside of her.
This guy had quite the reputation of being a playboy. She couldn't wait to see if it was true. Was he as well hung as people whispered he was? She couldn't wait to find out. Even though, she couldn’t help feeling that it would be kind of awkward watching any sort of erotic encounter with Nolte sitting next to her.
He pulled a bottle of whiskey from inside his jacket pocket.
She rolled her eyes. “Are you really going to drink that right now?” Nolte and his damn whiskey. He could never put it down, always needed a sip. She hadn't smelled it on his breath yet today, but she figured he had a nip somewhere along the way. He always did. She hated seeing a guy who used to be a good cop, waste away, pissing away all his talent and ambition.
“What's the big deal?” he asked. “What's better than whiskey and porn alone in a car?” he grinned, tilting his head back, closing his eyes and taking it down his throat.
She shook her head.
“You know that stuff is going to kill you, right?”
He ignored her, took another swig from the bottle, twisted the cap back on, and put it back in his jacket pocket.
“I'm an Irishman. This is what is supposed to kill me.”
“You’re a fucking idiot is what you are.”
He burst out laughing. “I love it when you talk to me like that, Kowaski. Lets me know that deep down you really care about me.”
“Care about you? Are you fucking kidding me?”
He turned and stared at her. “Nope.”
So many different emotions struggled inside of her. She bit her lip, shook her head, and looked away. Was this really the time to get into some deep conversation? Was it really the time to explain why she hated to see him drink like this?
She looked toward him, blinked several times. Finally, for the first time in such a long time, she saw the sincerity in his eyes.
She closed her eyes and sighed. Then she saw her father’s image. Stanamir. A Polish immigrant who had worked his way up to captain of the local police department. But his ambition was always to go much higher than that. He had interviewed several times for Bureau, each time getting a little bit closer to actually being hired. But it had never worked out. He died a bitter man, a drinking, broken man. She hated those memories.
“You’re just wasting everything,” she said, not looking at him, her eyes facing forward. “From everything that I’ve heard you used to be a good cop. That's what they say around the office.
He turned and glared at her. His bottom lip trembled.
“Shut up, Kowaski. Just shut the fuck up. I didn’t ask your opinion did I?”
She could never remember seeing him like that. There was rage in his eyes. There was anger in his voice, deep anger and bitterness.
“I’ve seen it before,” she continued.
“I said shut up.”
“My father. He was a cop. A good one. Probably not as good as you. He never made it to the Bureau, even though he dreamed and talked about it every day for years. Ultimately, that disappointment or failure, whatever you want to call it, killed him. And it killed me to watch him kill himself.”
“Jesus Christ, Kowalski, don't you know when to shut up?”
“If we’re going to be partners, I can’t watch you just drink and drink. There’s a time for that. But it’s not during working hours.”
“Shut up!”
“No! You need to hear this. You're wasting away. I don't know what happened with your ex-wife but you've got to get over that. Suck it up. Be the tough guy that you like pretending you are.”
Her chest was heaving, heart was racing. Adrenaline surged through her body. She didn't know what had come over her. She was never one to lecture. It didn't quite make sense to her. But she couldn't help it.
She turned toward him, her eyes full of compassion, hoping that he would forgive her, and wouldn't hold that short preachy speech against her.
He wouldn't look at her. He kept his eyes facing forward as he wiped a tear from his eye. He bit down on lip, quickly turned to her, then looked away. He closed his eyes, scrunched up his face as if he had some deep pain in his head as he were trying to work out some complicated problem.
For the next few minutes, the only sound in the car was Kowalski typing on the computer, logging them into the feed in the hotel room.
“Shit!” she said.
“What is it?”
“Not all the cameras are working. She pounded her fingers on the keys.”
Suddenly her eyes lit up and she smiled. “Bingo!”
Six different camera angles showed on the screen. Her Russian spy was sitting in the living room area of the suite, talking to a buxom brunette.
She looked at the other cameras. There was a blonde in the bathroom.
“A bathroom camera? Nolte said, leaning over and looking at the computer screen. “ “You might be even kinkier than I thought.”
She rolled her eyes and suppressed her desire to say anything. It wasn’t easy but she managed.
Nolte pointed at the screen. “Look at this.”
She turned her eyes back to the action. The blonde was crushing something up with a credit card. Then she bent over and snorted it off to the bathroom counter.
“It looks like they are going to have quite the party,” Nolte said. “How does this guy get any time for spying?”
“I’m not sure. But I’ll be on his ass until I figure it out.”
They turned towards each other and smiled.
Chapter 4
It didn't take long before the Russian spy and the two girls started to get intimate on the couch, both of them sitting on his lap, taking turns making out with him, their hands roving up and down his body.
Nolte could feel his cock throbbing in his pants. This surveillance assignment was a lot more exciting than he had expected. He was doing his best to cover his boner. He didn't want to do anything more to piss off Kowalski. He had taken things far enough. It would be best to lay off for a bit. But he couldn’t help noticing that more than once her eyes had quickly glanced down to his crotch. Maybe he was just imagining things. He couldn’t be sure.
No way, he said to himself. That would be too good to be true. Could this girl who is twelve years younger than me, actually be turned on by me? He looked away from the screen for a moment and pulled down the mirror, letting his vanity take hold of him. He smoo
thed his hair back into place. He was proud that he hadn’t really started balding yet. But the lines in his face and the bags under his eyes horrified him. This job was definitely wearing him down.
Back on the screen: One of the girls got down on her knees, and put her head in between Sergei’s legs. Nolte, he closed his eyes and sighed. He couldn't contain himself anymore. He reached down and squeezed his cock. When he opened his eyes and turned to his left, Kowaski was staring straight at him. Her pupils were dilated, filled with lust. He could almost hear her calling out for him.
He swallowed hard, not sure what to say. He loved to use a lot of sexual innuendoes to get her going. But now that they actually found themselves in this tight, intimate space with their energies passing back and forth, the blood surging through his dick, he wasn’t sure what to do.
They both shifted their eyes back to the screen. One of the girls was going up and down, bobbing her head in Sergei’s lap. There was no doubt what she was doing: sucking him dry. And the other girl had put her pussy directly in the lucky bastard’s face.
Things were definitely getting hot! He felt like he was watching a really raunchy amateur porn video.
“Can we get a tighter shot?” he asked, tongue practically hanging out of his mouth.
Kowaski banged on the keys for a few moments. Presto! They zoomed in on the action.
“I can see our Russian friend is really packing some heat,” Nolte said shaking his head. He didn’t feel a bit insecure. He had plenty of man meat himself. This was his moment, the one that he had been waiting for. And maybe she had been waiting for it as well. But how would he do it?
If he'd made a serious advance and she rejected him, he would be done. Career over. They would send him straight to HR, then quickly usher him out of the building. He would be forever banished from the Bureau.
But he wasn't going to be able to contain himself. He squeezed his cock again, then pull his hand away. Seconds later he felt something else grabbing hold of his member. His eyes opened wide. He looked down. Kowaski's pretty, pale hands were gripping his crotch. Then her nimble fingers were undoing his belt buckle. The whole time their eyes were locked on each other.