Communal Apartment Block, Moscow – May1985

Valerie Sokolova washed herself with a warm sponge, squeezing the soapy water into a white and blue enamel metal bowl that was chipped around the rim but at least it wasn’t rusting. She poured the scummy water into the little sink in her kitchen and it gurgled slowly down the drain. She lifted the kettle off the gas hob and poured hot water into the bowl and then added some near freezing tap water to it until it was tolerably warm.

The water from the tap did not run clear. The pipes in her apartment block were rusty, but it would do. She took a flannel and rinsed away the suds from her svelte body, then dried herself and threw on a threadbare robe. She drained the bowl and put in on the draining board next to the hotplate which she had turned off. Her kitchen consisted of a single bench made from faded, scratched and chipped laminate, a tiny stained steel sink and draining board with two cupboards mounted over it and two cupboards underneath.

On the tiny two-seater laminated dining table was Valerie had laid out her cosmetic collection next to a small cracked vanity mirror mounted on a stand. She pulled out one of the two plastic kitchen chairs and sat down before the mirror to do her makeup. Valerie took her time, trying her best to copy the face of a model in a picture of an old dog-eared copy of Vogue magazine which she had propped against the wall. She didn’t have the exact colour palate but she made do. She was careful when she applied her lipstick. The other cosmetics were cheap knock-offs bought at the local market but the bright red Almay lipstick she was using had been purchased on the black market and was expensive. She applied it sparingly but made sure she covered her sensuous lips.

Not really happy that the results matched the picture in Vogue but content that she had done her best, Valerie brushed her hair one more time and walked over to her little cot bed and smiled as she looked down at the clothing she was about to wear.

Valerie Sokolova’s State-owned apartment was literally one room: kitchen, dining room, bedroom, all in one. On each floor were shared ablutions: toilets, showers and a machine-wash laundry, although the hot water never got much warmer than tepid and only one washing machine worked. Valerie kept a chamber pot under her bed for urination and used the ablutions only when nature required it.

She had laid out her best clothing: a second-hand navy-blue skirt suit which she had painstakingly repaired and hand sewn to fit her. She had taken up the hem of the skirt to take advantage of her long shapely legs. A white polyester blouse, also altered to fit her body, completed the ensemble. Plain white full-cut tricot panties and a matching brassiere lay beside the suit. Valerie had tried dying the cheap, mass-produced, underwear different colours with limited success. A package of skin-tone pantyhose lay beside the underwear.

In 1985, although Russia could put rockets into space and build nuclear power stations and submarines; it was abysmally inefficient at producing consumer goods. A single factory, the Brest Stocking Mill, manufactured pantyhose in one colour only: skin-tone. The black market was flooded with cheap Chinese manufactured tights and pantyhose which came in different colours. That said, Valerie preferred flesh toned hosiery, she just wished she could get her hands on a pair of the sleek shiny pantyhose available in the West.

She shimmied into the pantyhose being careful not to ladder them with her long, red-painted, fingernails. The pantyhose might not be the best quality but she enjoyed the feeling of the slippery nylon on her freshly shaved legs. Valerie preferred the appearance of panties over pantyhose; it looked more appealing when the panties hid the thicker nylon gusset of the cheap hosiery. She slipped her panties on and put on her bra.

Valerie quickly donned her skirt and blouse and then she sat on the cot and pulled out her prize possession: a pair of black patent leather four-inch stilettos that had cost her nearly a week’s wages. They were cheap knock-offs imported from China and sold on the black market but she loved them.

She slipped them on her feet, put on her jacket and checked herself out in her other prize possession: a wooden framed full-length mirror that was chipped around the edges with black patches of missing silver. It had been her mother’s and her mother’s mother before her.

Valerie was standing in front of the mirror admiring herself; unashamedly admitting that she was strikingly pretty when the door to her apartment burst open.

The two brutish men wore distinctive royal blue piping on their uniforms and their shoulder boards were marked 'GB', meaning State Security, which identified them as officers of the KGB.

Valerie said nothing as the two men hustled her out of her apartment and down the long corridor to the rickety lift. A few doors cracked open but no one came out of their apartments. Behind some of the doors there was a quiet murmuring but the only other sound was the crunch of the soldier’s boots on the worn filthy floor.

Valerie knew not to say anything or to protest. It would be useless. These men were goons who were merely following orders and any form of resistance would be met with brutality. Valerie had not even been given the chance to grab her coat before she was led away and outside in bitter cold she began to shiver but not for long. She was pushed into a waiting black GAZ Volga sedan, the guards sitting either side of her. At least the car was warm.

She expected to be taken to prison or possibly just driven out into the woods and executed. She knew how the KGB operated because she worked as an officer in the KGB’s Fifth Directorate. Valerie was surprised when the car pulled up in the forecourt outside the KGB Headquarters in Lubyanka Square. Valerie was bundled out of the car and to her surprise led to an office on the third floor; home of the Director of Foreign Operations.

Other than being summarily executed or thrown in a prison cell, Valerie had not thought of any other viable alternative to her fate. She just hoped that her family would not be made to suffer for her sins.

Valerie was led into the office of Ivan Petrov who sat behind a large elaborate desk smoking a cigarette. He waived away the security detail and glared at Valerie is if she were a specimen in a jar. Sitting in a leather armchair near the fireplace was another man that Valerie did not recognise; he too was smoking a cigarette. He eased himself out of the chair with feline like grace and approached Valerie who stood rooted to the spot with fear.

The man circled Valerie, examining her closely, so close that she could smell the cigarettes and aftershave on him. So close that she could see the stitching on his imported Western suit

“Valéry Sokolova, aged twenty four. Analyst in KGB Directorate Five. Unmarried. Mother and father work in a government tractor factory in Minsk; sister works there too – she’s engaged to a soldier currently serving in Afghanistan. You speak fluent English?” Ivan Petrov growled; the last sentence was worded as a question.

Valerie was too scared to speak and just nodded. The man in the good suit was still circling her, studying her.

Ivan Petrov dropped Valéry Sokolova’s personnel file on his desk and nodded to his compatriot who stopped circling Valerie but stood so close enough to her that his hip was pressed against hers. He put his hand on Valerie’s hip and she wondered what fresh hell awaited her. He found the zip at the side of her skirt and began to tug it. Instinctively Valerie reached out to stop him and the man snatched at her fingers.

“Nyet!” it was the first word that the man had spoken.

Valerie snatched her hand away and bowed her head in shame as the man slowly unzipped her skirt and it fell off her, pooling around her ankles.

The man put a knuckle under her chin and raised her head and glared at her with his piercing blue eyes. Valerie shivered in fear and shame.

The man yanked her panties down to her knees and Valerie began to slowly sob, then he hooked his fingers in the waistband of her pantyhose and pulled them down her thighs.

Valerie's long slender penis fell from between her legs and dangled in front of her like a pendulum.

Then he entwined his fingers in her hair and ripped off her blonde, shoulder-length wig. Her own hair was raven-black and worn a long for an officer of the KGB but Valerie was a deskbound underling and had not worn a uniform since she graduated military training.

Ivan Petrov grunted as he lifted his bulk from the overstuffed chair behind his desk and stood. He pulled his jacket down over his ample belly and his medals rattled in the silence as they clattered together. Ivan made his way over Valerie very slowly, which was his usual gait. He moved like a leviathan across a sea of plush carpet. Ivan circled Valerie the same way his compatriot had.

“What do you think Yuri?” Ivan’s breathing was laboured.

“She needs some work but she is perfect for our needs,” the man now identified as Yuri replied.

“Can she replace Petra?” Ivan lifted Valerie’s chin and studied her beauty.

“She’ll be even better than Petra because she has this,” Yuri casually swiped at Valerie's cock.

Standing in the office of one of the most cruel and powerful men in the whole of the Soviet Union with her wig ripped off, her skirt around her ankles and her panties pulled down, shivering with fear, the only thing that Valerie could think of was that the two men were using the word ‘she’.

Ivan Petrov made a distasteful mew and waved a hand at Valerie, gesturing for her to pull up her underwear, which she did; followed by her skirt which she zipped closed and straightened. Then Yuri handed Valerie her wig which she placed on her head, pinning it back in place and doing her best to comb it out with her fingers.

Standing in the middle of the room in her short skirt and heels with her tousled blonde hair and red lipstick she looked like one of the hookers who worked the more exclusive hotels in Moscow, with the exception that she was more beautiful than most of them.

“Valéry Sokolova, come over here,” Ivan sat down behind his desk.

It groaned under his weight and he waved at a series of photographs on his desk. Yuri was pouring vodka from a decanter into crystal glasses.

Valerie approached the desk as ordered and when Ivan gestured for her to move in closer, she did so; so close that her legs were pressed against the edge of the desk.

Arranged on the desk were a series of pictures of her. Working in KGB Directorate Five, Valerie was familiar with photography of this type. The pictures had been taken by a high-power, high-resolution lens, most likely from the apartment block across the quad from hers. Being on the seventh floor, Valerie had not even thought it was necessary to close the curtains to her tiny apartment.

There was a spread of her dressing, putting on her makeup, studying herself in the mirror, strutting and posing around the tiny flat. She blushed when she saw a picture of her with her skirt lifted and her panties pulled down, masturbating to pictures in a magazine.

The next spread had been taken at night, this time from a lot closer. Valerie was walking around the park near her apartment block. Here sitting on a bench, there looking up at a statue and in one picture, accepting a light from a stranger.

Valerie liked to sneak out of her apartment at night and walk the nearby streets and the park. It was exhilarating and exciting and it validated her femininity, proving to her that she could easily pass as a woman. The woman that she truly believed she was supposed to be but had been born into the wrong body and was trapped. No one had ever questioned her or challenged her femininity.

She remembered the night the handsome man had offered to light her cigarette. How she had flirted with him, using the sultry feminine voice she had developed over the years. The man had made her an indecent proposal which she found quite shocking but also quite flattering but of course she had declined. That evening she had dreamt about the man and had a nocturnal emission in the panties she wore to bed.

“Mrs Fyodorova, your next door neighbour is very nosy and she informed on you. We have known about you for some time Valéry Sokolova and usually our recourse for someone like you is to send them to a re-education camp but because of your position in our organisation we decided to wait and see if you could be usefully employed elsewhere within the Directorate,” Ivan took the vodka from Yuri and lit another cigarette.

Russian vodka of course but the men were smoking American cigarettes and Yuri’s suit looked like it was made in Saville Row. Valerie had never seen such decadence: the leather chairs, the crystal glassware, the Persian rugs and expensive artwork hanging on the walls beside the usual array of patriotic Russian paintings.

“Usefully employed?” Valerie whispered.

They were the first coherent words Valerie had spoken since she had been arrested.

She could hardly believe the sound of her own voice.

Ivan collected the photographs of Valerie and put them in a drawer and then he shook out some more pictures from an envelope and arranged them on his desktop: Valerie’s mother and father, and her sister Valentina, not quite as stunning as Valerie but pretty none the less.

“You work for the KGB in Directorate Five. I could accuse you of espionage and have you summarily executed. Your mother and father would be sent to a work camp in Siberia and your sister made to work in a brothel near the Averkyevo training base servicing Spetsnaz soldiers,” Ivan tossed Valentina's picture at her.

Valerie swallowed. She knew all of that was possible and even likely but she had been brought here for a reason.

“Sir, you said I could be usefully employed elsewhere within the Directorate. What did you mean by that?” Valerie asked.

“Speak English,” Ivan handed Valerie a book of poetry by John Keats.

Valerie opened the book and began to recite Ode on a Grecian Urn in perfect, Russian accented English. Her job at Directorate five was to translate voice recordings and documents from English into Russian. She never asked about the sources of the material that she translated but a considerable amount of the material was highly classified.

She knew that being a closeted transvestite made her vulnerable to blackmail but undoubtedly she had been vetted when the KGB found out about her proclivities and they knew that she remained loyal.

Ivan looked at Yuri questioningly and Yuri nodded at him.

“Ok Valéry, stop speaking now,” Yuri said perfectly understandable English.

“I can’t tell you yet where this opportunity for employment will lead you but it will be dangerous and you will be undercover,” Yuri continued, reverting to Russian.

“As a woman?” Valerie was not stupid.

“Yes as a woman. As I said, we have some work to do on you and a lot of training for you to undertake before you will be ready and there is a deadline,” Yuri lit another cigarette.

“I accept,” Valerie blurted out.

The alternative was unthinkable.

“Then welcome to special operations Miss Valerie Sokolova,” for the first time Yuri used the feminine vernacular of her name.

“Will that be all?” Yuri asked Ivan Petrov who nodded sagely.

“Follow me,” Yuri ordered, and Valerie fell in behind him as they walked across the big room to the door.

Ivan Petrov studied Valerie’s pert buttocks in the tight skirt and her long legs, her calves perfected by the high heels she was wearing. The man-woman was amazingly pretty and the only time that Ivan had not thought of her a woman was when Yuri had pulled her panties down.

“Stop!” Ivan growled.

Valerie and Ivan stopped in their tracks.

“Leave me with Valerie for a moment Yuri. Wait outside the door. I have some more questions for her,” Ivan began to clamber out from behind his desk.

Yuri knew better than to argue with his superior and he closed the door behind himself and waited patiently in the corridor.

Ivan Petrov gestured for Valerie Sokolova to stand in the centre of the room where she had stood during her examination.

Ivan circled her closely, examining her; taking in her beauty and looking for a flaw that would expose her femininity and he couldn’t find a single one. She was beautiful and alluring. Her clothes were cheap and shabby but they still made her look sexy and desirable.

Ivan was revolted by what she had hidden under that skirt but if he never had to see it, it wouldn’t bother him.

Valerie could feel Ivan’s eyes leering at her; ogling her, and she was scared. She’d been ogled plenty during her evening walks but this was different. She had nowhere to run, no one to call out to, no form of defence. But she couldn’t deny that deep down she felt a little honoured that a man as powerful as Ivan Petrov was taken with her.

Ivan stopped in front of her, his face inches from hers. She could smell the vodka, the cigarettes and the roast beef he had eaten for dinner.

“You have no idea what awaits you, do you?” Ivan chuckled.

“It can’t be worse than a Soviet re-education facility sir,” Valerie boldly replied.

Ivan chucked. A deep rumbling laugh that was almost terrifying. He reached out and gently stroked Valerie’s cheek.

“You are indeed an amazing woman Miz Sokolova,” Ivan’s pushed his fingers into Valerie’s mouth.

“Let’s see how convincing you really are,” Ivan put his big paws on Valerie’s shoulders and pushed.

At first she hesitated, not knowing what Ivan wanted but he pushed harder and she suddenly understood. She had no choice but to go down on her knees.

“In your new position you will be required to not only pass as a woman; you will be required to behave like one too. That is, you will be required to act like the kind of women who work their trade at the Intourist Hotel,” Ivan said struggling to unbuckle his belt.

Valerie knew that the Intourist Hotel was very was a centre for black marketeering and prostitution for hard currency. Since the hotel's guests were foreigners, it became the place where fartsovshchiks - people illegally trading foreign goods banned in the USSR - congregated. All this took place under the watchful eyes of the KGB, which recruited Intourist personnel to spy on hotel guests. People who were given jobs at the Intourist had to go through the most thorough selection and lengthy vetting process, as if they were applying for a job not in a hotel, but with the KGB.

Ordinary Soviet citizens could not use the hotel, even if they could afford to. But the oligarchs used it as their playground, hosting lavish parties with high-end prostitutes on the menu.

Ivan had pushed his trousers down around his ankles and was yanking down his shorts when Valerie finally summoned the courage to look up from the floor.

Ivan’s cock was standing proud. It was pink, stubby and thick, a rope of clear pre-ejaculate dribbled from the glans. At least his crotch didn’t stink; in fact it smelled of bodywash and talcum powder.

“We have no evidence of you undertaking prostitution but surely a woman of your persuasion must have done this before,” Ivan commented as he placed his hands gently on Valerie’s head.

Valerie knew what Ivan wanted and she knew that she could not refuse. The truth was that she had never done anything like this before despite what Ivan implied. She’d had dreams of course; similar to the one she’d had about the man who lit her cigarette in the park. But in her dreams she was being kissed and kissing in return. Her dreams were romantic but also there were sexual connotations because they often invoked a nocturnal emission. However Valerie’s dreams were more soft-core than hard-core porn. There was kissing and fondling and canoodling but she never experienced penetration of any kind; that was all implied.

But this was real. She was on her knees and one the most powerful men in Russia was offering her his penis. This man held the power of life and death over not just her but also her family.

Valerie reached out and tentatively touched the angry pink appendage that was just inches from her face. Valerie knew how to pleasure herself of course so it was not particularly difficult to figure out how to pleasure Ivan Petrov.

She gathered the string of pre-ejaculate in her fingers and worked it into Ivan’s manhood.

Was it degrading and disgusting? Of course. Did she somehow feel empowered and aroused? She dare not answer.

Valerie began to stroke Ivan Petrov’s appendage. It seemed to grow a little and become harder as she did so. She heard him emit a soft growl of content. She couldn’t help but stare at the veiny shaft as it pulsated and quivered when she ran her fingers along it, lightly caressing it. The pink shiny glans was squat and mushroomed shaped, a continuous dribble of precum leaking from the eye.

She knew what she was doing was wrong on many levels but she couldn’t help becoming aroused. She felt appreciated and desired. In her job she was treated like an underling, at home she had to hide her true self or sneak out night with the ever present danger that she may be identified as Valéry not Valerie.

But neither of those arguments could justify the growing erection in her panties.

Valerie rationalised that it was her body’s defence mechanism: a psychological and physiological response to camouflage the disgust and degradation that she really felt being forced to her knees and made to perform a sexual act.

If it was possible the cock in her hand was becoming harder and the precum was flowing faster. Unbidden she spontaneously took Ivan’s sac in her free hand and began to stroke and caress it, feeling his testes jiggle through his wiry pubic hair.

“Good girl Valerie,” Ivan grunted.

Valerie wondered how many other women had been forced to offer sexual favours to save themselves in this very office.

Ivan put his hands on Valerie’s head and pushed. She realised what he wanted and knew that she could not refuse. She had tried her best to bring him to extremis with her hands but she had failed and he was going to force her to commit fellatio.

Valerie opened her mouth and accepted Ivan Petrov’s member. She didn’t really know what to do but it seemed instinctive. Just wrap your mouth around it and suck?

She did that and Ivan appreciated it for a while. She could feel his stubby penis throbbing in her mouth and the stream of pre-ejaculate continued to ooze from his glans. It tasted almost sweet, not unpleasant at all.

“Use your tongue girl,” Ivan encouraged her.

Valerie didn’t know if it was the flattery of actually being called ‘girl’ for the first time or some primeval sexual response but she went to work on that cock with enthusiasm. She tried using her tongue on Ivan’s glans, flicking the tip across his fraenulum and was immediately rewarded with a moan of desire. She pressed her lips on his shaft and worked them up and down his prick, suckling the glans, using her spit to lubricate it.

She alternated between gently stroking his scrotum and softly squeezing it and she felt Ivan’s whole body tremble. Valerie was hard as a rock inside her panties and pantyhose, the caress of the delicate fabric on her penis felt delightful.

Suddenly Ivan held her head steady and thrust his penis in as far as it would go and Valerie felt it shudder and her mouth was filled with musky, salty semen. She worked her tongue on Ivan’s glans encouraging him to ejaculate into her mouth, teasing out every drop. She felt so exhilarated, powerful and downright sexy.

Valerie felt herself ejaculating into her panties. The orgasm was not particularly powerful; more a delightful tingling in her nether regions, but it was nice.

She worked her mouth on Ivan’s pulsing appendage, sucking his essence into her mouth, tasting it and then swallowing it. She caressed his testes, squeezing them softly to encourage him to give her all of his essence.

Then suddenly the enchantment was broken. Ivan Petrov ripped his cock from Valerie’s mouth and pushed her head away so hard that she fell to the floor.

It was as if that, despite her great beauty, he was disgusted with himself for succumbing to the pretty transvestite. He waddled over his desk and snatched tissues from a gilt box and wiped himself and then pulled up and buttoned his trousers. He tossed the embossed tissue box at Valerie, barely missing her head.

She got to her knees and wiped her mouth and while Ivan had his back to her she lifted her skirt and dabbed at the glutinous pool of semen in the front of her panties. She straightened her skirt whilst Ivan straighten his tunic; both with their backs to each other. Both feeling the pangs of post coital regret.

“Clean this mess up!” Ivan grunted and Valerie collected the tissues and put them in the bin.

She stood in the centre of the room with her head bowed, waiting further instructions. She felt humiliated and violated. The feelings of power and seduction had dissipated. She was nothing more than a whore.

Ivan closed in on her and put his thick hand around her neck and forced her to look him in the eye.

“This never happened!” he scowled.

“You will tell no one!” he hissed.

Valerie did her best to nod. She couldn’t talk because Ivan was squeezing her windpipe closed.

Ivan let go of her and Valerie gasped.

“Leave. Get out! Make sure you accomplish the mission Valéry Sokolova or the next woman to kneel before me will be your sister Valentina. Maybe I’ll make your mother watch? Maybe I’ll fuck your mother too? Give her something to remember me by while she digs coal out of a mine in Siberia,” Ivan issued one last threat.

Valerie said nothing. The threat had already been made and she knew that Ivan Petrov was a man of his word. She turned on her heels. The walk to the door seemed like a marathon and when she got there her hand was shaking as she reached for the door knob.

“Valerie?” Ivan called after her.

She turned and looked to him.

“That wasn’t bad. You’ll get better,” he chuckled and then began to shuffle papers on his desk, dismissing her.

Yuri was waiting patiently for her outside of the door. If he knew what had just taken place in Ivan Petrov’s office he gave no indication.

“This way,” he said politely, indicating for Valerie to precede him down the corridor.

Yuri could guess what had happened. Valerie’s lipstick was almost gone and what little remained was smudged around her mouth. Her clothing was slightly dishevelled; the hem of her skirt was slanted.

Yuri knew that his boss used his position as the Director of Directorate Five to his advantage and not just for political and financial gain. He’d used his power and position to force many a fair maiden into surrendering their virtue to him in order to save themselves or their loved ones and he was not the only one in the hierarchy of the KGB who did so.

What surprised Yuri Godekin was that Ivan had become enchanted by this transvestite. There was no doubt that she was beautiful, feminine and sexually appealing, Yuri couldn’t help staring at her legs and her ass as she walked ahead of him, but she was still a transvestite. He supposed that some men were beguiled by her type.

Yuri directed Valerie out into a quadrangle at the rear of Lubyanka Square where her ears were assaulted by the clatter of a ‘Hind’ transport helicopter ground running. Yuri took Valerie’s upper arm and guided her to the noisy aircraft and he and a member of the aircrew bundled her into the beast. Her skirt rode right up her thighs as she climbed into the cankerous noisy machine and both the air crewman and Yuri appreciated the view.

The air crewman fastened her into the canvas seat and put a helmet on her head and gave her a thumb’s up. Valerie just nodded. She noticed that Yuri leapt easily into the helicopter and seated himself, adjusted his webbing and put on his own helmet. He was obviously familiar with flying in military helicopters. Yuri’s helmet had a microphone attached and he spoke into it and the helicopter began to ascend.

Valerie felt like she was having a delirium dream, having been ripped from her flat, interrogated by one of the most senior offices in the KGB, blackmailed into volunteering to do something of which she had no idea and finally being forced to fellate him. Now she was in a helicopter being whisked off to who knew where!

Unable to communicate, Valerie watched the city disappear below her as they flew across the sprawling suburbs of Moscow until finally they were flying over complete darkness but Valerie sensed they were flying over dense forest. A pinprick of light in the distance began to slowly grow until she could make out a walled compound consisting of several substantial buildings.

The helicopter descended and hovered over a large expanse of lawn in the centre of the compound and finally touched down. Yuri unbuckled Valerie's webbing waist belt and shoulder straps and helped her to her feet. He and the air crewman assisted her out of the throbbing machine, this time her skirt rode right up to the top her legs but she didn’t care; she just wanted her feet to be planted on solid ground.

She tugged at her skirt as Yuri led her away from the Hind which was already increasing engine speed to an ear-splitting roar as it began to ascend leaving Valerie and Yuri alone in the dark.

“Come,” Yuri took Valerie’s hand and led her to the largest building in the compound.

She was glad to be out of the cold when they entered what appeared to be the lobby of an opulent hotel.

“It is late. You need to sleep,” Yuri said in English and led Valerie up an expansive sweeping staircase to an upper level corridor.

The corridor had many doors on either side of it just like one would expect in hotel, although something told Valerie that this was no hotel. He led her to one of the doors from which a key dangled from the lock and he opened the door and ushered her inside.

“Where am I? What’s happening?” Valerie said forlornly

“Some things you will work out for yourself; the rest will be explained when you need to know,” Yuri gave her a wan smile and closed the door.

Valerie heard the latch engage and when she tried the door handle it was securely locked.

As much as Valerie would have liked to explore the palatial surrounds she was exhausted. The room was lit only by two bedlamps and the dim glow coming from what she discovered to be the bathroom. The bathroom was fully stocked with everything a girl would need and it all appeared to be new and very Western. She unwrapped a toothbrush and loaded it with Crest toothpaste and brushed away the taste of cigarettes and Ivan Petrov’s stale semen.

Valerie kicked off her knock-off stilettos and shimmied out of her navy-blue skirt suit and white polyester blouse. Leaving on her plain white full-cut tricot panties and pantyhose she crawled into bed. Her cheap, hand sewn, clothing looked tatty and out of place amid such opulence; the linen sheets were clean, cool and luxurious. She pulled up the comforter and was asleep within seconds.

J. Edgar Hoover Building, 935 Pennsylvania Avenue NW in Washington, D.C. – May 1985

“This is a shit sandwich,” Special Agent Vince Gruffalo grumbled as he surveyed the files arranged neatly on the large conference table.

“You’re lucky that you haven’t been suspended Gruffalo. Rimmer is still in hospital and has three months of hard physical therapy ahead of him before he can walk,” Special Agent Mike Shilling grunted.

“He knew the job was dangerous when he took it,” Vince quipped, trying to make light of it but deep inside he was sorry about what had happened to his last partner.

Vince had received a tip about two low level Mexican Cartel members meeting in a New York hotel and rather than passing the tip on to the DEA or calling for backup, he and his partner Max Rimmer had burst in on them without a warrant intent on making an arrest. During the subsequent shootout the two Narcos were killed and Special Agent Max Rimmer took one in the chest, the bullet stopped by his vest, and another in the leg, fracturing his femur.

The FBI did its best to sell the bungle as a successful strike against the Narco organisation that had recently kidnapped, tortured and murdered DEA Agent Enrique "Kiki" Camarena in Guadalajara, Mexico. The truth was that it was it was a clusterfuck and once again Special Agent Vince Gruffalo had acted impulsively and recklessly.

Vince should have been suspended without pay but because the Agency had sold the debacle as a success the Agency’s hands were tied so they appointed Vince Gruffalo to a special task force that was really nothing more than a babysitting detail where he could do no harm.

The Soviet Union was sending a delegation to the United States ahead of a proposed agreement between the United States of America and the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics on exchanges in cultural, technical, and educational fields. This would be the first such agreement since the beginning of the Cold War.

The FBI had no doubts whatsoever that the delegation would be riddled with spies, intelligence operatives and possibly espionage agents. The Special Task Force that Special Agent Vince Gruffalo had been assigned to was tasked with conducting counterintelligence and monitoring of the Soviet delegation.

“I think it best if we hand out the case studies to each agent based on the specialty of each contingent within the delegation,” the SAC said after an introductory speech that had bored the pants off Vince Gruffalo.

It was suspected that the technical delegation would be full of Soviet operatives because the Soviets regularly stole proprietary technology and intellectual property. This was where most of the covert counter-surveillance would occur and the Special Agent in Charge Mike Shilling was hell bent on keeping Vince Gruffalo away from it. He assigned Gruffalo to the academic contingent knowing they were unlikely to undertake any illegal activity.

“A babysitting shit sandwich,” Vince whined as he was passed a stack of files.

Each file represented a member of the delegation and included the curriculum vitae provided to the American State Department by the Soviet Embassy which would likely be doctored to frame the delegate as of superior intelligence to his American counterpart or possibly a complete fabrication to hide a KGB operative. Also included was an assessment on each delegate provided by the CIA and FBI counterintelligence departments. The files of the delegates assigned to Agent Gruffalo were flimsy because in some cases little was known about the delegate. They were all considered low threat.

The only file that piqued his interest was the dossier on Petra Donevski, the interpreter assigned to the academic contingent. The potted CV provided by the Soviets purported that Petra was employed at the Moscow University in the Cultural Development department where she wrote dissertations on western literature for the professors and acted as an interpreter when needed. The CIA and FBI assessed her as low risk.

What struck Vince was how beautiful this young woman was. She was tall, slim, long-legged and had flowing auburn hair. There was the obligatory portrait provided by the Soviets and a couple of full-body pictures provided by Western intelligence agencies collated from open sources. If Vince had to babysit a bunch of Soviet intelligentsia, he might as well enjoy keeping an eye Petra Donevski. She might be a low level staffer of little intelligence value but Vince was thinking he’d like the opportunity to bang her brains out. She was hot!

As well as having a cavalier attitude to his job, Vince also had a cavalier attitude to women; hence his divorced status and reputation as a pussy hound. Although some of the secretaries and female staffers in the J. Edgar Hoover Building found his good looks and charms agreeable; there were plenty who regarded him a snake.

Academia Staff Quarters, Moscow University – May 1985

Petra Donevski lay on Professor Mikhail Blavatsky’s bed with her legs open lewdly. Through the transparent gusset of her pantyhose, the only garment she was wearing besides her high heels, Mikhail could see the dark thatch of her pubic mound.

“You are a goddess,” Mikhail whispered and looked at Petra with devotion and lust.

She just smiled up at him with her red-lipsticked lips and opened her legs a little wider.

Mikhail’s cock became even harder if that were possible.

He fell on the bed, his head between Petra’s legs, the pungent odour of her cunt assailing his nose, the exotic perfume she was wearing mingling with her vaginal stench.

He ripped out the little cotton panel in the crotch of her pantyhose with his teeth to expose her thick vaginal lips, surrounded by the mat of her pubic hair. Her cunt resembled a half-open clam nestled in a seaweed patch.

Petra’s pantyhose were imported and expensive but she didn’t mind that Mikhail destroyed them every time they fucked because in her current circumstances she had an endless supply of imported luxury commodities. The only reason she let Mikhail Blavatsky fuck her was because of those commodities.

She guided his face to her pubis and Mikhail lapped at her labia like a dog drinking water from a bowl. He wasn’t particularly good at cunnilingus but he was good enough. Petra let him lick her vaginal lips and tingling circlets of pleasure began to radiate from her cunt. She pressed harder and Mikhail took the hint and began to circle her clitoris with his tongue.

Until Mikhail met Petra he had no idea where a woman’s clitoris was. It had been a mystery to him but she had solved it for him and he worshipped her for it. He worshipped her for wearing those shiny pantyhose. He worshipped her for letting him lick her pussy. But most of all he worshipped her for letting him fuck her while she was wearing those shiny pantyhose.

Mikhail’s tongue fluttered on Petra’s clitoris and she entwined her fingers in his whispy greasy hair and forced his face harder into her mound. Mikhail's crude slavering had nowhere near the finesse of Yuri Godekin’s tongue-tip, which could keep her on the edge of orgasm for what seemed like an eternity before he used his mouth to bring her to an earth-shattering climax. But it was enough; Mikhail’s tongue hit the mark every second lick or so and soon Petra’s legs began to shake.

“Lick it how I like it, you useless schoolteacher!” Petra moaned.

Mikhail pretended that Petra’s taunts during sex turned him on but he actually felt belittled by them. But he would do anything to fuck this goddess.

Mikhail sucked on Petra's clitoral hood and used the tip of his tongue on her tender nubbin, enduring the pain as Petra tugged at his thinning hair. A glistening long slimy rope of pre-ejaculate dribbled from his cock and onto the bed linen. He ached to take his penis in his hand while he suckled Petra’s cunt but he knew he would blow his load as soon as he touched it so he left it alone.

Petra's whole body began to quiver and a low growl started deep in her throat and rose to a shriek as her orgasm washed over her. Waves of intense pleasure radiated from her clitoris and coursed through her body.

“Now!” she screamed.

Mikhail Blavatsky leapt on top of Petra Donevski and slammed his cock into her sodden minge and began to fuck her hard. She wrapped those gossamer-sheathed limbs around him and raked his flanks with her high heels and scratched his back with her long red fingernails, encouraging Mikhail to fuck her harder and faster as her orgasm peaked.

He revelled in the feel of the cool, slippery, sensuous nylons on his tender flesh, her softy milky-white skin pressing on him, her pert titties pressing into his chest and her beautiful face contorted with lust as his cock was enveloped by her velvety vagina.

Mikhail knew better than to try to kiss her. She clung to him like a limpet, her tight vagina rippling and quivering as she climaxed, milking his hard cock, drawing his seed from him and Mikhail sobbed as he ejaculated, overcome with the intensity of the pleasure he was feeling.

Petra drummed her heels on his back and suddenly stopped. She was spent and her orgasm was dissipating as quickly as it had erupted. Mikhail fucked Petra and clung to her, expending himself, trying to make his orgasm last as long as he could as he rode this beautiful goddess.

Petra was done with him and brusquely pushed Mikhail off her as the last few dribbles of semen ran down his still rampant penis.

They lay side by side on the big bed panting and sweating. When Mikhail tried to take her hand in his she pushed him away. Her rejection only made him want her more. He knew that he was being used but he didn’t care; she was worth it.

“You know I don’t like to be touched after sex until I’m completely recovered,” Petra chastened him.

Professor Mikhail Blavatsky could hardly believe his luck when Petra Donevski was assigned to him as his interpreter and assistant for the forthcoming cultural exchange mission to the United States. She was beautiful, intelligent and quick witted and she wore those shiny, silky nylons on her long legs that drove Mikhail wild.

“When we are in America, we will have a big bed in a big hotel room and we will make love until we are exhausted and then we will order room service,” Mikhail grinned, staring up at the cracks in the plaster ceiling.

“When we are in America we will do what we are told to do by our superiors,” Petra said coolly.

She saw the smile disappear from Mikhail’s face and she took his hand in hers and squeezed it.

“But I’m sure we will find time to make love my precious,” she threw him a bone and the smile returned to his face.

How did a man nearly twice her age, who was balding, gangly-tall but with a protruding pot belly ever think that a woman as young and beautiful as Petra Donevski would ever fall for him. For a man of immense intelligence who was revered amongst the world’s academia he was stupid when it came to the practicalities of the world.

The only reason that Petra had been assigned to him was because it had been ordered by the Party nomenklatura. And she had seduced him because she had been ordered to do so by her bosses at the KGB. She had work to do when the Soviet delegation arrived in America and it had little to do with slaking the desires of a tiresome old professor but she needed to keep him heeled.

Petra smoked a cigarette and then she sat up in bed and began to dress. When Mikhail pawed at her and begged her to stay the night she batted away his advances and told him she had work to do.

Dressed in a smart skirt-suit, carrying her purse over her shoulder she stopped at the door and let Mikhail kiss her cheek so that he would not smudge her lipstick. She tolerated Mikhail's infatuation with her but the truth was that she hated his sloppy liver-lipped kisses and revolting tongue.

Petra’s heels click-clacked on the cold cobbles as she walked down the street from the old university academia housing blocks and onto the main road.

A sedan parked further down the street and across the road flashed its lights and Petra smiled and quickened her gait.

As she began cross the silent empty street she heard the roar of a car engine behind her and she turned on her heels in the middle of the street and was caught like a stunned animal in the blaze of the headlights on an oncoming vehicle.

She never felt the car hit her and break her beautiful body, snapping her neck as she flew up into the air, over the car’s hood, bouncing off the roof. She lay dead in the street with her legs bent at an impossible angle.

Yuri Godekin got out of the car intending to check her pulse to see if Petra was dead but there was no need. Her head was twisted almost completely around, her beautiful blue eyes open and staring into whatever eternity awaited her.

Yuri got into the car and drove on into the cold darkness. The car parked across the street also vanished into the night.

Yuri Godekin reported immediately to Ivan Petrov, finding him still working late in his office.

“Are you sure we have made the right decision Yuri?” Ivan asked, pouring them both a liberal measure of vodka.

“Petra Donevski was incredibly beautiful, intelligent, conniving and conceited. She would have been a perfect plant in the delegation. With her beauty, her wit and salacious nature she would have produced a mountain of intelligence for us, either whilst in bed with those she seduced or from the men we blackmailed after they were caught in her honey trap,” Yuri said.

“But Valerie Sokolova is even more beautiful and we can mould her to do whatever we want. She will appeal to many stupid American men who think with their little head instead of their big one,” Yuri quipped.

This produced a chuckle from Ivan Petrov.

“And her secret will make the men she seduces even more susceptible to blackmail. A high ranking American delegate could withstand the scandal of being caught in flagrante delicto with a beautiful woman but not a beautiful woman with a cock. For all their so-called progressiveness, most Americans are intensely homophobic,” Yuri sipped his vodka.

“But did we have to dispose of Petra in such a way?” Ivan sipped his drink.

“We needed a plausible excuse to replace her at short notice. Also she had become a little, shall we say, self-important,” Yuri espoused.

“True. But such a waste,” Ivan mewed.

“When do I get the pleasure of meeting this treasure you have so jealously protected?” Ivan asked.

“She is being detained as we speak,” Yuri said staidly.

“And when we have finished with her? Such an abhorrence of nature can’t be allowed to live amongst the people of the Soviet Union,” Ivan raised his bushy brows.

“She will be taken care of quietly and without fuss,” Yuri said in a comforting tone.

“Good, good, Yuri. Bring this abomination to me as soon as she gets here. I want to see if she is as beautiful as you say she is,” Ivan patted Yuri on the back and guided him towards the door.

Novogorbovo, Russia – May 1985

Valerie woke up from a deep sleep and realised immediately that she had not dreamt about being whisked away in the middle of the night in a helicopter to a remote palace in the forest. She was tempted to luxuriate in the soft, clean, fresh-smelling sheets a little longer but she needed to heed the call of nature.

She padded to the bathroom in stocking feet, amazed by the grandiosity of the place. As she pulled down her plain white full-cut tricot panties and cheap pantyhose she realised that the bathroom was bigger than her whole apartment in Moscow. Valerie peed sitting down when she presented enfemme, which if her understanding of the situation was correct, was to be always in foreseeable future.

She pulled up her underwear and looked at her reflection in the mirror. She had taken off her wig before she fell into bed but her face still looked feminine even with her smeared makeup and dishevelled hair. Valerie was once again convinced that she had been born into the wrong body, or perhaps more correctly, into a body that had the wrong private parts.

Valerie could hardly believe the force of the crystal clear hot water that gushed freely from the shower. She luxuriated in it, lathering herself with the scented soap repeatedly and then washing away the fragrant bubbles. Clean hot water… such luxury! She brushed her teeth and put on the silk bathrobe that was hanging behind the bathroom door.

When she went back into the main room she found that her tawdry clothing had been removed and the bed made. There was a note on the pillow.

Don’t get dressed, just wear the dressing gown and slippers. You will be collected at 10am the note read.

Valerie looked at the gold embossed mantle clock on the shelf above the fireplace and saw that it was 9:30. She had never slept in this late! She smiled to herself and walked over to the wardrobe and opened it and was overwhelmed by its contents.

An assortment of dresses, skirts, blouses, jackets and coats hung from the rails. The drawers were filled with lingerie, stockings and pantyhose, the shoe rack with high heeled shoes. The vanity was overflowing with cosmetics, scents, perfumes and toiletries, a lighted mirror fitted above it.

Everything was top quality; not cheap imports or local tat. It was like she had gone to heaven.

She dug out a pair of leather slippers from the line of shoes on the rack. They were soft and supple and fitted her perfectly. She found a pair of boy-leg satin panties and slipped into them and then she went to explore the cosmetics. She sat down before the vanity but before she could touch any of the makeup the door to her room opened an attractive middle aged woman wearing what appeared to be white nurse’s uniform entered the room.

“No need for makeup, you’re perfect as you are,” the woman smiled at her.

“I’m Anya and I will be… shall we say, your helper, for the next few weeks,” Anya gave Valerie an engaging smile.

“Follow me,” Anya opened the door to the room and indicated for Valerie to step out into the corridor.

“Where are we going?” Valerie asked.

A vexed look passed across Anya’s face very briefly but was immediately replaced by her smile.

“Valerie, sometimes it’s best not to ask questions. This will usually be when you are being asked to do something. Why don’t you just assume that even though you are being asked politely to do something; in fact you are being told to do it, and we will all get along well together,” Anya’s smile never wavered and Valerie meekly followed her into the hall.

She was led to an elevator which descended below the main floors into the subbasement and they walked down a long corridor passing closed doors with little windows set in them. The place smelled of antiseptic and a strangely sweet smell that Valerie associated with hospitals. Through the viewing ports she saw men and women in white gowns and assumed correctly that she was in an infirmary.

In one of the cubicles she was invited to lie down on an examination table while a man in a white coat who never introduced himself examined her and asked her questions about her medical history. In another room a man in a suit asked her about her gender dysphoria, although he didn’t use that term precisely, but she told him about how she felt like she was a woman trapped in a man’s body and how dressing as a woman eased her discomfort.

He asked Valerie about her sexual history and she blushed when she admitted that she was still a virgin. She did not disclose her encounter with Ivan Petrov but admitted that when she presented as Valerie she found some men attractive and sometimes had sexual fantasies but nothing specifically graphic.

The doctor looked up at Anya knowingly and nodded and Anya nodded in return.

She was told to remove her robe and undergarment and to put on a surgical robe that tied in the rear. Then she was given a pair of paper underpants, a paper hat and cotton slippers.

“This is one of those times when you don’t ask questions,” Anya said when Valerie hesitated and looked questioningly at her.

Valerie was invited to lie down on a gurney and a man in hospital scrubs appeared out of nowhere and jabbed her with a syringe. Anya walked alongside Valerie, talking comfortingly to her as the gurney was pushed down a corridor, Valerie slowly losing consciousness during the journey. Her last coherent thoughts were of the blindingly white lights above her and a pretty nurse putting a mask over her mouth and nose.

Valerie awoke in her room with a coppery taste in her mouth. She was lightheaded and felt a tightness in her chest. She was still dressed in the surgical scrubs and the paper panties.

“Ah, you’re awake,” the pretty nurse that Valerie had seen before she drifted into unconsciousness said.

She took Valerie’s temperature and blood pressure and then helped her to sit up. She opened Valerie’s robe and fiddled around her upper body which to Valerie felt numb.

All the time Anya was present holding Valerie’s hand and smiling reassuringly. Valerie was still very disoriented and had no idea what was going on. Anya gave her a cup of ice chips to suck on while the nurse prodded and poked her upper body.

“What’s going on? What happened to me?” Valerie asked through trembling lips.

“She doesn’t know?” the nurse said to Anya who shook her head.

“Would you like to see?” the nurse smiled at Valerie who was too confused to respond.

In any event, the nurse fiddled with some bandages around Valerie’s chest and then Anya held up a mirror.

Valerie stopped breathing.

She had breasts. They were swollen and felt tight. The nurse gingerly lifted one of Valerie’s breasts to show her the incision underneath her breast crease. The stitches were almost invisible.

“I have tits,” Valerie said in an amazed voice.

“You have tits,” the pretty nurse smiled at her.

To Be Continued