ElizaIt was the fentanyl that had changed things. The cops picked her up for selling a few pills on

ElizaIt was the fentanyl that had changed things. The cops picked her up for selling a few pills on the street when she was sixteen and threw her in a cell at the station. She knew she would be up before a judge in the morning and they were probably going to lock her up. Then she gets woken up in the middle of the night by this old guy in a suit coming into her cell. She thought he was a cross between an undertaker and Father Christmas. White beard, white hair, kind of like your favorite uncle. He says that he can make it all go away, that she can start a new life. Get clean. Apartment, nice clothes, money. She asked what she had to do, blow him? He said no, just help your country.Help her country? That was a joke. Ever since she’d run away from home at sixteen, her country had been trying to crush her like a cockroach under its slimy heal. A year earlier, she’d had enough of her stepfather and when everyone wouldn’t believe what she said he was doing, she just got out of there and headed to the city. She’d survived since by sleeping in empty repossessed houses, making a few bucks by either dealing pills or given hand-jobs to married dudes in their cars. But she knew the fentanyl would kill her eventually. It kills everybody eventually. But what do you do when you’ve got no hope? You needs drugs to cope with your shitty existence. And now Father Christmas in a tailored suit wanted her to help her country? Whatever, it couldn’t be worse than juvenile detention.So this white haired guy signs some papers and she’s free. No charges, no record. They give her a new identity. Erase her old one. Father Christmas says he’s her ‘handler’ and he’ll look after her. She still kept expecting he’d ask for a blowjob but he didn’t. He has this massive apartment on the edge of the city and she gets half of it to herself. She sees a doctor, has some tests.Then a dentist, gets her teeth fixed. They go shopping for new clothes. Skirts, tops, dresses, shoes, the works. Anything she wants. Christmas pays, says money’s no object. Life is sweet but she’s still wondering what her country is getting out of this. She asks him but he tells her to be patient, says everything is going to plan. There’s a plan? No one was telling her what it was.Then she starts lessons with the three wicked sisters. They weren’t really sisters and not really wicked but she liked the name when she talked to Christmas about them. They were all about fifty and looked like retired ballet dancers with slim figures and chiseled cheeks like they only ate one piece of steamed broccoli at every meal and spent three hours a day doing hot yoga. They were like the women who she’d seen drop off their Teslas for a service at her uncle’s tyre and lube shop. College educated, elegant. Life was never a struggle for them.Miss O was for speech. With Miss O, she first had to lose every conjugation of the word “fuck”. Kind of hard when it’s every second word coming out of your mouth. Then she had to work on ‘enunciation’ which seemed to be mainly about forming your mouth into a circle like you were giving a blowjob but without the cock. Then there was grammar. So much grammar. Although without the ‘fuck’ words’ there weren’t so many more left to get wrong.Madame P was for deportment and etiquette. Apparently helping her country involved being able to walk like a model in five inch heels while wrapped up in a tight chanel dress and make it look easy. She had to learn how to shake someone’s hand. How to sit elegantly in a chair. How to make polite small talk. How to eat a five course nouvelle cuisine meal at a formal dinner. How to hold a teacup, How to frigging stir the tea in the teacup! Damn, they had freaking rules for that too? Whatever, it was better than snorting opioids behind a dumpster.Finally, there was Mrs Q, who taught acting. They’d roll play for hours and it was kind of fun. Mrs Q would say something like “imagine you’re a lost little girl who needs help and I’m a strange man who you need help from so you try and befriend me”. On another occasion she’d say, “imagine you are a smart college student and I’m a famous politician you really admire and you see me in the street and you want to get to know me”. Sometimes Mrs Q would pull in older men from somewhere to act out the male part but it also felt these dudes were sizing up how good she was at faking it.A few months later, Christmas announces she’s ready and there’s something her country wants her to do. But she’s got to decide if she’s in are out because after this, there’s no turning back. If she wants, she can go back to who she was, no debts owed. Hell, she’s in of course! What moron is going to give up the good life for snorting some powder you just ground out from a purple pill with a cheese grater? It’s not like she has to go around killing people or anything, right? But wait, who the hell is she actually working for? It must have a name. Christmas says she works for him and that’s all she needs to know. The less she knows, the safer it is, he says. Fine, whatever, what’s the job?So Christmas drops this brown folder infront of her and on the top it says “ASSET: ELIZA” and inside there are pictures of some foreign diplomat dude. Not a bad looking guy, about thirty five. File says he’s got a cute wife at home with one young kid and another kid on the way. Problem is, this slimeball is as kinky A.F. and got a really strong interest in underage girls. He can’t resist trying to put his dick in anything in a skater skirt that isn’t a senior in high school yet.Horny diplomats aren’t people who regularly call up hookers because they know the other side could easily get to them that way. No, they prefer to meet girls randomly. Next thing you know, she’s got a job as a waitress in the cafe where this diplomat pervert likes to drink his mocha lattes. All she has to do is look cute as hell, take him his order, get him talking, give him a sob story about how she had to drop out school to make money to pay for her sick single mother’s cancer treatment. Goes likes clockwork and mister lovers-of-minors takes the bait. Asks her if she’d like to make a little extra money when she finishes her shift and next thing you know she’s knocking on a room door on the fifth floor of the Hyatt.Inside, she got to the point where she’s naked, he’s naked, she’s on her knees in front of him with his erection in her hand and he’s guiding her mouth towards the tip and he’s telling her to call him ’daddy’. The hard part in all this, apart from his perv’s erection, is making sure she gets him in the right spot so the camera behind the ventilation grill can get a good shot before the ‘cops’ burst in just as she’s about to get her saliva all over his manhood. They cuff both him and her, he claims diplomatic immunity as they read him his rights for statutory rape of a minor and she sobs her sweet ass off like Mrs Q. had taught her. It’s important the diplomat guy doesn’t twig she’s part of the shake-down otherwise her cover’s blown. Her blubbing doesn’t stop until diplomat dude is out of sight and they can take off her cuffs.This was basically how all her assignments went for the first few months. They’d get her a job as a hotel maid, dry cleaning shop assistant, dog walker, au pair, babysitter, you name it. Wherever she could meet the foreign high-ranking little-girl loving perv. She’d always know what they liked beforehand. If it was blondes, she’d dye her hair. If glasses was a kink she’d be rocking some specs. She wondered how they got to these guys after they were busted and once she got the chance to be behind the one way mirror when they got to hear their options. There was just a couple of hours to get what was wanted while they ‘checked’ the diplomatic immunity the dude was claiming and then they would have to call the guy’s embassy to apologize for their terrible mistake in making the arrest. Basically, it went something like this: it would be really bad if the fact you’re a filthy pedo got out. Really not good for your career, your wife and the new kid she’s expecting next month. If you do just this one little thing for us, we’ll forget about everything. And the ‘one little thing’ usually was little. Just a copy of some map showing missile locations. Or details of some new nuclear warhead they were building. It varied but it was never a big deal. No one was expecting them to really turn traitor. Just do this one small favor and the pregnant missus will never get to find out what you like to do with underage girls.These shake-downs were exciting. She loved the bit when they stormed into the room and pretended to arrest her mark. It was a buzz! Way better than pills. When she got home later her pussy would be as wet as fuck for some reason. She’d get out the notebook computer Christmas gave her and open up some tumblr porn blogs she liked to get herself off. But somehow it just wasn’t enough sometimes. She needed a real human. So she’d wander over to Christmas’s side of the apartment around midnight and crawl into bed beside him. He’d always be wide awake at that time with the light on doing these weird things called cryptic crosswords. He’d turn to her lying there and say some shit like  “3 across ‘HIJKLMNO’, 5 letters”. She’d answer, “Are you sure you don’t want a blowjob?”. He’d keep looking at his crossword and say something like, “I’m old, fat and totally disgusting, that’s why they chose me as your handler. So we wouldn’t get involved. Ah, the answer must be ‘Water’ of course.” She thought fuck, what did ‘they’, the mysterious ‘they’ know? She used to blow a lot worse for a couple of pills. Anyway, she’d give up and fall asleep with her hand touching his big belly. At least she wasn’t alone.Turns out there was a fourth evil sister she hadn’t met yet. Sister X was for weapons training and she was one tough cookie. Early thirties, trim, good looking, big fake breasts and very fit. Kind of like one of those characters from the Gladiators TV show. She gave off this sexual vibe like she sleeps every night in a huge bed with a couple young virgins who take turns eating her out. Weapons training sounded like goofing around in a firing range unloading a lot of lead out of the barrel of an assault rifle at some cardboard baddies. Sure, she learnt to use a Glock nine millimeter so she could blast herself out of a tight corner. But the real weapon she had to learn to use was a lipstick. At least it looked like a lipstick. You could even use it to pretty up your lips with some cute colors. But looks can be deceiving.Back in the apartment, Christmas puts another brown folder on the table after he cooks her dinner. This one’s marked with her codename “ELIZA” again but underneath is the new word “DISCONTINUATION” in bright red ink. She opens the folder and there’s a picture of a guy in his early sixties she didn’t recognize. As usual, he was a respectable family man, with grandchildren even, but he still had that fatal yearning for something with a pussy that was at least a few decades younger. She read the file and realized why Sister X had shown her how to use the lipstick.On the big day, everything went pretty much to plan. Next thing you know she’s got this sixty plus dude from the file naked in a hotel room breathing heavily in her ear on the bed with his hand down her panties. “You’re tense, lie on your front and let me give a massage with some big wet kisses,” she says and he’s right into the idea. She leans over him, giving him those big wet kisses she promised in between kneading his muscles. Except one of those wet kisses was the unscrewed bottom of Sister X’s lipstick. Inside was a sponge soaked in some colorless, odorless liquid. A few seconds after she made contact with the sponge against his skin, she’s screwed the lipstick back together, got up and went to the bathroom to wash any residue off her hands, just to be safe. The thing about a military grade nerve agent is it paralyzes the muscles in the arms and legs almost instantly, along with the ability to speak. When she came back from the bathroom and started putting on her clothes, he was staring wide eyed down at the bed as he realized he couldn’t move and couldn’t call for help either. She cleaned up any trace she was ever there and took one last look at this guys terrified face. His breathing was getting shallower as the chemical started to paralyze his diaphragm muscles. She knew his death would be recorded as just another heart attack. Thousands happen every day to men his age.Back at the apartment, she tries to sleep but that guys terrified face is in her head. She’d seen people overdose on fentanyl but this was different. She pads naked over to Christmas’s side of the apartment. It’s like two in the morning and he’s leaning up in bed doing a crossword from some London newspaper. She slips her hand over his big belly and squeezes her body against his. “Christmas, that guy was a douche bag right?” He pencils in an answer and speaks without looking at her. “Double agent. Complete traitor. He had it coming. Twelve down, a girl on both knees, 7 letters. Any ideas?” God, she was tense and she was so horny. Killing douche bags seemed to have that side-effect. “Christmas, my pussy is dripping and a need a good fuck to feel better. Just fuck me and get it over with.” So Christmas thinks for a moment, looks down at her and says, “if it will help you sleep.”She never imagined that an old man in his sixties could feel so good between legs but she was already connected to Christmas is so many other ways, why not one more. She needed to feel connected to him because she needed to be connected to someone. He’d become her father, teacher, mentor, protector, guide. Whatever you wanted to call it, he was the one person who could make her feel loved. Having him fuck her was the best way to make it feel real. As he huffed and puffed over her and ejaculated inside her cunt, she hugged him like his ying and her yang had finally fitted together into one whole piece. As his heavy sexually-spent body sagged down onto hers and his sweaty out-of-breath head was next to hers, she whispered into his ear as she had a sudden blinding insight. “Christmas, it’s ‘patella’. Two girls, one on each knee. It’s ‘patella’.”Over the next few months. She got to be quite famous. Well, infamous is probably the right word because she was ‘discontinuing’ quite a few douche bags who were betraying their country. The other side even gave her a nickname. The ‘white widow’. Apparently, they couldn’t identify who she was until one day Christmas comes back from some big pow-wow in the capital and says she can’t work for a while because there’s a price on her head. So the movies were right, international assassins for hire do exist. But there’s one more job they want her to do, he says. The Israelis wanted some help to take out a Hamas leader in Dubai who happens to get throbbing hard-ons for cute young European girls. Just a quick in and out. No big deal.The Israelis were the bad-asses in the world of spooks. They would always go the extra mile to get the job done. No way would Tel-Aviv screw up on something like this. Think again, Einstein. No sooner is she inside one of the rooms of some insanely high Dubai hotel tower than she’s got her hands locked behind her back, duct tape over her mouth and a black bag over her head. Next thing you know, she’s being bundled into a service elevator then into some vehicle outside when it reaches ground level. It was all one big set up and she wondered if the Israelis were in on it. Whatever. All hope wasn’t lost. At least they hadn’t stripped her naked before putting her in the vehicle. As they sped through the streets of Dubai, she knew things might get a little unpleasant, to say the least. She just hoped Christmas already knew she’d been taken.She had that bag on her head for a long time. Judging by the clean dry air and the lack of any sound apart from the vehicles wheel’s bumping over dirt tracks, she had been taken far into the desert. They bundled her out of the vehicle, down some steps into the damp coolness of a dark underground prison. They took off her clothes, released her wrists and threw her in a small dank cell. The last thing they did before locking the cell door was pull of the black bag from her head. She blinked around at a tiny concrete windowless isolation cell, about ten feet by three, lit by a single neon light strip nigh above her. She figured she knew what was coming next, and it wasn’t good.Apart from deportment, Madame P had also been responsible for training her to resist interrogation. The plan was pretty simple according to Madame P: “Don’t tell them anything but more importantly don’t let them think you don’t know anything, because you will only stay alive if you have value.” Simple to say but when you are being tortured with electric shocks and waterboarding, the theory gets a little fuzzy. After some pain therapy, they strapped her to a metal chair that was bolted to the floor and screamed things like, “we know you work for Professor Higgins. Who does he work for?” So that was Christmas’s codename? She actually meant it when she said she didn’t know what they were talking about. Then some more pain. Then some more questions. Madame P. had warned her that “the anticipation of torture is worse than the actual torture.” Inside her head, she was smiling at the irony that she had seriously considered killing herself many times when she was being abused by her stepfather. And now these jokers thought she was afraid of suffering? ‘Give me a break!’ was what went through her mind.She guessed she’d been lying naked on the floor of that cold cement coffin of a cell for around three days and nights when she heard the cavalry arriving. First one stun grenade somewhere above her, then another much closer. Shouts of panic in a foreign language before the distinctive sound of special forces close-combat automatic weapons firing in short bursts as they got nearer to her cell. Then there was a familiar accent telling her to stand away from the door facing the wall as they blew the lock off with plastic explosive. As big balaclavered  men in black grabbed her and took her to a waiting helicopter, she felt relieved her bozo captors hadn’t taken her shoes from her until they locked her up. With a GPS locator in one of the heels, it gave her hope Christmas would eventually bust her out. As the last of the black-clad commandos clambered into the chopper and the desert dust blew around them during take off, she knew she needed one thing from that fat old fart she called Christmas. When she got home she was going to get him to fuck her stupid. -- source link

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