Chp. 4 An Old Friend - Mikhiel Petrovich
Upstairs and outside the world seems to be going mad. A gang of mutineers has announced that they've arrested the President of the Union at his vacation dacha on the Crimean. But, not all units of the military have gone over to the rebels.
I know the Agency hasn't jumped one way or the other yet. I guess the Chairman is biding his time. It won't make much difference to me either way. Sooner or later the losers will begin to arrive in my domain... down here in the basements. Many, possibly even most brought here will be guilty. The wiser among them will immediately begin to tell me what I want to know, names of accomplices, dates and places of meetings, you know the kind of things we'd ask and they'll tell.
Of course, the wisest would have taken things into their own hands and made sure that they'd never be brought here. But then they'd know that all their nearest and dearest would have been roped in and brought to meet me in the basements of the Lubyanka in their stead. Then, it would become a case of whether or not they were so afraid of what I'd do to them in my basements that they'd take the ultimate way out or did they love their parents/wives/ mistresses/children/grandchildren/siblings enough to allow themselves to be taken alive? In my experience, love doesn't win out all that often.
With some of my special encouragement, they'd begin to tell me everything they knew, everything they thought they knew and anything they suspected. Finally, they'd try and guess what I wanted and begin to fabricate lovely, elaborate stories implicating everyone from their mother to the Pope of Rome.
In my years down in the basements I have found that the best way to break in a new group of prisoners is to select one who is the most likely to be innocent and the least likely to have any information at all to give me and start right in on him. An old friend of mine Andre (we once were sergeants together in the basements) came up with the idea of placing microphones around to pick up our prisoner's cries and augment them with speakers set in every cell block so that all our population of "guests" would hear whomever it was that we were working on clearly. Then without even asking any questions we start in on him.
First, four or more trustees set upon him and rip off his clothing, leaving him huddling on the stone floor wearing nothing but the chains he came here in. If he is young and attractive and the brutes let their hands roam over and play with his body while they're stripping him so much the better. Better still if he protests the treatment and his protests and squeals are heard through the miracle of electronic reproduction all through the basements. A scrotum grabbed and squeezed, an asshole violated by a finger or two. . .these will only help our other guests reach their inevitable decisions to cooperate much sooner than else they might.
While we allow the trustees these simple liberties they know better than to attempt to take a prisoner's cheery, whether of mouth or ass. That is reserved for the interrogators and the guard staff under their direction. The rape of an attractive youth while pleasurable for the interrogator can also be a source of unvolunteered information about the prisoner's state of mind and the degree to which he has begun his personal surrender process.
Does he clamp his anus shut? Or, more aptly put, does he try to? Is he so foolish he threatens to bite a cock entering his mouth? Does he just hold the cock in his mouth and make the guard grab his ears and do the work? How much more whipping will be required to completely and utterly break him? All the myriad possible tiny differences in his reactions and actions convey meaning to the seasoned interrogator.
No matter where on the scale they start eventually, they all arrive at the same place. They become active, and yes, almost joyful participants in their own rape. Of course, by the time that point is reached it's really no longer rape and by and large they've given up anything and anyone they had of interest to the People's Prosecutors.
Then it'll be just about time for them to come down with pneumonia and leave the basements as a small box of ashes. Some manage to attract and hold the imagination of a guard for a while and are kept around as that guard's pet and play toy. But eventually the guard will lose interest and that pet too, becomes a box of ashes.
We have one guard, quite a sentimental fellow, who always takes a souvenir of his favorites. He is rumored to have the most extensive collection of seamless leather tobacco pouches and coin purses. I've even heard him boast that he can remember the name of each prisoner from whom he's taken a memento.
Ah well, enough of gentle reverie. When I came to work this morning there was nothing specific that needed doing. Because of all the unsettledness upstairs, I had been feeling out of sorts. Then I remembered the German boy. He is a nineteen year old who'd been slowly backpacking across the Union and taking lots of photographs, sending them back as rolls of undeveloped film. Of course, the Agency had intercepted them and had them developed.
Besides the pictures of Russian girls in clubs, on bicycles, at universities or in some cases posing against rocks or in gentle meadows in the mountains, there were also lots of pictures of bridges, train stations, subway stations and highway interchanges. The decision was made to pick him up and bring him to our basements.
At first he kept insisting that he was only a tourist and a student of architecture and public transportation. He still hasn't admitted his real mission to spy on the peaceful peoples of the Union yet, but he will. He no longer screams his innocence, confining himself to groaning and crying.
I opened his cell and ordered him out and into the central chamber saying, "Come on, it's time to go to work." He groaned and staggered out, his penis swinging slightly from side to side, his scrotum pulled up closer to his body, the chains connecting his ankles clinking on the stone floor. He knows what to do and staggered to the padded saw horse bending himself over it.
Today for the first time, I didn't fasten his restraints. I judged him broken enough not to need them anymore and he was proving me right. As a reward, after I'd removed my trousers and under shorts, I walked around and stood with my crotch at this face. "If you don't want a dry fuck, take me inside your mouth and wet me down." His mouth dropped onto my cock and he sucked and slavered like a starving man, which, of course, he was. There's not much point in over feeding enemies of the people whose guilt and fate is already known. He thought I didn't know that he was trying to get me to feed him, but I did. He suddenly realized that his hands were free and brought them up and taking my balls in them began a delightful massage that if I'd let it go on, would have brought me off in no time. This boy has learned a great deal under my tutelage.
When I'd had enough, I slapped his hands away and went back to his ass. "Reach back, grab your cheeks and pull them apart for me," I ordered. With a moan of despair he did as I'd ordered. The horse on which he was leaning had him at a slightly lower level than me. I lined my cock up with his hole and fell forward and into him. He released a sob but held still. The warm, velvety confines of his ass welcomed me like a favorite uncle, or would have if he'd been into homoerotic incest.
I had sunk almost all the way in on the first pass. I could hear him moaning and groaning, but so what? This wasn't about his pleasure, it was about mine. I wanted this to last, I also wanted to see if I could force him to ejaculate. I ordered him to place his hands on the back of his neck and began stroking my way home. His ass had begun to manufacture its own lubricating juices and he'd begun imperceptibly, at first, to push back against my cock.
Again, I think his first motivation was to get me off quickly in the hope that that would end his ordeal, but I kept making sure I was hitting his prostate and soon his body, so long battered and abused in the basement began to realize that it had the chance to steal a little pleasure in all this pain. His thrusts were at first unconscious, the reaction of his tormented body. Then he realized what he was doing and for a beat or two he stopped. I continued, aiming for his prostate. Then with a sob of abject surrender, for the first time, he bucked back against me. I reached forward and took one of his wrists into each of my hands. I wanted to so conquer him that he would ejaculate, as the result of his rape alone.
For this German breeder boy that would be the ultimate surrender, the ultimate unspoken but total capitulation and I wanted to be the one to take his capitulation. Like Zukhov took Berlin, I was going to take, to own, this boy.
When his orgasm came it came as the prelude to a soul wrenching onslaught of weeping. I, of course, could feel its approach in his ass sheath and when it hit him the muscles clamped down on me and I spilled my seed into his guts. He wept as his manhood was irrefutably taken from him. I shouted the pleasure of my victory. And, to think that the Agency paid me for doing this, my job. . . I'd have gladly paid them.
I laid on his back for a few moments getting my breath back. My cock loved where it was and happily stayed right where it'd been when it finished claiming his ass, his soul, the way explorers claimed new found land. They stick a hard flag pole into the land, I'd stuck my hard flesh pole into my German.
I pulled up off him, keeping a steadying hand on his back as I came around to his face again and ordered him to clean me up. I didn't want to be around my guard staff and them sniffing the air and smiling knowingly at me. "Make sure you get your tongue up under the skin. I'll not have your ass juices fermenting there," I instructed him. His ejaculate was in several puddles on the floor. From the quantity in the puddles and the number of puddles he must not have cum in quite some time. His cum looked a beautiful creamy white and I could see one last ribbon forming on the end of his cock. Taking my finger I caught the ribbon and brought it to my mouth.
Assuming that a man hasn't recently eaten anything with a strong after flavor, like some cheeses, his ejaculate is essentially tasteless. Slightly salty, but tasteless. This boy produced a cream with a slightly sweet flavor. I wonder if that was the result of his severely reduced caloric intake or was just normal for him. He and I certainly would have enough time together for me to find out this and all the rest of his secrets.
Later after he'd absorbed the import of this morning's lesson, and I'd re-charged my energies, I would have to ask him about that, and other things. Who knows I might just make him my pet, at least until something new came along. He had continued to nurse on my cock and it had begun to respond in slow, lazy happy way, getting chubby on its way back to erection, but I didn't want to come again so soon. I pulled out of his still sucking mouth and as I checked under the skin, just to make sure, I heard the faintest trace of a sad little, "oooh". He had done a fine job and my cock was as clean as you could ask. I stroked his back from his shoulders to his ass and then pulled him up and headed him back towards his cell. Sniveling quietly, he shuffled off into his cell, even closing the door behind himself.
I had just finished re-locking his door when a sergeant came running up to me saying that a general was on the phone for me. A general, for me!? As we approached the phone the sergeant told me it wasn't just a general but a colonel general, at that. All right, I'll admit it, I moved a bit faster than I might have done. I don't believe that I've spoken, actually spoken to any kind of general in my life, so few of them want to come down to my basements.
I took the phone and heard "This is Colonel General Andre Vasilieevich German, who is on the other end of this phone?" If Nikolai Sergeievich himself, had walked in I couldn't have been more surprised. It took me a moment or two to get past my shock and I responded, "I am Warrant Officer Mikhiel Petrovich Godon. What can I do for the Colonel General?" He answered, "Don't worry if you've been working and are or will be a bit disheveled. Just come up here right away, we have a good deal to discuss." As suddenly as he'd been on the phone he was off it and another voice, a young voice announced that the general was off the line and gave me the room number then suggested that I might want to hurry up to the office, the general's clock was ticking!
I called the sergeant over and asked if when the call had come through it had been specifically for me. Had they used my name? "No," the sergeant said, "they'd asked for the senior most guard on duty." Well, then, it'd only been the luck of the draw, good. No one had been looking specifically for me.
As I straightened my tunic and checked myself in the mirror, I was hurriedly thinking that I had once known an Andre Vasilieevich, we had been sergeants together right here in the basements. We'd been friends, good friends. He'd risen to captain and I to warrant officer, then he'd been sent off as the Chairman's personal representative to begin a round of unannounced inspections through out the Agency's facilities and offices around the world. We'd lost track, but it was beyond imagining that he'd risen so quickly and so far. It had to be another Andre Vasilieevich, it just had to be, but still. . . .
Armed with the knowledge that the call had not specifically sought me, I slowed my pace to a fast walk. I'd get to the Colonel General's office soon enough to show that I'd come quickly but not so soon as to suggest a panicked run. Besides, I needed time to gather my thoughts and slow my heart rate.
Whomever this General is, he must swing a big club. His office is only doors away from the Chairman's own. I entered the outer office to find four military clerks. The senior clerk offered me a seat and said that their orders were to knock once upon my arrival but that no one was to enter without an express order from the General.
I asked the clerks to describe the General's uniform I figured that'd tell me if he was Staff, Infantry, Armor, Anti-Aircraft or what. They said he was wearing a business suit! "So then," I asked, "how do you now he's a general?" They had been told his rank by a Headquarters Staff colonel who'd been kept busy running errands for the General. That was good enough for me. If he could make a colonel jump, he had to be a heavy hitter. That pretty much ruled out my old friend Andre Vasilieevich. So this general must be from some reasonably remote area possibly Soviet Asia. Was he here because of the on-going coup?
I could fry my brain if I kept trying to figure everything out. It's be much easier on myself if I just laid back and waited for events to unfold. One of the clerks offered me a glass of tea, but the last thing I wanted the General to see, was me lounging about sipping tea while a coup was underway. Then they tried again to get me to sit down. That seemed a bad idea , too.
I didn't want this guy to think I was some kind of a lay about. I started off standing three or four meters from the door waiting for his summons. After a couple of minutes I began to pace. There was just enough room to take six paces, then about face and repeat those six paces , but this time in the other direction.
After what was probably only ten minutes, but seemed longer, the door to the inner office opened slightly and a voice boomed out,
"Mikhiel Petrovich, you old dog, come in and say hello
to an old friend."
The looks on the faces of the clerks were indescribable. Shock and a new found fear of me were painted there for anyone to see. I'm not sure what my face looked like. I wish I could have seen it. The voice sounded like my friend, but it just didn't seem possible.
Training took over, I marched three paces into the room, heard the door close behind me, snapped to attention and announced, "Warrant Officer Mikhiel Petrovich Godon reporting to the Colonel General as ordered, Sir." While staring straight ahead, I made the most militarily precise salute I knew how to execute.
There, behind a truly mammoth desk stood a grinning Andre Vasilieevich. The friend and co-worker of my youth. He laughed heartily, then came out from behind the desk and took a chair which was sitting there. He looked past me and ordered, "Pavel, bring a chair here for my friend." I looked behind me to see who it was he'd addressed. I was dumbstruck. There stood a magnificent blond example of Slavic male youth and except for his identity discs, he was absolutely naked.
It would seem that Andre had found advantages to being a general officer that aren't mentioned in the Army's annual reports. It's a good thing that the chair arrived quickly as had it not, I'd have probably fallen flat on my ass. I could only sit there gaping at my friend and every now and again pivoting my head on my neck to look again at Pavel.
"Step over here, Pavel so that the officer can see you. In fact, I want you to stand at his side facing him. Anything he does to you, it is my will for you. Remember your orders, my Pavel. Now tell the officer who you are and why you're here."
The Slavic Apollo stepped to my side and said, "I am Pavel Dimitrievich. I was a code clerk and have been given as a gift by the Chairman to the Colonel General. I am his slave."
I am not, I believe, a man who is easily stunned but I was certainly stunned now. There I was sitting in a comfortable club chair in an office not fifty meters from the offices of the Chairman of the Agency, himself. Across from me was my old friend from our youth who'd left here only two and a half or three years ago as a captain, but was now as I've been assured and reassured, a Colonel General and stand next to me a vision of the finest example male youth and he was naked.
"I know," Andre said, "Let's do this. . .Pavel, sit on the arm of the officer's chair and as his hands explore your body, tell him everything you know about me, my project and my recent promotion." Then to me, Andre said, "Miki," he used the nickname he'd given me when we as young recruits first worked together in the basements. "Miki, Pavel's body is yours to play with. You may do as you like except that he is forbidden to ejaculate. His life now is to be about making sure that I and my guests ejaculate, not him. He will be punished if he ejaculates without permission, and he knows that. I thought you might enjoy petting and caressing him. Beauty like his rarely makes it all the way down to the basements. You may squeeze his bag a bit if you want. A little pain might be instructive for him, but let him tell his tale. Now, Pavel, begin."
While Andre was talking to me Pavel nestled down so that he was partially on the arm of the chair and partially on my lap. This allowed free and unfettered access to the entire front of his body. Before Pavel could begin, I first instructed him to suck on the first and middle fingers of my left hand for a bit. For just a moment Andre's face betrayed amusement and approval and he nodded to Pavel to do as he'd been told. Once my fingers were well wetted I withdrew them from his mouth and passed my left arm behind him, pulling his body towards me in the chair. Now, he was inclined like a child leaning to place his head on his grandfather's shoulder. This had the benefit of sliding his ass slightly off the arm of the chair. His left cheek was still on the arm of the chair, but the cleft between his beautiful cheeks was now hanging in space between the arm of the chair and my lap.
I listened in growing wonder as I heard Pavel tell of decoding Andre's message to the Chairman. What a message! Andre was a man of vision, willing to take incredible risks in order to win even more incredible prizes. As Pavel continued I, I allowed my right hand to explore his chest and play with his nipples. It's always fun to be the first to play with the nipples of a boy who up until his encounter with you had never had anyone teach him that he had more erogenous zones than just his penis. My left hand not to be outdone, stealthily sought out the cleft between his magnificent buttocks and the portal to paradise located therein.
Pavel tried to maintain his narrative flow while I was frankly doing my best (some might say my worst) to distract him from his recitation. Once my digital explorers had found his bud, they began to circle it like a raiding party of wild Huns narrowing in on a kill. From his expression I am certain no one had ever touched him there before. What a rich gift Andre had allowed me. Just as he was describing having picked up Andre at the airport this morning, my middle finger entered him and his voice betrayed his surprise. The finger having gained entry, it was but the work of moment or two to find his prostate. He'd reached the point of describing the colonel coming to the motor pool to fetch him just as my finger fetched up against that small lump of flesh that can rob any man of wit or conscience and his voice broke like that of an early adolescent. Andre's eyes betrayed the merriment he was feeling watching his Pavel's single minded attempt to fulfill the orders he'd been given while his youthful cock began to betray him as it rose out of his lap and began to look around the room rather like a ferret on the steppes.
The big difference between the cute little furry creature of the plains and the equally cute little hooded creature in my lap was that the one that lacked fur was at another disadvantage. It had but one eye which was now weeping copiously. Remembering the taste of my German in the basement, I brought my right hand down from Pavel's nipples and coated my right index finger with his exudates and brought that up to my mouth to make my comparison.
Since the output I'd tested from the German was actually his semen, in a way this almost seemed unfair to Pavel as the only product of his I could test was his pre-cum. But, then who ever guaranteed that life would be fair? Pavel's production was crystal clear and essentially neutral in taste. What he lacked in flavor he more than made up for in quantity. "You know, General," I said, "everything that young Pavel has explained has the ring of genius, but I fear that you've over looked a possible revenue stream." "I have?" Andre was enjoying this bantering. "Oh, yes, General. Given the production ability I'm witnessing here and the flavor produced by one of my 'guests' in the basement I'm surprised that you didn't consider establishing a dairy herd. At least for private consumption."
There was a moment while we looked at each other and then we burst into uproarious laughter. "It is so good, Sir to have you back." "Well, Miki, are you interested in my little project?" I need a second in command a man at my back who understands both the potential of the project and the unique opportunities that the project would present to who run and maintain it in all its facets."
"Andre Vasilieevich, I am honored that you have asked me. I will take your back and I guarantee that while I draw breath none will breach it. How do you see me fitting into your organization?"
Just as Andre was about to answer, suddenly Pavel gave a little whimper and cried out, "Oh, General, I didn't mean to. I've done nothing to cause it. . ." and ejaculated. Finally, I'd be able to make a proper comparison between him and my German.
End chp. 4