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The Spycracker: Soviet Ballet Troupe in Peril (various f/6f, interrogation, noncon)

AfNull

TMF Regular
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Sep 4, 2012
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226
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The most heated periods of Cold War were past already, and a recently founded Russian ballet company пернатый, Pernatyy, from Soviet Union had traveled to America for exhibition performance in New York, sending several groups of dancers with their instructors. This was one in attempt to dissipate tension, but below the surface, the intrigues and rivalries of communism and capitalism weren't going anywhere. Uneasy paranoia ran deep, and the realities of cold war were present as ever.

Despite all this, groups of Soviet citizens could enjoy privileges of traveling abroad. In this case, small groups of gifted ballet dancers trained in Soviet Russia's most prestigious dance studios were arranged to have performances in USA, as both a political publicity stunt and superficial gesture of if not good will, at least non-hostility for now. This kind of travelers were often at keen surveillance by secret services of both countries, as they could be used as means of gathering intelligence, delivering messages to spies or even infiltration and sabotage. According to tip of a mole working within Soviet intelligence, one of the ballet groups wasn't coming to USA just to perform, they were there to contact local agents with new instructions straight from Moscow. CIA decided to set a trap, allow the groups into the country, and take the one implicated in spying to custody quietly and discreetly to prevent public diplomatic incident. They had pinpointed a group of five girls and their leader Ekaterina Kutshovich as spies, and they turned out to be correct. Classified intelligence documents signed by men of Kemlin were found in her hotel room that was investigated while the group was performing, and similar damning evidence was found in rooms of the girls. Next day, as the ballet groups were participating in guided tours of the city, Ekaterina's group was guided in a small bus that would not really take them to New York Museum of Modern Art...


New York, USA, 20th of May, 1979.


"Isn't this... The wrong way?" Natasha asked her friend and fellow dancer, Xenia. She was the most bookish girl of the bunch, and had studied the city of New York, it's maps included, and knew that the bus was not taking them towards the museum she had been looking forward to.

"Might be roadwork or something... Can't trust capitalist system to function when it comes to the needs of common people!" Xenia said back, chuckling.

Each group sent by the ballet company had went their separate ways to be given a tour of some of the landmarks and wonders of the city - all condemned as vain attempt in capitalist propaganda by the group leader Ekaterina and most of the girls beforehand of course.

"I'm glad we aren't a group taken to see their Western ballet... Can't even imagine how dreadful it would be. How these uncultured Americans would butcher masterpieces!" Xenia continued, making other girls nod in varying enthusiasm.

There were six Russian women in the bus at total, five young dancers and their elder group leader.

The leader was named Ekaterina, a 49 years old woman with professional dancing background herself. Ekaterina was tall, still slender and in good shape. She preferred to keep her light brown hair short just above her ears, and was wearing large glasses due to her worsening eyesight. Ekaterina was wearing a casual light sweater, that was a bit too warm for the climate with straight black pants and high heels. As for the girls, they were teenagers, each either 18 or 19, and each wearing the outfit provided by dance studio. White long sleeved button-up shirts, red skirts reaching their ankles and matching red shoes without socks. Ekaterina was sitting in front of the bus, discussion with the driver quietly and looking a bit worried, while the girls were huddled to seats at back of it.

Natasha was a 18 years old very thin girl with long raven black hair and green eyes, who might appear frail and petite with her clothes on, but she's actually extremely fit with body honed with discipline and exercise since early childhood. Despite being dedicated to her body and ballet, Natasha is also curious and intelligent erudite with lots of knowledge, and she spends most of her free time reading books - both approved and questionable. She's been waiting for this trip a lot due to her interest in world outside the Soviet system, a trait she's probably inherited from her secretly liberal minded mother who has even given the girl English, French and German literature to read and taught Natasha to be somewhat proficient English and French speaker, although with a heavy accent. She was also well versed in history of her home city of Leningrad - formerly St. Petersburg, "window to the West" - and often daydreamed about old days she never experienced herself.

Xenia was 19, a young lady from shores of the Black Sea with neck-long dark brown hair and brown eyes, but quite fair skin tone that still got tanned very easily. There were already faint tan lines in shape of a t-shirt with short sleeves and knee-long skirt on her, despite summer still being young. She was modest type and not one to show off her toned body, but it was somewhat envy of her team mates how fit and taut her stomach was. Not that anybody would want to bring it up when talking to her, as coming from family of zealous Marxist-Leninists she would consider such thing capitalist vanity and believed her gifts at dancing were used for the good of Soviet system.

Tatyana, 18, was a dancer born and raised in Moscow with long, dirty blonde hair and largest chest of the bunch, that was uncommonly ample for a ballet dancer. Despite that, the blue eyed beauty was as graceful as other girls of the troupe, and diligent in her practice, partially due to her will to show off the best version herself and insecurity for her almost unconventional body for trade of her dreams. Still, she had succeeded in following her passion, and secretly wished she could attain international career beyond the iron curtain.

Nina, 18, was a girl from Kazan and her Central Asian ancestry was apparent in her exotic looks. Her long hair was like black smooth silk and her eyes were dark, striking and mesmerizing. She was well aware of her beauty and enjoyed taking full advantage of it, even on this trip she had flirted with American guys so much that Ekaterina had already given her several stern talks about what's appropriate for someone representing Soviet Union abroad. She didn't care too much about politics, as long as the spotlight of attention was at her, and as a ballet dancer she had her fair share of it.

Feodora was a rowdy 19 years old girl who was originally from Russian far east, born in Vladivostok and lived large part of her childhood in island of Sakhalin due to her parent's work in in forestry and construction. As a descendants of Russian settlers who moved to the region in 19th century she had light brown curly hair and hazy blue eyes, and ended up in training program for dancer through a pure chance. She was an active and cheerful girl, always happy to see new places and faces but her carefree attitude often got her in trouble. She was currently teasing Xenia, whose seriousness she considered adorably amusing.

The girls were chatting with each other, without any worry in the world, but Natasha was getting worried, and seeing Ekaterina getting more uneasy as the bus driver and security guard appointed to them apparently didn't answer her questions of their destination anymore got her even more nervous. Of course she had been told beforehand that America would be more dangerous and unsafe country than Soviet Union, but surely they would be safe and sound with publicly posted guard. They were guests after all.

"Girls, quiet." She said as she suddenly saw Ekaterina breaking into shouting at the people transporting them. Ekaterina spoke passable English, and Natasha could tell that she was shouting something about stopping the bus, letting them out, something about the embassy... The chatter of Russian girls was finally ended by Ekaterina's shriek, as the security guard pulled out a gun and pointed it at Ekaterina, forcing her to sit down, and then at girls at back of the bus.

"You all should sit still and quiet. We are not quite there yet." The man said in quite good but still accented Russian. The girls went pale. This was what they were being warned of. They were being robbed! If only they knew the extent of trouble they were finding themselves in...

The bus drove to a garage in a quiet run down alley, and it was almost immediately surrounded by armed men and women in suits. Ekaterina and the girls were told to walk out with their hands up, and the shivering girls obeyed. The man who had pulled a pistol at them in the bus walked in front of them after they had been forced to kneel on the floor with their hands behind their heads, as females present were doing a body check on them. The man spoke, still in Russian.

"We know all about you. You are working for the KGB, with intent to use your visit as cover for subversive activities and contacting your pre-existing spy network in the US. CIA is very interested in the mentioned spy network and organization and training methods of KGB, and you are going to provide us information on both."

The captive Russians gasped, making Ekaterina stutter.

"T-this is some sort of mistake, we-we are just part of a ballet troupe, we-"

She was interrupted by piece of paper being dropped in front of her.

"We are familiar enough with your documents to know what this is. It's a list of new codes your number stations are transmitting, and you were supposed to familiarize new agents with it. And same applies to your so called 'dancers'... We found similar documents in their hotel rooms. Your plan wasn't all bad, I give you that. Too bad we got tipped off by a mole, I thought KGB was famous for swiftly dealing with them."

This evoked a chuckle from a man, and frightened sobs in the girls.

"P-please..." Shivering Natasha pleaded. "We... We don't know... It's not ours! Thi- MMMPH!"

She was suddenly grabbed from behind, gagged and blindfolded, and her arms were handcuffed behind her back. Same was done with other Russians, who futilely tried to fight back as they were restrained and dragged towards two black vans waiting for them.

"I thought this would not be easy." The man sighed, now in English. "Contact the 'Workshop'. Tell them six packages needing 'processing' are on the way. Agent Andersen will drop by tomorrow and she likes to see progress!"

The vans sped away, taking the Russian captives with them to uncertain fate towards the place even most CIA agents prefer to not even talk of - the 'Workshop'.


CIA interrogation blacksite codenamed Workshop, undisclosed location near New York City, 21st of May, 1979.


Agent Tara Andersen opened a locked door to old seemingly abandoned warehouse by a quiet, declining industrial area, and walked in. The clanking sound of blonde woman's heels echoed in the dark corridor illuminated only by her flashlight, until she reached a metal door that was clearly out of place here. She knocked on the door six times, and it was opened by a woman holding a gun. Her stern expression got more relaxed as she saw the guest.

"Agent Andersen. We've been waiting for you." She smiled and beckoned her to enter.

"Take me to the director's office. I got a lot to discuss with her."

The guard nodded and they ventured deeper to a complex with concrete walls, well lit and equipped with cutting edge surveillance equipment to make sure that nothing that happens beyond the sturdy front door is left undocumented. This facility - called Workshop - was clandestine detention and interrogation center used by CIA, housing exclusively female persons of interest with information that needed to be extracted. Most people in dangerous profession of international espionage have been trained to resist painful torture and other unconventional means of coercion, but this facility was using a method that had been proven to be irresistible time and again. Exploitation of weakness so common in women, yet something that cannot be resisted even with most disciplined of training or will power. Tickling.

Andersen walked the corridor with doors at both sides. They were properly soundproofed, and with knowledge of what was going behind them the silence of the corridor was eerie. Andersen had been here before, several times, but it always sent a shiver to her spine. She entered the office of director Abigail King, a respected veteran agent who was known as pioneer of interrogation methods - and had served as leader of the facility since it's inception 15 years ago. The surprisingly small woman was sitting behind her desk, wearing a formal and modest black dress. Her skin was pale and her black hair was braided. She raised her head from paperwork she was sorting out, and looked at agent Andersen.

"Tara, always good to see you."

"Pleasure is mine, director. My boys and girls did good work catching the spies we were hunting yesterday. I could not be present myself, I had to supervise the work done to... Explain their disappearances. Terrible bus crash. With such experienced driver and bodies burned beyond recognition... But accidents happen."

"Of course. I'm sure you're curious to find out what we've discovered during their stay here. I took the liberty of authorizing the interrogations before your arrival, I know how much you love walking in here and receiving instant results."

"Indeed. Time is of essence in our trade. Have they talked?"

"Not exactly... Three of them have confessed being spies but have not divulged any information. But we'll get there, even though the resistance of these prisoners has been remarkable. Exquisite subjects. The KGB must have prepared them for this. Let me show you."

Director took Andersen to one particular corridor, and led her through a door. It was a small room with two more doors, one to the left and one forward. They stepped through the door to the left, and arrive in a dark room with chairs in front of a window, that was actually a one-way mirror. Past the mirror, they saw ongoing interrogation of one of the poor ballet dancers. It was Xenia. She was wearing the usual outfit for prisoners in this facility, tight grey shorts and a matching skimpy crop top. She was tied on a wooden table, tied on it from her wrists and ankles, and there was a cushion under her back, forcing her body to arch. Her body was rendered completely immobile, but her head, feet and hands were helplessly thrashing and flailing as she was screaming. The cause of her distress was a female interrogator with serious, stone cold expression spinning a small bristly brush in her belly button, relentlessly and mercilessly, not taking her eyes off the clearly begging girl's belly for a second as she continued the cold blooded torture. There was another cushion attached to table under her head, to prevent her from hurting herself by banging her head to the table, allowing the torture to go on without risk of the victim rendering herself unconscious. It was certainly needed, as what little thrashing and buckling Xenia could do, it was wild, almost violent. They could not hear her to this room, but it was obvious that she was suffering horribly.

"Could I listen for a while?" Andersen asked, and her wish was granted.

Director flipped a switch by the mirror, and they could hear desperate, laughing shrieks and incoherent panicky babbling in Russian from high quality speakers installed in the room. They listened it for several minutes while watching her ordeal, the stone faced interrogation not giving her victim a moment of mercy, poor Xenia being tortured far beyond any ticklish suffering she could have ever imagined existing. Director spoke of this case after she closed it off.

"This one is very patriotic. She would praise her country, it's communist system, call us imperialists and threaten us with nuclear annihilation."

Director chuckled.

"She also turned out to have most ticklish belly button I've ever seen. The translator went to see her after the first round of interrogation, and she was more than apologizing for everything she said. She still denied being a spy, so we exchanged the soft feather used in first session to lovely torture tool you see now. After the second round she practically begged to tell us everything we want to know. She confessed being a spy. She must have had second thoughts then, as she would not tell us anything about her mission or training. She clearly hasn't reached her breaking point yet."

"Has she been questioned for a third time?" Andersen asked.

"No. The translator will visit her again later today. We have discovered that depriving prisoners of their chance to end their torture is very effective. That girl only speaks Russian. Her interrogator does not, she can't understand her. Once agent who speaks her language enters that cell, the spy will learn to consider her a saving angel instead of an enemy. Someone to reach out to in order to end the torture. She will cling to that and talk. I'm sure of it."

They left the room, leaving Xenia to suffer constant tickling sensations on the bottom and walls of her deep navel, and moved on to see how next spy was faring. They went to observe interrogation of Ekaterina, who was tied on a chair with tight leather straps that only left palms of her hands and fingers unrestrained. Otherwise she was immobilized from head to toe, her legs locked in firm stocks on front of her complete with toeties and on top of that gagged and blindfolded. Director switched the speakers on right away. The sounds of Ekaterina's torture would not disturb them too much, as her screams were muffled. Andersen looked at the suffering mature woman being tormented by two female agents. One agent was tirelessly tickling her feet using her long nails on her hapless soles, raking them from up to down over and over again. Meanwhile, the other agent was standing right next to her, tickling Ekaterina's ears with small, fluffy feathers. Andersen could not tell which was worse for the trapped Russian woman, but judging by her heavy attempts to struggle and tears staining the blindfold, she was not enjoying herself. The most telling detail of her suffering were her hands, sometimes clenching, sometimes grasping the handle of chair, sometimes flailing wildly...

"The supposed ballet teacher... We actually took her to watch first interrogation sessions of all the younger spies before we started with her. She refused to talk. Refused to confess. She was very convincing in her pleading and crying though. She's been trained well, but her refusal to co-operate even when offered chance to spare her comrades from suffering prove undying loyalty to her superiors. She can actually speak English, so we chose this method to control her chances of confessing. It will probably be of no use to actually interrogate her for a while, so if you allow it, I recommend keeping her under... processing until tomorrow. Before that, we still got a trick for her."

"Have it your way. You're the expert here. What is that trick if I may ask?"

"You sure may. As you see, her hands are still free. She's probably using them right now to divert her full attention away from the ticklish agony. It is her last refugee in situation she must already consider hopeless. The final thing under her control she clings to. It is our job to break her, so we will take it away, but not yet. I assure you, it will be last drop required to demolish her resistance. She will get a break from tickling, only for us to tie each finger tightly down to that handle before continuing. She doesn't know it yet, but losing that last bit of control... It will be something she will not be able to stand. She will be very co-operative by the time she's actually allowed to speak again."

"I'll... Take your word for it." Andersen was visibly disturbed, but tried to not allow it to bother herself. People here were enemies of her country after all.

"Thank you agent Andersen. I'll introduce you to a real chatterbox next."

Moving on, the agent and director moved to observe interrogation Feodora was going through. The tomboyish dancer was tied face down, with leather straps keeping her firmly on a table but revealing the key spots. Her feet and backs of her knees. She was also attended by two agents, one was using a huge hairbrush to tickle bottoms of her feet, tied together by a rubber band restraining her big toes. Every now and then she poured some lotion on the soles to keep up the intense brushing without actually harming her skin. The other agent was holding two shaving brushes and sweeping behind the poor girl's knees, and as Andersen listened to torture session, she could hear only hysterical, cackling laughter that sounded so intense that it was a small wonder the girl had not fainted already. She was facing the mirror, and on her face was an expression of pure fear, fear of this terrible agony going on for even one second more. But it did. Oh, it did. After the voice was turned off, Andersen turned to the director.

"You said she's a chatterbox. What's it about?"

"You see, when we begun her interrogator, we originally determined her feet to be her weak spot. However, she would stay defiant, quite frankly telling our translator to go screw herself... It apparently was even ruder in Russian. We kept experimenting, and when we touched her behind her knees for the first time... I don't think I've even seen a prisoner getting so terrified so fast. She started talking like a machinegun, I'm quite sure she made at least full confession along that monologue that continued all the way as she was tied down. Needless to say, she's been on that state of terror for quite a while now. Our translator got quite offended by her words, so we are going to make sure she will behave nicely the next time she gets a chance to speak with her. When she feels like speaking with her again."

The director smirked, and they moved on.

"So she is the second one who confessed? What about the third?"

"I can show you."

They went to witness Tatyana's torture next. She was tied against a wooden frame, with her hands above her head. Her legs were restrained on the ceiling, and she was forced to tiptoe a bit. Unlike other prisoners, she was only wearing the shorts of the prisoner's uniforms, otherwise being topless. She too was at mercy of two interrogators, one behind her and one in front of her. The one behind her was using large feather dusters to tickle her large breasts, focusing on tickling under them, allowing a bit blushing Andersen good view of her breasts. The tickler behind her was using her nimble fingers to tickle her body from behind, focusing on the spot where the skin of her tits met the skin of her ribs. This treatment was driving the blonde beauty berserk, she was tugging on her restraints and shaking her head, trying to hit her ticklers - of course out of reach - with it. Her ordeal sounded exactly like what it looked like, pure ticklish horror with high pitched screams that somehow still sounded girly.

"She is interesting subject. Tickling just her breasts - heavy laughter. Tickling just her ribs like that - heavy laughter. We originally had just one interrogator alternating between the spots, and it seemed to do the trick. She was very eager to give us full confession after just one tickling session, even expressing seemingly sincere desire to tell us everything about her mission and life as a spy... But whatever she said, it was clear fabrication. Nonsensical rubbish. And all that after confessing she's a spy! I don't know if she did it to mock us, but I do not like prisoners who waste our time like that. So she is being punished. Her worst spots tickle tortured at the same time. Her laughter and movement of her body tell me that she's already really sorry for trying to make a fool out of us, but she will be much more sorry if she doesn't have her story set straight the next time we question her with a translator. She'll know that it can always get worse at the Workshop."

"I believe you, director." Andersen answered. She was a bit curious about how it could be worse but preferred not to know. As a woman with ridiculously sensitive breasts herself, she was sure that witnessing this scene alone would haunt her nightmares for some time.

The CIA agent followed the director to next room.

"The translator is actually there right now. You get to see her work in action."

They went to the observation room and director activated the speakers right away. They heard the suspected spy, Nina, breathing heavily, sobbing and speaking Russian with shaky voice. She was tied on a table as few of her fellow dancers, and there were four people inside with her. Four interrogators in the standard black wear of the Workshop, and a fifth woman, long haired redhead wearing a white dress. She was smiling, and patting head of the crying Soviet girl, whose beautiful hair was a mess and grey prisoner's outfit soaking wet with sweat. It was clear that she had been through a tickle hell. The woman listening to her suddenly put her hand on Nina's mouth, gently silencing her, and asked her something, with a kind voice and empathetic demeanor. As Nina burst into even more hopeless tears and said something shaking her head, the translator looked down on her with a sad expression, and turned around to leave the room. Nina, despite just appearing tired, started struggling like crazy and screaming after her, clearly begging her to come back as four interrogators gathered around her. Her pleading turned into laughter as the placed their skilled fingers on her skin, one tickling her armpits, one tickling her sides and kneading her belly, one focusing on squeezing and pinching her thighs and the final one taking her place at her bare feet, switching between foot of focus, holding it still while tickling with the other hand. Nina descended back into tickle hell she clearly had suffered in before, her roaring laughter so loud and the voice cracked even in the high quality speakers of the facility. The director turned the voice off, and went to invite the translator in before she got too far. She returned with her, and Andersen shook her hand.

"Lillian Underhouse. Pleased to meet you."

"The pleasure is mine. Agent Tara Andersen."

The women sat down for a while to observe renewed, harrowing interrogation of Nina, and Lillian spoke in a bit wistful voice.

"The poor girl... Her trainers have done good work with indoctrination. I've never worked with anyone so ticklish, anyone so desperate to make it stop, and she still was unable to tell me what I need to know to help her. She's not getting out of there until I get what I need, and I wish she understands it soon enough."

Andersen could tell that Lillian wasn't being very sincere. She watched the torture of exotic young woman with lustful eyes, making Andersen wonder if she would allow her torment to end even if she told the truth and only truth. Andersen hoped so, while she didn't really have anything against extreme discomfort of enemy spies, her superiors would tear her a new one if the investigation won't yield eventual results. The left Lillian to admire Nina's tickle torture, and moved on to the last prisoner.

"There's one more, I think."

"Yes. Another English speaker. And a very ticklish one. We suspect she was supposed to remain in United States as infiltrator. She has denied everything, but as you know, we got the ways..."

Andersen was taken to yet another observation room, to watch Natasha being interrogated. This was a bit different from what she had seen before. The thin girl was topless like Tatyana had been, to ensure full access on her ribs, that apparently were her weak spot. And how weak? She was tied on what looked like a medieval torture rack tilted to angle of 45 degrees, and had an agent working over her ribs with what looked like pair of large electrically powered rotating brushes, and they were driving Natasha crazy. Her upper bod was drenched in some sort of liquid, implying that she had been oiled to maximize the brutal efficiency of brushes. Her body was stretched taut, rendering her unable to escape any of the clearly excruciating tickle torture, and as they listened to her torment, Andersen thought she could hear words like "wait", "no" and "mercy" amidst the laughter only caused by utterly unbearable tickling.

"That device is officially banned... It's considered too dangerous, even for interrogations where torture is authorized. It's so easy to go overboard with such a powerful tool. To tickle the prisoner out of her mind, and madwomen tell no reliable tales. Fortunately, the agent you see operating it is a professional. She will keep the prisoner in worst state of ticklish agony one can imagine, but will not overdo it. Hopefully." The director explained.

"But bosses don't need to hear everything and not every interrogation session needs to be recorded. We are doing this for homeland security after all. That spy is someone Kremlin likely had special plans for, and I'm sure you agree that we must know what. The noble end will justify our means."

Andersen cringed, but nodded in agreement. This work wasn't pretty, but it was necessary. Judging by Natasha's face that was contorted in expression of pure torment Andersen was certain that she would not hold out for long, no matter her training that must have been special for her to endure it even until now.

Andersen went to director's office again, to have a cup of coffee and discuss the case before being on her way.

"I'm a bit worried, you know... Your methods often break the prisoners within 24 hours of their arrival. Resilience of these spies is a bit unnerving. What if whatever Kremlin has done during their training works? What if they are conditioned not to break through some form form of psychology? Hypnosis or brainwashing? We need to make them divulge their information quickly."

"Don't you worry Tara. I bet you a bottle of fine scotch they won't last two more days. There is no question about their guilt. It's just a matter of time."

Still, Andersen left the facility with heavy hearts. There had been something peculiar about those Russians... Something she had not seen in any other prisoners. Could it be that CIA has made a mistake? Andersen shook those thoughts off her head as she entered her car and drove off towards her office in the city. She would have to turn in paperwork about the state of investigation before tomorrow. This all would start to make sense once the Workshop breaks the spies. It always does.


A plane heading for Moscow from John F. Kennedy International Airport, 23th of May, 1979.


The mood in the plane was somber at best. Not all girls had even known the dancers in the group that perished in a terrible, sudden traffic accident, but it still left them sad. To return home without everybody on board. However, in a private portion of the plane, five girls and a mature leader of their group were discussing with a scarred, older woman who was slowly drinking whiskey from her glass.

"The plan worked to perfection. Leaking correct information with false clues and planting evidence on an innocent group diverted all the attention of CIA away from rest of you. Mother Russia is proud of what you accomplished in New York. Our spy network there is stronger than ever now. You safely brought them documents and information that would otherwise have never made it to straight to their hands reliably. I will personally assure you that each of you will be rewarded and your careers at KGB will be fruitful."

The girls smiled, but the female KGB agent who posed as their group's director was looking grim.

"What's wrong Svetlana? We succeeded. Right under the noses of Americans."

"I know, Yelena. But I can't help feeling bad... Those girls and their group's director... They are completely innocent, and at hands of CIA. I'm sorry for not being able to focus solely on our success. I know they are not suffering in vain though. We need to honor their sacrifice to the motherland."

Yelena raised her glass.

"I know how these things work Svetlana. The Americans are not complete monsters despite being capitalists. They won't kill them. They will eventually realize their mistake, and arrange exchange of prisoners. Trust me, our prisons hold enough unimportant enough Americans for that. They will be well rewarded heroines on their return!" If they will be in state to enjoy it, Yelena thought to herself while finishing her drink.

Meanwhile back in the Workshop, agent Andersen informed director that in light of suddenly heightened Russian espionage activity she's been granted as long as she feels necessary to break the new prisoners. Director Abigail King always liked tackling challenges...
 
Wow, you just keep on delivering! Another amazing and fiendishly cruel tale! Magnificent!
 
I love your stories but could you put a little more detail in tickling the bouncing tits ang jiggling butts of the helpless girls? Then they would be perfect :D :D
 
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