Bend Over Jessica

Quite aside from Jessica Davies, there are a few other Jessica’s, who inhabit different time periods to fulfil my history mania. One is Jessica Anstruthers, a young lady in her late twenties who works in the Diplomatic Service in the 1950’s. Miss Anstruthers was posted to the British section of Berlin earlier this year, purportedly as a secretary to the British council – but in reality as an innocent-looking person to pass messages for the higher echelons, beyond the Berlin Wall, in the heart of East Berlin. Unfortunately for Jessica, she wasn’t as unobtrusive as she could have been and was caught by the Stasi*. After a traumatic period  of torment**, Jessica agreed, reluctantly, to pass messages for the other side, but never had a chance to betray Queen & Country as she was suddenly removed back to England, with a promotion to a higher level. Jessica never knew if the higher-ups in the Diplomatic Service suspected. She was just relived to be out of the clutches of the Stasi and her sinister handler, known only as ‘Sechs’ – number 6.

Since her horrible experience in Berlin, Jessica Anstruthers had been keeping her head down. Going to work, working hard, sometimes going out in the evenings, but mostly just keeping herself to herself. On Sunday, Jessica received a very unpleasant surprise. Waiting at Waterloo station for a train to take her home to Vauxhall, she was suddenly aware of someone behind her. Very close behind her. She went to move away, but suddenly, the hand was gripping her wrist, twisting the soft skin in a horribly familiar way….

“Why Miss Anstruthers, what a pleasant surprise. We meet again.” said the voice, in perfectly accented, but Germanically precise English. It was a voice of her nightmares and she knew without looking around that it was Sechs. Her heart leapt in her chest. She thought about screaming and running away – this was England after all, not a hotel in West Berlin – but he anticipated her. He always did.

“Don’t scream. It will be the last one you ever give.” he whispered. Jessica believed him. She knew what he was capable of.  “Follow me.” In a daze of horror, Jessica found herself shepherded onto a train, and sat down, the hand still gripping her wrist with painful precision. A young couple sat across the aisle. Help me! thought Jessica, silently imploring. But in the London way, the young couple didn’t really look at them. It was just a young woman and an older man. Nothing to worry about. Nothing to concern them.  The journey was a nightmare, Sechs engaging her in genial conversation, her stuttering replies. She didn’t doubt for one moment that if she tried to run for it, she’d get a knife in the ribs or worse and Jessica really didn’t want to die. Eventually, she was ushered off the train into an anonymous London suburb and along the streets into an anonymous London house. Her handbag was whisked away and Sechs, rough now that he was out of public view, shoved her down the steps to the cellar room. The room was not a simple cellar, but had a desk and chairs and the accoutrements of a meeting place. Although she fought, Jessica quickly found herself bound to a wooden chair, restraints cruelly biting into her wrists and ankles, a blindfold placed over her face.

“You’d better consider your situation.” he hissed. Then the light clicked off and Jessica heard the key turn in the lock. She was alone and in the dark. She hated the dark…

Experimentally, she wriggled her wrists. One of the restraints was loose on her left wrist. If she just pulled…but she wasn’t sure if she dared to try and escape. A surge of adrenaline overcame her resistance. Pulling and tugging, hissing with pain, she managed to pull free her wrist, and with a hand free, remove the blindfold, then deal with the rest of her bonds. She was free – but in a locked room. Cautiously, she clicked on the light. There was no gap under the door, through which to pull the key back through. The cellar room was also bare of things to use as weapons, apart from a few paint tins. Could she hit him with one of them? Paralyzed by indecision, she missed the key turning in the lock and suddenly found herself face-to-face with Sechs. His hand shot out and gripped her long blonde hair and she found herself propelled back onto the chair, wrists firmly bound for the second time. This time, he didn’t go away. He clicked on a desk lamp and shone it into her face, clicked off the main light and then he was behind her, his hands undoing her dress, unclipping her bra, lifting her breasts clear of her dress. She couldn’t suppress a shudder. It had hurt so much before, in Berlin…then the blindfold was back on. Was that worse than being able to see what he was doing with his hands?

“Now Miss Anstruthers, you caused us a great deal of trouble when you suddenly went missing. Thankfully we have found you.” he said.

“You can’t keep me here! This is England!” she managed, her voice an outraged squeak.

“So you think we don’t have agents here? You made a commitment to the Soviet Union. You can’t back out of that commitment for something as small as changing a country. You work for us now. Don’t forget it.”

“There’s nothing I can do for you here….” she protested. It sounded weak, even to her ears.

“You have the desk next to the Deputy Director for East Berlin. He is not there all the time. You can use that time to photograph his useful papers, using the camera I gave you.  Then you will give the pictures to me.”

Jessica was silent. How could she do that? Yes, in Berlin, she’d agreed to pass messages (even though she’s never got a chance to!), but here, in Britain – it was wrong. It was a betrayal of her country.

“Very well Miss Anstruthers. I’m sure you have a clear memory of our last meeting. It seems you need a little reminder.”

Jessica shrank in her bonds. There was nowhere to shrink to though….

She felt his hands on her breasts. His hands started to stroke them. One hand was smooth, vaguely titillating. The other seemed rough, sharp fibres scratching the delicate skin around he nipples. He was wearing a rough glove of some kind. She winced with pain as he increased the pressure, twisting and grinding them causing her to bite her lip. Then there was a familiar metal clicking. Oh God, she thought, please not the pliers again. I’ll cry…

The pongs scraped her breasts, the rough edges like needle jabbing into her skin. She jerked and screamed. He stopped.

“Do I need to gag you?” he asked quietly. She shook her head, ashamed of her weakness. He resumed his work, the pain started again, she gritted her teeth as the pain grew and increased, all in left breast until she was twitching and whimpering, small gasps of pain coming from her mouth. She choked back a louder sound as an intense pain flashed through her nipple. She could feel her eyes getting wet under the blindfold. But still she held off, held silent, stopped herself from giving the answer he wanted to hear…this was a battle that she might not win, but she would not lose it easily…

He stopped. She tensed. Her injured breast throbbed, red raw. Now what?

She felt his hands undoing her bonds. Then she was pulled quickly off the chair and thrust forward over the desk, her dress ripped away from her back and a martinet lashed across the exposed flesh. The martinet struck again and again, each stroke leaving a delicate tracery of red welts. Her weight was on her breasts, her sore breasts and she seemed assailed from all sides by pain on her front and back. His hand gripped her neck, holding her down easily against the cold wood of the desk and she struggled to get herself out of range of the punishing whip. She could feel her resolution draining away….

When he dragged her off the desk and over a metal bench, her dress slipping to the floor, she didn’t have the strength to fight anymore, but got in a few satisfying kicks to his shins with her heels. He didn’t even grunt whilst he secured her hand and foot. The metal bench bit into her arms as she struggled with the twin burning sensations in breast and back. Then he slid a hand between her legs, galvanising her to new struggle. He laughed at her flailing legs.

“I’m not interested in that my dear. Not yet anyway.” he said. She felt his finger anointing the lips of her vulva and her pussy and anus with something cold, which suddenly, rapidly, became very hot. She howled as hot sensation raced across her most private parts and something seemed to snap inside.

“All right!” she sobbed.

“All right what?”

“I’ll do it!”

“Everything you’re told?”

“Yes….yes….yes!”

“Very well. Good. I’m glad you have returned to us….voluntarily….”

He untied her, removed the blindfold and told her to dress, which she did, slowly and falteringly, her back and front burning with pain. He took her upstairs. She blinked in the sunlit room. How long had she been in the cellar? It felt like hours….

“Would you like a drink?”

The sudden kindness nearly undid her. She sniffed, held back a sob and refused. He flung himself on the sofa, his black clothes matching the black leather sofa perfectly.

“Now we will test your obedience. Get on your knees. I want you to fellate me.”

The clinical description repulsed her and she shook her head in mute refusal. In a flash, he was on his feet, slapped her face hard and then his hand was gripping her neck, choking her…

“What did I say about obedience?” She scrabbled at the hard fingers gripping her slim neck. He released her and she nearly fell over, gasping for breath. “Now do as I bid you.”

Reluctantly, she knelt, fumbling with the buckle of his thick belt, unbuttoning his jeans, unzipping and reached in and brought out his cock. It flopped towards her, as hard and threatening as the man himself. She lowered her mouth onto his cock, the thought flashing across her mind that he tasted, not unpleasantly, of soap. Three times she slid her mouth down over his cock and she though she heard the tiniest sigh of satisfaction escaping his lips before suddenly, he grabbed her hair and pulled her head away. She sat back on her heels, bewildered. He buttoned himself back up.

“It’s not about the sex.” he told her calmly. “It’s about control. Now get dressed – and await your first instructions. 6.30am tomorrow. It’s a Monday. The start of a new working week. We’ll be working closely together – and you should understand – I will always be watching you.”

Jessica stood up. He picked up some papers and scanned them. She hesitated. He ignored her. She wanted to say something. But nothing would come out.

Jessica picked up her handbag and left, walking back down the suburban street. Nothing about her screamed ‘Traitor!’ but on that bright June day, she knew that she was dammed to be one.

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*The Ministry for State Security, commonly known as the Stasi, which were the secret police in East Germany, well known for their impeccable spy operations. For a brief history, see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stasi

**During which Jessica realised she really, *really* doesn’t like pliers for anything other than DIY.