Breaking and Entering

She should have been cold. The StealthSuit she wore was microns thin. She felt like she was naked and covered in a dusting of black powder. The Techs bragged that light slid off of the suit like water off a duck. The black body stocking was so sheer and felt so insubstantial that Natasha felt naked and exposed.

Natasha had laughed when she first saw the suit. It was no bigger than a Barbie Doll's costume. Yet it easily stretched to cover her 5'4", 120 pound body. The Tech who had helped her suit up hadn't been shy about staring. In the bright light of the TechLab, Natasha's nipples poked proudly through the fabric. The suit was so form-fitting that it was evident that the curls covering her pubic mound had never known the touch of scissors or razor. One could even see the slight ridge of the knife scar across her shoulder. But in the dim moon glow on the roof of the offices of CogicSystems, Incorporated, Natasha was as invisible as catshadow. She scraped frost from the skylight window. She should have been cold.

The mission couldn't have been simpler; slip into a CogicSystems office, enter a command into a computer and get out without leaving a trace. Simple. Insulting, even, for an agent of her caliber. But she didn't question her orders. Didn't even bother to ask the whats or whys. She just chewed on her frustration.

The mission was only the matter of a few hours, but they were hours that would not be spent in pursuit of the elusive Greystoke. Trapping that mercenary had been her primary operational objective for three years now, yet she felt no closer to him than she had that first night, as she sat in her office studying his dossier, and he was there, impossibly, miraculously, under her desk, the tip of his switchblade against her femoral artery, his tongue on her swollen clit. Or that night in an alley in Madripoor, protecting her undercover identity as a streetwalker, sucking Greystoke's cock as three piggish policemen looked on laughing, her knowing that they would arrest and torture them both if they suspected that they were anything but hooker and john. Or that night in her flat; Greystoke bound to her bed, only to escape, leaving behind a puddle of cum on her sheets and a red rosebud on her pillow.

Her controllers were growing frustrated with her, tossing these make-work assignments on her desk, knowing they kept her from the very mission they were impatient for her to complete.

Natasha touched a button on the edge of the sleek goggles she wore and they took on a yellow, cat's-eye glow, gathering the pale moonlight on the deserted rooftop. Bypassing the alarms and picking the locks had been the work of minutes. The building was not guarded, except for a sleepy rent-a-cop in the lobby. There was apparently nothing to steal, but she was there to leave, not to take. Slip inside, turn on a computer (even a secretary's would do) enter a few memorized keystrokes, then vanish into the night. She dropped through the skylight, landing as quietly as a cat. She slid down the row of cubicles like a shadow, choosing one far from the windows. She chose a cluttered desk, covered with papers and envelopes and a Dilbert coffee mug stuffed with pens and pencils.

She slipped the goggles down around her neck and pulled off the StealthSuit's hood. She ran her fingers through her close-cropped hair. A nudge of the mouse brought the computer screen to blue life. Its desktop photo was a picture of a tropical beach. A few tek tek teks on the keyboard and she was done. She paused at the desk, staring at the ocean waves breaking over the white sand, and the naked, tanned bodies glowing in the sun. Was it time? She had stashed away enough money in enough untraceable accounts to allow her to live out her days in comfort, if not opulence. Maybe it was time to walk away.

"You'd be bored to tears inside of a year," said a low, musical voice from behind her. Her spinning back-kick was on its way before she really even registered the voice. It had connected before she recognized it. As she settled into a fighting stance, she saw him, sprawled on the carpet, rubbing his chin. He was, as usual, dressed all in black; trench coat, suit, shirt and tie. A shaved head and a red goatee. A rosebud in his lapel. Greystoke. He smiled up at her.

"I always forget how quick you are," he said.

"What are you doing here?" she hissed.

"I came to stop you, though it appears I am too late."

"Stop me? Why?"

"Why? My, my, little spy. You don't even know what it is that you've done, do you?"

"What are you taking about?" she said.

"Mindless little agents, running here, sneaking there, do this, do that, kill him, blow up them. And never once ask why."

"I'm asking you."

"And I'm not telling. No matter. It will only take me a week or two to unmake the mess you've made. Time I would have rather spent on a beach in Tahiti, but such is life," he said.

Natasha's mind raced through her options. None of them were good. To protect the mission, she needed to eliminate or capture Greystoke. She had no doubt that her fighting skills were superior to his, but he was a foot taller than she and outweighed her by about 120 pounds. Any fight between them was sure to cause damage, and she was under orders to leave no trace of her incursion. She carried no weapons or restraints. She had no back-up. If she left him here, he might easily undo whatever it was she had done. She had already been inside too long. She needed to leave, and she needed Greystoke to chase her.

On the desk next to the computer, she had noticed an official-looking memo. It was merely information about a company Christmas party. Nothing that would be missed. But Greystoke hadn't seen it. Natasha turned on her megawatt smile, the smile that could make most men, and not a few women, weak at the knees. She held her hand out to Greystoke. He raised an eyebrow, dubious of her intentions, then reached out to her. She took his hand and hauled him to his feet. Then, using his own momentum against him, clapped her other hand behind his elbow and flipped him head-first into the cubicle. He landed with a crash, flat on his back.

Natasha snatched the memo from the desk, but not so quickly that Greystoke couldn't see it. Then she turned to bolt down the aisle. Greystoke's hand shot out like a striking cobra and caught her by the thin fabric of her StealthSuit, right at the base of her spine. The suit tore away, and like a run in a stocking, the hole spread wide. Natasha was left wearing a collar and sleeves. Her legs were still clad in the sheer, black fabric, but her breasts, stomach and ass were now bare. She looked like a black cat with a white belly. She turned back to Greystoke, a look burning in her eyes that was something between annoyance and anger.

Greystoke's eyes took their liberty of her pert breasts, her hard abs and the thick nest of black curls that covered her underbelly. He glanced at the tiny piece of fabric in his hand and broke into a Cheshire grin. When he chuckled, Natasha's anger got the better of her. She kicked him in his head.

As he fell back, he hooked a foot behind her knee and jerked her leg out from under her. She sat down hard, a jolt running up her tailbone to her skull, rattling her teeth. The adversaries sprang to their feet. Natasha whipped a backfist at Greystoke's temple, which he ducked, realizing too late it was a feint, and catching her knee under his chin. His head snapped back, exposing his throat. Natasha's hand shot out like a spear, jabbing into his larynx. He staggered back into the cubicle wall. She lashed out with a sidekick, pounding her heel into his sternum like a sledgehammer. He doubled over, and she stepped in, ready to drive her elbow down onto the back of his neck. But Greystoke lunged forward and rammed his head between her thighs. His hands caught her behind her knees and he stood straight up, lifting her and banging her head into the low ceiling. Then yanking down on her legs and bending sharply at the waist, he whipped her down onto the desk. Her head cracked against the hard, wooden surface. Her vision went white. She crumpled to the floor.

A look of momentary concern came over Greystoke's face and he stepped to her. Natasha lashed out with a mule kick. He pivoted just in time to catch it on his inner thigh, sparing himself a pair of ruptured testicles. But his pivot left him side-on to her, and with a sweep of her other leg into his heels, she cut his feet out from under him and he crashed to the floor. Natasha leapt up and bolted down the aisle.

She had covered only a few strides when she heard his footsteps behind her. He dove at her, wrapping his strong arms around her thighs in a perfect open-field tackle. They slammed to the floor, her legs clamped in his arms and his face buried in between the cheeks of her firm, bare ass.

Greystoke's arms were like iron bands around her legs. His weight kept her pinned, belly to the floor. She tried to spread her legs to break his grip, but succeeded only in forcing his face deeper between her ass-cheeks. She reached back to grab at his head, but his shaved skull left her nothing to grip. Her fingernails, clipped short as a burglar's and clad in the slick fabric of the StealthSuit, left her nothing to scratch with. They struggled like that for long seconds. She could feel his hot breath on her naked cunt. At last, her groping hands found his ears. She grabbed them and began to tug. She heard him groan in pain. The harder she tugged, the tighter he gripped her legs. Just as she thought she must surely rip his ears from his head, he plunged his tongue into her bunghole.

Natasha shrieked, and with newfound strength, flipped the two of them over. Now his face was smothered by her ass. Had she the time, she could wait until lack of oxygen caused him to pass out, but she had already been in the building to long, and the sounds of their struggles might not have gone unnoticed. She sat up, her full weight now smooshing her ass into his face. She grabbed the pinky fingers of his hands and began to bend them backwards. Just as his grip began to loosen, she felt his teeth close around her clit. It became a test of wills. The farther she bent his fingers, the harder he bit.

And then her body betrayed her. Despite it all; the mission, the pain, the desperation, she felt herself go wet between her legs. She could smell her own arousal. His face buried in her muff, the scent must have been overpowering to Greystoke. He could not fail to notice. And he did not.

She felt the tip of his tongue begin to tickle and tease at her swollen clit, still clamped between his teeth. His nose nuzzled into the wet slit between her pussy lips. Almost against her conscious will, she eased her grip on his fingers and nestled her ass onto his mouth. His teeth released her clit and his tongue began to toy with it; pressing and twirling, nudging it from side to side, lapping her like a dog.

Greystoke released her legs and clamped his hands over her thighs, pulling them apart. The butterfly lips of her cunt spread for him and he drove his tongue inside. His face was drenched with her woman's juices. Hands that moments before had been clawing at his flesh, now tore at his belt and his zipper. His cock sprang free, thick and hard. Natasha spread her legs into a split and bent forward at the waist. Her hot mouth engulfed him, her lips stretching wide to take in his girth.

Greystoke began to thrust his hips, plunging the head of his cock deep into her throat. Her saliva drenched him. She held him tall with one gloved hand while the other cupped his big balls. They writhed there on the floor; these adversaries, these enemies, these lovers, driving each other to the brink of ecstasy.

His hands slid up her lean body to cup her breasts. He pinched her hardened nipples. She let out a deep-throated growl as she reared back and toppled into climax, gushing her juices into his eager mouth. Then, at her moment of surrender, Greystoke raised his legs and locked his ankles behind her head. Thrusting up with his shoulders as he yanked down with his legs, he flipped Natasha over onto her back. She slammed hard onto the carpeted floor. Before she could catch her breath, he dove on top of her, crushing her under his weight, plunging his face back into the wet mess of curls in her lap.

He rammed his cock back into her gasping mouth and began to fuck her throat. His fingers toyed with the engorged lips of her cunt and teased her tight, puckered bung. His tongue assaulted her burning clit.

Natasha's hands clawed at his taut ass as he plunged into her wanton mouth, over and over, his balls slapping at her face. Her body began to shiver as another orgasm grew within her. Greystoke lifted his face from her and two fingers from each hand slid into her cunt. He pinched her clit between his thumbs, squeezing and rolling and tugging at it. She would have screamed had her mouth not been filled with hard cock. Her hips began to buck as he drove her to the brink. Sensing the nearness of her release, he spread her pussy wide and attacked her clit with a fury. It was more than she could bear. She exploded into climax. Jets of her cum squirted from her in a spray. The smell of hot sex was overwhelming. Over and over she squirted her hot juices, then collapsed like a rag doll.

Greystoke bent his face to her again, licking and tasting and sniffing his wet handiwork. Then he rolled off of her and sat back against the wall, his pants around his ankles, his hard cock jutting out to her, its head purpled with lust.

Natasha struggled to gather her wits. She clawed her way across the floor to a desk. She hauled herself up and rested her hot forehead against the cool felt of a desk blotter. She caught a breath. Then another. Then she felt Greystoke grip her slender waist in his strong hands.

"No. Wait," she gasped.

"I think I won't," he growled, and rammed his cock into her sopping cunt. He drove its full length deep inside her and she yowled like an alley cat. She clutched the far edge of the desk and held on for dear life. He pounded her without mercy, his thick cock stretching her wide, his heavy balls slapping at her aching clit. She felt another climax growing inside her.

"Not again," she whimpered. "Dear God, not again. I can't take it."

Then his hand smacked her ass with a resounding crack. She shrieked. He began to spank her hard.

"That's for kicking me in the head." Smack!

"That's for trying to tear my ears off." Smack!

"That's for trying to break my fingers." Smack!

"That's for trying to kick me in the balls." Smack!

"And this..." Smack!

"This is because you like it." Smack!

He wailed on her burning ass-cheek with his wide, flat palm. The slaps echoed off the walls. He thrust harder and harder into her ravaged cunt. Anger and passion tangled in her mind. Each sting of pain was like an electric shock of lust. She came hard, over and over, each climax building on the one before. White sparkles filled her vision. She felt detached from her own body, her consciousness floating on a sea of sensation. She struggled to form one last rational thought.

"Don't... don't you... don't you dare cum in my cunt," she whispered.

"As you wish," he said.

She felt his long cock slide slowly from her. A split second of relief, until she felt his swollen cockhead pressing at her bung. Lost in the orgasmic chaos of her mind was the tiny word "no", but it was drowned out by a chorus of sluttish desire. She lifted her ass and willed her bunghole to open to him. He plunged inside. She screamed like a banshee. Her body ignited with a heat she had never felt before. She spasmed, lifting the far legs of the desk from the floor. His fat cock, slick with her cum, plowed in and out of her. A hot spray of her cum drenched his balls. The world receded from her. She was seeing without comprehending, hearing without understanding, feeling... feeling... feeling.... until she felt no more. Then all was darkness.

The sound of sirens woke her. The world came back to her in flecks and flickers. There was a chill wind blowing across her face. The left cheek of her ass burned like fire. Her pussy ached with the sweet ache of overuse. Her bunghole was sticky with a wet trickle of semen that ran down her thigh. She was on the roof of a building. She was wrapped in a black trench coat, many sizes too large for her. There was an envelope in her lap. She opened it. Inside was a hand-written note and a red rosebud. The note read;

Better luck next time, little spy. Now fly away home. The hawks are circling.
Greystoke.

The sirens grew louder. She tugged the trench coat tight around her. It swallowed her like a blanket. It smelled of his sweat and of cigarette smoke. She held the rose to her lips. She parted them, wrapping them around the fat bud. She remembered the thick head of Greystoke's cock and how it had filled her mouth. She remembered how she had surrendered her most intimate self to him. Snowflakes melted on her blushing cheeks.

She should have been cold.

...