Matryoshka Doll (mc, nc, FF, FD, oral)

By Aerosol Kid <aerosol_kid@hotmail.com>
Visit me at /~AK_Home

The people and events in this story come from my brain, not the real
world.  Regardless of what that tells you about my brain, it means
that I'm not writing about you, your mom, your friends, or your 
friend's friends.  So you can't sue me.  Neener neener.

If you're under age in your territory (and you know what I mean),
then read something else.

(c) 2001 Aerosol Kid

It's one of those mornings.  Riley is stepping into her black pumps
while furiously brushing her teeth in her bedroom, because she's late
as fuck for a marketing meeting.  Her team is supposed to pitch a new
campaign to a Korean car company next week, and progress is slow. 
She's new to the firm but everyone seems to like her input, so they're
probably already in the conference room, freaking out and wondering 
where Riley is.

She races to the bathroom sink, spits and rinses.  Ignoring the mirror,
she grabs her makeup bag and crams it into her Versace purse, then she
throws the purse over her shoulder while smoothing out the hem of her 
black Prada dress.  Riley digs through her purse on the way down the 
stairs, making sure she has everything.  She neatly sidesteps the cat 
without looking as she reaches her goal: getting out the front door.

She negotiates the sloping driveway, moving as fast as her pumps will
allow her to *clack clack clack* out to the car, then she throws her 
stuff into the passenger seat of her brand new Audi coupe.  Sliding 
into the leather driver seat, she guns the ignition and she's off.

Why she overslept is a complete mystery.  She's only been awake for 
about twenty minutes, so it doesn't concern her too much that she can't
remember going to bed last night.  Getting to work is the all-consuming
task at hand.

Traffic is terrible and she hisses a litany of swear words, taught to 
her by her Ukranian grandmother.  As the beltline expressway abruptly 
gridlocks, she sighs, rising up in the seat to even out the wrinkled 
dress beneath her legs, when what she wants to do is scream.  It's going 
to be a while before traffic starts to move again, so Riley starts to 
put on lipstick in her rear view mirror.  Her cell phone's muffled chirp 
sounds from deep in the bowels of her purse, and she continues to work 
the lipstick as she digs around for the phone, gripping the steering wheel 
with her knees.  She's trying to think of an excuse for her lateness as 
she turns on the phone and puts it to her ear.  "Yeah?"

"The rain in Spain," says the digitally masked voice on the other end of 
the line.

A bunch of things disconnect in Riley's head.  She watches her blue eyes
widen, then relax in the rear view mirror.  It's like she just slammed 
into a wall, the way her head is buzzing -- the pressing need to get to 
the meeting has been wrenched away in the impact.  She feels around in 
her thoughts for the inertia of her frantic morning, while a much softer 
voice passes her lips.  "I'm alone and ready for instruction."

"Get off the freeway and drive to the south branch."  The command is 
garbled by cellular static, so Riley blinks a couple of times until she 
figures it out.

"Understood," she mumbles, already cutting onto the shoulder and heading 
for the exit.  She frowns, because she can't recover the irritation she 
just felt.  Or the anxiety, or the numerous thoughts about the ad campaign.  
All that stuff is cloudy, receding.  This worries her, but she doesn't 
know why.  The worry is a reflex -- just like the way she's responding to 
the caller -- because this has happened to her before, and the worry 
is usually taken care of by something else.

"You may pleasure yourself," comes the next command.  Then the line's
dead.

Riley drops the phone, pulls up her dress and frigs herself as she 
drives down the exit ramp.  She bites her upper lip as she grinds the 
heel of her palm into her clit, which swells and hardens with each pass.  
She moans, an irritated noise, because she's not permitted to cum until 
she reaches her destination, and she's not allowed to exceed the speed 
limit.

***

"Stand up straighter," a woman is saying.  Riley blinks, because she 
can't remember anything since this morning in the car, and the clock 
on the wall says it's noon.  She straightens even before she looks down 
at what she's wearing.  It's a maid's uniform, tasteful but brief.  
She can feel a breeze on her bottom.

The severe looking woman is talking to a man in a suit.  "Too bad her 
mother married a Brit and watered down that Russian blood, or Miss 
Ilyukin here would be even more curvy.  I assume she has her father to 
thank for her regrettable first name."

"How is it Russian girls can look so damn *good*?" the man wonders as 
he boldly traces a finger along Riley's arm.  She stands at attention 
and lets them stare at her, but her cheeks redden.  "I like her coloring," 
the man decides.  "She's fair, but not too pale.  The client will love 
her."

The woman is suddenly all business.  She presses a set of keys into 
Riley's hand and fusses with her hair.  "Your client today is the usual 
john.  Or jane, I should say.  She's requested a maid for the afternoon, 
which is clearly your specialty.  We had you call in sick to your office, 
then gave you the usual brief orientation, after which you were fed, 
bathed and dressed."  So that's what she's been up to all morning.  
Riley doesn't remember what she ate, but she can tell it was good food.  
"As usual, you'll do whatever the client asks, within certain limits.  
Anything funny goes down, you'll automatically press your panic button."  
The woman hooks a finger around Riley's narrow black belt and tilts it 
up to show her the tiny switch concealed in the buckle.  "The attendant 
who'll be driving you to the site is equipped to deal with emergencies.  
That's all."

Riley curtsies and says, "Yes ma'am."  Her handlers seem satisfied with 
this, so she wanders out to a parking lot occupied by several identically 
marked vans.  A large, inscrutable man in overalls is waiting by the last 
van, and he motions her into the passenger seat.  He politely belts her 
in, then drives her to her appointment.

***

The client has let Riley into the foyer of her large, stylish house, 
but Riley senses she's being evaluated before being admitted further.  
The lady is tall, thin, fortyish.  With striking red hair, tied up neatly 
except for precise bangs and two long, stray strands to frame her face.  
And even though she's wearing a light blue kimono, she has a subtle 
air of power that goes beyond her casual assumption that Riley is here 
to serve.  "Tell me how you came to work for these people," she says.

Riley clasps her hands behind her back.  "Well, Miss Oliveira, I guess
you could say my introduction to this service started with its owner.  
We met one night at a bar."  She sounds matter-of-fact because she's 
a little bored.  The clients all know how the service works, but they 
almost always want to hear the story from her own lips, like horny 
teenagers who can't believe their luck.  Miss Oliveira has asked the 
question casually, but Riley can still sense the sexual energy behind it.  
"He was posing as a rich scenester out on the town, and I guess I fell 
for it.  He drugged my drink, then made me leave with him.  After that 
I was subjected to a process I don't remember.  Now, whenever I get the 
call, something kicks in and I drop whatever I'm doing.  I go to a branch 
office and they tell me where the client is, and what they want.  When 
I get home, I forget everything.  I usually get a trigger call which 
contains fake memories and excuses for the time I missed at work."

Miss Oliveira is watching her intently, hand on her chin.  "Mm Hmmm," 
she says.  "And what is it you do for a living?"  She's looking at 
Riley's legs.

"I'm a graphic designer for a Fortune 500 ad agency."  All these personal 
facts are cool and distant; they're only available to Riley because 
this woman wants to know about her.

The older woman whistles.  "Smart, pretty *and* successful.  And thanks 
to this process you mention, you'll be my house slut for the afternoon."

A slight groan escapes Riley upon being called that - partly because 
her body automatically moistens at the word, partly because her 
conditioning can't completely squelch her irritation at the woman's 
lack of creativity.  She swallows the bad taste of deja-vu.

But she doesn't know this woman very well.  A ghost of a smile plays 
across Miss Oliveira's lips, which brighten her expression more than 
would seem possible.  Ostensibly satisfied with Riley, she aims her 
down a long hall and follows close behind.  

"To be perfectly honest, the maid thing was just a ruse," she says 
apologetically.  But Riley isn't really capable of being surprised or 
taking offense.  "You see, in my line of work, I've tampered with the 
minds of many, many people.  Some as lovely as yourself."

Riley is not very interested in the background of her client.  

"There was a time when I would unwind by going downtown and spiking 
the drink of an unsuspecting model, or a pretty lawyer, much like the 
story you just told me.  I'd bring them home for the night, put them 
into a trance and get them to do all kinds of things for me.  And with 
me, and to me."  She puts an arm around Riley's shoulders as they walk.  
"But, you know?  Lately that's not really getting me off."

Riley ambles a little faster as they enter a cavernous living room lit 
by massive skylights.  She's hoping her Mistress for the day will finish 
the back-story and get to it.  She spies a big leather couch and heads 
in that direction, when Miss Oliveira catches her around the midsection 
to stop her progress.  She feels a sting on the part of her ass that's 
peeking out from under her very short skirt.  The arm around her waist 
holds her firmly where she stands, and she feels a wet swipe where the 
sting was.  She smells rubbing alcohol as her legs give way, spilling 
her out of her pumps and onto the rug, where she rolls onto her back 
and groans.  The high is really strange, like nothing she's experienced 
before.  Riley's hands jerk instinctively toward the panic button on her 
belt, but her arms feel cold and they won't work right.

Miss Oliveira is standing over her, and Riley squints up to see that 
she's still talking.  The resonant buzzing in her ears reassembles itself 
into her captor's lovely voice.  "I guess you could say that I'm getting 
kinkier and kinkier in my old age."  She laughs.  It's throaty, melodious.  
"See, now it's the mindfucking that gets me off.  Making people think 
they're someone else, and playing out little scenes.  Then turning them 
into someone else; wearing down their resistance, again and again."  
She grips herself and shivers dramatically.  "Oooh!  That's a real 
turn-on."  She kneels down next to Riley and slips her head up onto her 
knees.  "See, you were conditioned to switch off who you are and become 
a sex slave for hire once or twice a week.  That's pretty hot, I gotta 
admit.  But I need a *little* bit more." She holds her thumb and 
forefinger an inch apart, over Riley's face.

Riley's arms and legs have completely relaxed in her awkward sprawl 
on the living room floor, and she's feeling very calm and tired.  
Her fingers are fumbling with her belt in a last-ditch, automatic 
attempt to alert the chauffeur/protector outside that she's in trouble, 
but her captor smoothly undoes the belt and pulls it from around her 
waist.  If she weren't drugged, the loss of the belt would prompt her 
to get out of here by any means necessary.  As it is, her breathing 
continues to deepen and she starts to nod off.  Some final cue from 
deep in her programming makes her jerk her head off Miss Oliveira's 
lap and try to focus her eyes long enough to locate a door, but the 
older woman gently pushes her head back down.

"I've sampled quite a few girls from your service, and you're by far 
the hottest thing they've sent my way.  I'm going to get deeper inside 
your head than my contract outlines.  I'm gonna color outside the lines, 
my sweet."  As Miss Oliveira strokes her long, straight blonde hair, 
Riley realizes that she's not going to fall asleep.  Instead of sleep, 
she's completely immobile, relaxed and attentive.  The petals of her 
mind have all opened up very wide.

"Let's begin, shall we?"

***

The first thing she notices is that her clothes are different, but she 
can't remember what she was wearing before.  She sits up to discover 
that she's lying on a large bed, and when she peels back the covers 
she's surprised: she's wearing black pants, black boots and a black tank.

*Fuck!  The mission!*

Agent Riley curses herself as she rolls off the bed and drops to a 
crouch on the floor, scanning the windows and doors.  *How could I 
fall asleep in the middle of a mission, in a hostile's bed, for 
chrissake?*  Luckily, no one seems to be home.  She knows that the 
thing she's here for is down the hall, and even though she's not quite 
awake yet, she creeps silently into the hallway, listening intently.  
All clear.

Noiselessly, she makes her way to the office and peeks inside.  Empty.  
She knows exactly where the safe is, so she presses her ear to it as 
she shakes out her fingers in preparation.

While she works at cracking the safe, questions start to nag at her.  
What would possess her to fall asleep during a dangerous mission, in 
the middle of the day, in plain sight of anyone who might be in the 
house?  Why wasn't she discovered?  Why doesn't she remember anything 
before waking up in that bed?  And what's with the blind determination 
to get something out of this safe?  It occurs to Riley that several 
things don't add up here, but her fingers are way ahead of her.  The 
last tumblers give way and the door swings open with a slight squeak 
of its hinges.

There's a document inside, and she knows she's supposed to check it 
before getting the hell out of here.  As she carefully unrolls the 
paper, her muzzled common sense tells her one last time to stop what 
she's doing and think, but her greedy fingers have smoothed out the 
page and she's already reading it.



>>>>>TOP SECRET

CLASSIFIED INFORMATION

EYES ONLY --- AGENT RILEY

Congratulations, Agent Riley, you've successfully accomplished your 
objective.  Please read carefully, as the instructions that follow 
are in the national interest.

You are going into a deep trance now, Agent Riley.  By the end of 
this paragraph you'll be so far under that you'll accept the rest of 
the instructions outlined here without question.

Gotcha!  You're under now, so I can reveal that you played your role 
flawlessly.  See?  Isn't this more fun than playing maid all afternoon?  
Well, the fact is, I don't have to ask your opinion.  You *do* think 
this is more fun than playing maid because I'm telling you that it is.

Anyway, you'll have to excuse the informality of this communiqué because 
I had a few vodka martinis before I wrote it.  By the time you read 
this, I'll be quite sober of course, because I don't want alcohol to 
impair my performance while you, ah, well...

You'll see.

I'm sure that you'll be quite annoyed that I've subdued you with nothing 
more than a piece of paper.  In fact, you'll be quite cross, but you'll 
still take in your instructions, because I've put you in a deep, 
relaxing trance.  I *so* love that phrase.  A deep, relaxing trance...

As you read the remainder of this message, you will begin to feel 
aroused.  The feeling will intensify until you read the words "End 
Transmission," at which point you'll experience an orgasm, just intense 
enough to commit you to your instructions.

Your orders are as follows:

Report to the bathroom down the hall, remove your fatigues, and shower.  
I've provided you with everything you need.  Then you'll change into 
the outfit I've left on the vanity.

Next, report to the room where you awoke a few minutes ago.  Sit on 
the bed until I arrive.  At which point I'll ask you a few questions, 
which you will answer without hesitation.  You will follow my 
instructions to the letter.  Are you ready?

Wait for it...

*Wait for it...*

End Transmission<<<<<<



Agent Riley drops the piece of paper and puts her hand to her forehead, 
because of the muted (but very nice) orgasm, but also because she's 
just been had.  Whoever wrote this communiqué is a real pervert.  Worse, 
she's about to obey its instructions to the letter.  Worse than that, 
she's going to enjoy it.  

Her frown relaxes and fades into no expression at all.  Her eyelids 
feel heavy.  She blushes as she heads back down the hallway and into 
the bathroom.  She feels a little better after she peels off her black 
clothes and steps into the hot shower.  Then something strange happens.  
She looks down at herself as she's lathering up, and a wave of lust 
overcomes her.  The sight of her own naked body is making her really hot.  
Agent Riley groans and blushes some more as she runs her fingertips 
up and down her torso.  She slips heavily to the tiled floor as the 
water bounces off her skin, and she begins to work her clit with total 
focus.  She's feeling *much* better, now.

***

Agent Riley is dismayed to find that there's a time limit to her shower 
fun, because she finds herself grabbing the towel rack and pulling herself 
to her feet even before her fingers have slipped out of her sex.  She 
spends a moment more washing up, then steps out of the shower stall, 
into the steam-filled bathroom.  After a blissful moment of drying off 
with a nice fluffy towel, the steam starts to clear up and she can see 
the outfit she's supposed to wear, neatly laid out on the vanity.

She can't remember exactly, but she feels that this slutty two-piece 
from Target is a far cry from what she was wearing a while ago.  She 
stands there for a minute, looking at it blankly, and then she remembers 
her instructions and slips into the pastel jogbra and panties.  Leaving 
the relative sanctuary of the bathroom, she wanders back to the bedroom.

As she approaches the bed, she feels hidden, unnamed instructions 
pulling her toward it.  Posing herself just so, she sits in a vague 
sort of lotus.  Wearing this cheap, girly-girl stuff makes her feel 
sexy, kind of like she's a twenty-something actress who's been hired 
to play a wanton high school kid on some prime time American soap opera.  
Her full red lips curl into an insouciant half-smile at the notion, 
and she wonders where it came from.

Right about then, Agent Riley remembers that she's about to be interrogated, 
and instead of attempting escape, she's presenting herself on this bed; 
already leaving a stain on the comforter through her panties.  It's 
more than a little confusing.

That's when Miss Oliveira enters the room, and Agent Riley has an 
epiphany.  She's not really Agent Riley at all - she's Rhonda, a hot, 
up-and-coming young TV actress who's trying to land the role of Agent 
Riley in a big Hollywood production.  And she's been so absorbed in a 
script run-through with her acting coach, Miss Oliveira, that for a 
moment she forgot who she was!  *Wow!  I must be a really good actress, 
if I'm so into my part!* she thinks as she gives the older woman a 
sunny smile.

Miss Oliveira is standing in the doorway, nodding in approval at 
Rhonda's sultry pose on the bed.  "I think you've got this part in the 
bag, darling."  Rhonda thrills at the compliment.  "Let's run through 
the interrogation scene, and this time with feeling!"

"Whatever you say, Miss O!" Rhonda gushes.

Her coach sashays over to the bed.  "I mean, really throw yourself 
into the part, darling.  Show me your stuff!"

Rhonda composes herself on the bed, going over the scene in her head.  
She wriggles around in the jogbra to make sure it's showing her off to 
best effect and clears her throat.  Affecting her best Russian spy 
accent, she declares, "Do what you like with my body, but I won't tell 
you anything!"

Instead of getting into character, Miss Oliveira seems to lose all 
self-control.  She hops onto the bed and presses her hungry lips to 
Rhonda's.  In between utterly primal grunts, she warns, "Agent Riley, 
your attempts to resist are useless.  Give me the location of your 
headquarters!"  Her hands are digging upward inside the jogbra, and 
they're almost to Rhonda's armpits when she breaks the kiss and starts 
murmuring in her ear.  "Agent Riley, I will only ask once more.  I 
expect your full cooperation."  Her thumbs press into Rhonda's shoulders 
as she frames her boobs between her palms.

"Never!" Rhonda cries.  She's getting a little lightheaded from Miss 
Oliveira's very enthusiastic groping.  It's hard to remember her lines.  
"I won't fall prey to your charms," she adds unconvincingly.  She's not 
sure she can stay in character if Miss O keeps this up.

Her coach slides her hands from Rhonda's ass to grip her thighs, then 
smoothly pulls her onto her back.  She slips off her student's underwear 
as Rhonda sighs weakly.  She props her legs up over her thin shoulders 
and cruises over her slit with her tongue.  "I haf vays of making you 
talk," she deadpans, in an accent so ridiculous Rhonda fights back a giggle.

But Miss O's tongue feels so good that Rhonda forgets how stupid this 
is.  In fact, it's a real turn-on to surrender to the scene in all its 
cheesy glory.  Her legs wrap around Miss O's head as her coach breathes 
against her folds.  "I will never cooperate with you!" Rhonda manages.  
She's embarrassed to discover how wet she is for the intense oral 
onslaught that Miss O unleashes without warning.  She hopes her acting 
coach won't think she's too much of a slut.

"Tell me what I want to hear, or else I will make things very, ah, 
pleasant for you."

But Rhonda is thrilled to find that Miss O loses interest in threats 
and decides to focus on her pussy.  With one hand, she grabs a handful 
of Miss O's hair, and with the other she starts working a nipple through 
her bra.  Miss Oliveira is alternating between orbiting her clit with 
the tip of her tongue and full on sucking it, and whenever she switches 
Rhonda is hard pressed to decide which is better.  She's probably going 
to have palm prints on her ass for days.

She tightens her grip on Miss O's hair to move her head in just the right 
way, then she starts fucking her mouth.  *"Oh yes oh yes oh yes oh yeah,"* 
she breathes.

Miss Oliveira is making a lot of noise now as she lets Rhonda grind her 
button around on her mouth, which is causing all kinds of surprising 
vibrations.  The first climax sneaks up on the aspiring actress; it slips 
her out of her groove before she's finished with it.  But that's okay, 
because she's already building to the next one.  With both hands in Miss 
O's hair now, she renews her assault.

That's when something distracts her a little.  There's something 
irritating under the fingernail of her right index finger.  It's a 
weird thing for Rhonda to focus on just now, but the sad fact is, it's 
pretty easy for the young actress to get distracted.  *Especially during 
sex, or um, I mean acting practice.*  Miss O seems to detect Rhonda's 
distraction; she grips her thighs and sucks on her engorged  clit with 
more gusto.  The enthusiastic slurps cause Rhonda to forget about her 
finger.

"Oh!  Miss - Oh!" Rhonda blushes, because she's slipping out of 
character as she slips around on Miss Oliveira's mouth.  She's grinding 
really hard on the red-haired woman's face.  The next one's going to be 
intense.

But dammit!  Her finger is really bugging her now.  She's minutes away 
from exploding, *and* landing the part of Agent Riley, but she can't 
stop thinking about her finger.  Then she remembers something very 
important, and she finds Miss O's neck and pushes her finger up against 
it.

A hand suddenly grabs her jaw from behind and wrenches her head upward.  
Something is covering her mouth.  It's silky and it smells so sweet it 
almost makes her gag.  Rhonda is confused because the hand can't belong 
to Miss O, who is diligently attending to her below.   Someone grabs 
her right hand and jerks it above her head as something springs out of 
her irritated index fingernail.  Rhonda yelps a protest into the cloth 
over her mouth and nose, and when she gulps some air through the silky 
veil she starts to feel dizzy.  Miss O notices that they're not alone 
and removes her hot mouth from Rhonda's dripping, sticky loins just as 
Rhonda finally climaxes.  The fumes from the cloth somehow intensify 
the orgasm.  The hands let go of her and she collapses onto the bed, 
hips twitching as she melts into the comforter.  The room is spinning 
lazily around her.

"What the fuck are you doing here, Selena?" Miss O is growling.  Rhonda 
can't hold her eyes open any longer, so she can't see who's there.

An unfamiliar voice says, "Assistant Director, this woman was about to 
kill you."

Miss O laughs.  "What in God's name are you talking about?  I hired this 
girl from the service I told you about.  I've been playing with her all 
afternoon.  She's a fucking yuppie designer, for chrissake!  Right now 
she thinks she's getting an acting lesson.  Tell me why I should stop 
eating her pussy, and why I shouldn't kill you where you stand."

The aftershocks of Rhonda's orgasm are pulsing through her, and she's 
incredibly sleepy now.  But she listens with interest.

"Ma'am.  This woman, this Riley Ilyukin, is *not* a graphic designer.  
She's a KGB agent who was sent here to kill you.  Look."

"Well, fuck me.  A concealed hypodermic under her fingernail."

"Yes, do you believe me now?  She was about to stick it into your neck 
and poison you.  I got a weird vibe from her when I saw her on the 
surveillance video, so I decided to run a background check while you were, 
ah, busy with her."

"I'm listening."

"It took some digging, but I was able to hack a KGB server and get her 
dossier.  They have very sophisticated crypto, unlike anywhere else in 
the-"

"Yes, yes.  I know your kung fu is the best, Selena.  You don't have 
to toot your own horn to me, otherwise you'd be working for the Americans.  
Now get to the point."

"Sorry ma'am.  I just want to convey to you the trouble the KGB went to 
here.  She underwent major brainwashing in Moscow, and then her 
superiors set her up here with a fake identity.  They got her a job at 
a successful design agency.  And after a few weeks, she began to 
frequent a certain bar downtown."

"No...  She didn't..."

"She did!  She deliberately went to that bar until the owner of this 
service you've been enjoying noticed her and abducted her.  I told 
you these afternoons of yours were going to get you into trouble."

"Son of a bitch."

"She was programmed to accept a shitload of modification to her basic 
persona.  The KGB knows about your... sexual proclivities, so she was 
made to excel at all the different sex games you like.  It was only a 
matter of time before she showed up here."

"It sounds too perfect.  I don't believe it."

Riley thinks it sounds a little to good to be true as well.  All this 
talk has jolted her out of her "Rhonda" persona, and she's thinking 
that now would be a good time to split.  She moans softly and wriggles 
around on the bed, trying to inch her way to the edge.

"Sedate her," Miss O orders.  "Make sure she doesn't get up."

"Sounds like you believe it, all right," Selena chides.

"Don't screw with me.   Do what I tell you."

Riley feels a sting on her thigh, and the room quickly resumes its 
spinning.

"She was programmed to be very flexible with regard to mind control.  
She can accept layer after layer.  It's like she's some kind of 
Matryoshka." 

"A what?"

"Nested dolls.  Wooden ones from Russia.  Smaller and smaller dolls that 
fit inside each other.  Know what I mean?"

"Sort of.  You're saying she's a toy that was made just for me.  Fuck!  
I can't believe I fell for this.  Take her to cunt-- I mean containment.  
And keep her sedated!"

"Are you all right, ma'am?"

"Yes, thanks.  It just blows me away.  She really believes she's a 
designer.  But she's an agent who must have volunteered to have her 
head rewired, just so she could get to me!"

"May not have been voluntary."

"Now you're just trying to get me hot.  Get her out of here."

"Yes, ma'am."

Riley groans as Selena hoists her off of the bed, throws her over 
her shoulder and smacks her ass with satisfaction.  Dismayed, she 
realizes that they're not going to put her underwear back on.  And that 
she's just failed a mission she forgot she was on.  Also, she's in a 
world of shit.  If she weren't drugged, she might be able to deal with 
the situation, but sorting out who she is and what to do are impossible, 
for now.  Selena reaches the stairs, and Riley's body jostles around 
as she relaxes, upside down, against Selena's muscular back.  That's 
the last thing she remembers.

FIN

By Aerosol Kid <aerosol_kid@hotmail.com>
Visit me at /~AK_Home

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