Fantasy RAVEN (THE SPY)

[Ved122]

UPDATE 1
Location: The Oberoi, New Delhi
Target: Vikramaditya Singh Rathore, 42, arms dealer, politician, owner of half the guns moving into Kashmir and all of the ego in North India.
Objective: A memory card hidden in his suite that contains the names of three serving Indian generals on his payroll.
—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I step into the private elevator wearing a backless crimson blouse and a low-waist black leather skirt that stops four inches below punishment. No bra. No panty lines. Just a thin gold chain around my waist that disappears under the skirt and a single diamond stud in my navel. My hair is loose, black, and straight to the small of my back. The heels are Louboutin, blood-red soles to match the lipstick.
The elevator opens directly into his penthouse suite.
Vikram is waiting, shirt unbuttoned, whiskey in hand. Six-three, salt-and-pepper beard, the kind of broad chest that comes from gym discipline. His eyes drop to my breasts, then lower, then back up with the slow greed of a man who thinks he has already won.
“Mrs. Malhotra,” he smiles, using the name on the fake name for the mission. “I was told you represent certain… Middle-Eastern interests.”
I let my lips curve, just enough. “I represent whatever gets me what I want, Vikramji.”
He likes the sound of ji at the end of his name.
He pours me a drink. I take it, swirl, don’t sip.
He steps closer. “Show me what you’re offering.”
I set the glass down, reach for his belt. “No,” I whisper, voice velvet and venom. “You show me first.”
His hand is on my throat in an instant. Good. I want him to be rough. Rough men get careless.
I let him slam me against the floor-to-ceiling window. Thirty-eight floors above Delhi, the city glitters like scattered diamonds. My palms flatten on the cold glass. He yanks my skirt up to my waist. The air kisses my bare skin; I wasn’t lying about no panties.
“Fucking whore,” he growls, delighted.
I arch my back, push my ass against his crotch. “Then fuck me like you paid for it.”
He does.
One hand fists my hair, jerking my head back. The other delivers a sharp slap across my ass that blooms heat straight to my clit. I moan because I like the sting and because I need him lost in the moment.
He shoves two fingers into me without warning. I’m already wet; I made sure of that in the elevator. He groans at how easily they slide.
“Christ, you’re soaked.”
I turn my head just enough to meet his eyes in the reflection of the glass. “I’ve wanted this cock since I saw your pictures. Don’t make me wait.”
Vanity is the best leash.
He frees himself (thick, heavier than average, curving slightly left). Condom? Of course not. Men like Vikram believe their seed is a privilege.
He thrusts into my pussy in one brutal stroke.
I cry out (half pain, half raw pleasure) because he is big and because I haven’t been fucked properly in six weeks. My nipples scbang the glass with every slam of his hips. My breath fogs the window in frantic bursts.
“Harder,” I hissed. “I’m not your wife.”
He laughs like an animal and obliges. The hand in my hair tightens; the other snakes around to pinch my clit mercilessly. I come once, fast and sharp, clenching around him so hard his rhythm stutters.
He pulls out, spins me, shoves me to my knees.
“Open.”
I do. Tongue out, eyes up. He slaps his wet cock across my cheek (once, twice), then feeds it to me. I take him deep, no gag, hollow cheeks, humming so the vibration makes him curse. Saliva drips down my chin onto my breasts. He watches it fall like it’s holy.
When his thighs start to shake I pull off, gasp, “I want you to ruin me on that couch.”
He lifts me by the throat, throws me over the back of the leather sofa. My skirt is bunched at my waist, blouse ripped open, breasts spilling out. He kicks my legs wider and drives back in.
This time he is savage. Hips crashing, balls slapping my clit, hand fisted at the nape of my neck pressing my face into the cushions. I scream into the leather (real screams now) because every thrust feels like it’s rearranging my organs and I love it.
He spits on my asshole. Once. Twice. Then his thumb pushes into the first knuckle.
I push back, greedy. “Do it.”
He does.
The stretch burns beautifully. He works his thumb deeper while pounding my pussy, and the dual sensation sends me over again, harder. My legs shake; I squirt, soaking his balls and the sofa beneath us.
That breaks him. He roars, buries himself deep, and floods me with heat. Pulse after pulse. I feel every spurt against my cervix and I milk him deliberately, inner walls fluttering until he’s trembling.
He collapses over my back, panting like he’s run a marathon.
Perfect.
While his face is buried in my hair, my right hand slips into the hidden pocket sewn inside my skirt. I pull the tiny injector (no bigger than a lipstick). One kiss to the carotid and the neurotoxin will paralyse him for exactly twelve minutes. Enough time to find the card, copy it,and leave him with the mother of all headaches and no memory of my real name.
I smile against the cushion, still impaled on his softening cock, his cum starting to leak down my thighs.