Spymaster

It's a beautiful, sunny morning. I'm walking through the huge park near my home minding my own business, and

maybe other people's too. This is a really lonely stretch of the path. Maybe a jogger passes me every ten minutes

or so, breathing hard. So seldom I don't really think about them. At least my hair has never stood on end, and I

enjoy this outing about three times a week when I'm not on the job.

A nice chance to clear my head before I return home to shower and then report for work. My boyfriend, Lover Boy,

left my place about thirty minutes ago. We'd spent the whole night together, as is usual when I get back from a 'trip'.

He'd done me just about everywhere and every way possible. I'd been gone for a week. A special job had called me out

of the country.

Me? I'm Katherine, but that's not my real name. I'm 28 and quite fit. 34B-23-35. Have long dark hair and dark eyes

as is typical in this restless part of the western world. I stand 5'-6" and weigh 124 pounds, when I don't get too sloopy.

Like last night! Sure could have used a few more hours sleep. I'll be groggy all day.

But Lover Boy just couldn't get enough, and after awhile, neither could I. Like it would be a long time before we got

another chance. At least that was the feeling I got from him. But I know him too well. He'll be back over tomorrow

night for more.

I hear another jogger coming up from behind, and look back. Big, nice looking guy, legs pumping faster than he is

advancing. Stretching those leg muscles, I suppose. And right dead center on the path, like me. Why should I always

have to move off the path for them? Since when is running a higher priority than walking. This one can go around

me for a change. Here he comes like a steam engine along this slightly downhill stretch. Closing fast.

Upon me now. "What the...!," I start to say as he crashes into me, his left arm quickly grabbing me around my

slender waist."Oophs," he sputters as we both stumble off the beaten path and downslope into a thick woods. About

the time I recover my balance with his help, 'clumsy' trips himself up again and we stumble and stagger still deeper

into the trees. God, men!

We come to a final stop in an open spot deep in the woods, his big arm still tight around my waist. "Lady, I'm sorry," he

tells me in my language, but with a foreign accent I don't like. "Fine," I say in my best office worker's voice, "and you can

let go of me now. I'm standing solidly on my own two feet again, thank you."

But he doesn't release his grip. If anything, he shifts his left arm slightly downward and more level and tightens it around

my middle, like he's not standing up straight. It feels nice. What woman doesn't like to be held from behind. But who is

this jerk! Certainly not my beloved Lover Boy.

"I'll scream," I tell him threateningly. "Someone will hear me and come running," I add as convincingly as I can. "Not

even a remote chance," he replies. Then I feel a bee sting on my tummy. God, that's no bee sting, and look down to see

the thin knife in his right hand.

The point just touches my sleeveless blouse a little above where it tucks into my short short's waistband. Just off dead

center to the left. He'd miss the main artery, I calculate. But why do I always think of things like this at times like

this? Been doing so all my life, I swear.

Other details flash through my mind. First. The knife is a stiletto type that looks more like a letter opener with a hilt

and comfortble handle (for him at least). A very nasty wounding weapon, that is quite familiar to me, by the way.

Second. Who is this jerk? An American style serial killer? God forbid! A local gangster? Worse yet!

Third. Me! Am I a local lawyer lady taking an early hour off from a busy schedule? Or a housewife out for a walk while

her husband works? Hell no! I'm an operative for this nation, locked in a Cold War style struggle with our so-called

good neighbor to the east. And I have several recent successes under my belt. Why else was I out of the country last

week. Shit! This guy must be an assassin for that nation our organization hurt so badly.

Fourth. I don't even have a weapon on me. Nothing! This is almost my only outfit that doesn't have at least a hidden

plastic knife built into it somewhere, let alone a real weapon well concealed in far less skimpy clothing. I bought these

normally slightly baggy khaki safari shorts a size or two too small on purpose. They fit nice and snug. Just the way I

like them. Hell, there's not even a razor blade hidden in the hem.

And my white blouse? It fits like a glove. Almost skin tight. When I perspire the sweat soaks right into the material.

There's little air space between my skin and the cloth. And no weapon whatsoever. And no whistle around my neck

either. A jewelry weapon? Nope, just wearing my favorite watch and a heavy gold necklace. Love the feel and weight

of almost pure gold jewelry, and the heavier it is the better.

Five. Should I fight. Hell, yes, I'll fight. What have a got to loose besides my life? For the first time we look each other

in the eye at the same time. I examine his face as best I can from this awkward position. He meets my gaze coldly. No

spy exchange deal written on his face, I ascertain. He's a frigid one. About 6'-3" tall with stocky build. Dressed for the

park too. He fits right in.

I take in his cool-blue eyes with mine while I'm thinking, calculating, and measuring. I take a little of the weight off

my right foot. He's holding me so tight, I don't think he notices. His iron grip will actually give added strength to my

kick. And this must be the hardest kick of my entire operative career. And with white socks and white running shoes

to boot. I keep my eyes calm in his to take his mind off the rest of me. Then I tense just a fraction. Oophs!

Feel the knife tip penetrate just a little. Oh god! Got to try something. Do or die! Instictively, without any further

consideration, I kick back my right foot with all my strength. A hard, well-aimed effort of force and desperation. And

just barely nick him. He's so tall he's been standing with his feet apart and I never noticed. He does grunt in pain, but

says nothing. But I know it hurt him.

Then in the same instant and in seeming slow motion, I feel him grip me tighter with both his arms around my waist.

I look down at his big hands clasped together in front of me and actually watch him pull the knife toward himself and

into my gut. All the way to the hilt. I even hear the knife suck its way deep into me. And he holds it there.

AAARRRRRUUUHHHHHHHH, I cry out in pain! God that hurts and burns! And immediately too. Who started those

tales of the shock of a bullet hit delaying the onset of pain? It certainly doesn't apply to a stab wound. Feel my warm

blood soaking into my blouse. Running down my skin underneath to the tight waistband. Running down the outside of

my blouse to the waistband.

Watch it soak his fingers and the hilt of his knife. Then I clutch my wound tightly. Surrounding the wound, hilt, and

his fingers. Pressing the wound shut, I hope. Feel his bloody fingers and the hilt covered with my slippery blood.

Feel its warmth and stickyness, and notice its coppery smell.

Try to struggle, to force the blade out from inside my belly using pressure on the back of the hilt and against his hands.

His response stops me cold. "Go ahead and wiggle this sharp tipped blade around there inside your gut. Let it cut up your

insides all the quicker." I cease and stand very still. His blade remains held inside me. Feel and watch the blood that pooled

temporarily at my waistband slowly flow past this barrier.

Realize with terror that he is using this dull knife on purpose to drag out my death from internal bleeding. Now its

running down the front of my shorts in little rivers. All this too seemingly in slow motion. Like the knife has been

stuck into me for hours. No way, its only been seconds or maybe a minute, I tell myself. He's in no hurry. Bet he has

accomplishes posted up on the path to keep people away from this most secluded stretch.

Finally, knife or no knife, bleeding inside or not, it is do or die time again. I scream just as loud as I possible can. And

miracle of miracles, he pulls out the blade. And his arms release their grip around my waist. So suddenly that for a

moment I can't even think or react. But, just as I'm about to flee with a sudden sprint, he surprisies me again. I feel

another awful stab of pain as he drives the knife into my belly again. Again that awful sucking sound.

ARGGGGHHHHHHH. I look down in absolute horror at the blade stuck into my belly an inch below the waistband of

my shorts, and an inch or so to the right of dead center. I clutch this new wound immediately as it hurts even more than

the first one, if that is possible.

Our bloody hands, the bloody hilt, and both of our bloody fingers all mixed up together with him again standing right

behind me, pressing me against him. I feel his erection. Our hands and fingers conduct a miniature battle all of their own,

but without me moving the knife around inside me too much. I bend forward as the pain increases, then straighten back

up just in time to feel myself pee.

With a struggle I do regain control before I empty my whole bladder. Feel the bottom of my panties and shorts fill up

with urine that then flows quickly down my bare legs. He senses this, and lowers his left hand from his tight grip around

me, cupping my crotch with it. He presses inward and squeezes more pee from my panties and shorts, and sends it flowing

down my legs in several rivers.

The bastard smiles into my turned face from behind me while he continually strokes my crotch area. We exchange hate

mail with our eyes. God, he's enjoying this. My suffering and my crotch. Call him a dirty rotten bastard in his own

language. Yes, I speak your langauge better than you speak mine. Too well for my own good health, it now seems.

"Listen up, spy woman," he replies, "I coulda just killed you fast with six bullets into your empty head. They don't tell

me how to do my job. Or how long it should take. I'm going to make this as slow and painful as possible, and humiliate

you as much as I possibly can. As you have done to my country and its people." Good, last week I stuck a blow for our

side! But must I pay his price for it?

I'm about to tell him piss on his people when he suddenly pulls the knife from my shorts, and spins me face to face and

eye to eye. Finally! Anger radiates between us. I have so much hatred for him that it even surprises me. Hardened spy

and killer that I too am. Yes, I killed a beautiful woman spy last year, but not like this. What a bi partner she would have

made, too! And several of his male cronies.

Then I catch him enjoying my pain, wounds, bloody blouse, and soaked shorts. "Dirty rotten bastard," I scream again,

as I continue to bleed slowly and steadily. I can feel the red spreading down my legs now, flowing faster where it mixes

with my urine. It almost tickles in places.

His knife is poised and ready to strike again. I gotta do something, but my thinking and moving are a little slower now.

Getting wobbly from fear, panic, and pain. Especially pain. Hurt so bad inside. Do notice that both my arms are hanging

down freely. God, I'm completely free of his grip, I realize. But again, I don't think or move fast enough. He continues

to anticipate my every move. Or is taking no chances.

Suddenly he puts his left arm around my waist and pulls me into his big body. My right hip tightly pressed against his

left hip and just off center enough not to feel his erection. Why at this angle? Answer! He rams the blade into my

mid-gut on the left side out about 4 inches out from dead center. It slides in deep with that awful sound and right back

out again. Cutting through guts and tissue. Tearing open organs. Freeing blood from every local vein and artery.

ANHHHHHHHHHHHGGGGGG! I scream in pain and grab the open cut with both hands. Pressing my blouse against

the open wound and making a bright red spot on it the size of my hands. Pasting the bloody blouse tightly to my

bloody skin. Trying to close the wound. Feeling warm, wet blood all over my fingers and palms. Running down my

blouse. I arch up in pain, my sensitive, delicate nipples, erect as hell, pressing against my white bra and blouse.

When I start to waver and slump forward he supports my slowly increasing weight with his body. Then I feel my legs

giving out. He holds me upright as long as he can. Then twists me, and eases me down onto a long bench I hadn't even

noticed till now. I sit down on its very edge and slump back onto the backrest. I know I'm in trouble now.

I slouch down on the seat, my spine curved like a bow. The opposite of my arched back. When my butt starts to slide

off the bench, he steps forward between my legs. His left knee pressed hard against my crotch is the only thing keeping

me from sliding unceremoniously onto the ground in a heap. Still clutching my last and bloodiest wound I sag hard against

his knee.

My bladder muscles give up the fight, and the rest of my urine floods into my panties and shorts. Mixing with all the

blood that has by now reached there. Again he reaches down and presses his cupped hand hand into my soaked crotch

area, and starts more pee on its downward journey. This time, I just glare hatred at him.

"Spare me," I say, hardly realizing how ridiculous that sounds at this point. "Not a chance, spymaster." Still, when I

feebly lash out at him with my bloody left hand, he grabs it and pulls it out toward himself. He sticks his knife straight

up into my left armpit from directly below, penetrating where skin and cloth meet.

AHHHHHHHGGGGGGG. God does that hurt, but it revives me some. No organs there. But blood spurts out and onto

my blouse on one side and down my arm on the other. A unless arm to go with my nearly useless body. I stare at him,

and then at myself. I don't believe this! Yet again I do. What did I expect when I got into this kind of work? A long

life and comfy retirement. A husband and lots of kids. Being bullet proof and ten feet tall, to quote that American

song?

A steady boyfriend and...! Lover Boy, you dirty rotten bastard. You set this whole thing up, didn't you? Big tears

immediately come to my eyes. I can stand dying this way. This I can take! Maybe I deserve it for what I have done

in the name of nationalism. Tears pour down my cheeks. But your sellout to the enemy. Or were you with them

all along? I think so!

This I cannot take. I cry and cry and cry. Great sobers and shudders. I ball like a baby for five, ten minutes? I don't

know. Strangely, hard case here waits it out with me. Makes absolutely no move to finish me off. Just stands there,

enjoying my suffering and bleeding, no doubt, until I have no more tears to give. My thoughts turn from Lover Boy

back to my plight.

I know I'm fading now. Cut to ribbons inside. Bleeding outside from all four wounds. Parts of my blouse quite soaked

with blood. My shorts drenched now with blood and pee right back to my asshole and further. How many times had I

peed in these shorts or in a pair of tight levis when at home alone just to enjoy the wet and warm urine. And then

jumped in the hot shower fully clothed. I don't know? Now it had come to this.

I am returned again to reality by his wiggling knee hard against my crotch. But don't think he'll sex me. Somehow not

his style. Too bad! What a way to go, I guess. God, what am I thinking. The end must be very near now. As a body I

can't be much fun for him any more, so lets just get it over with.

Yep, reading my mind yet again. Here comes his knife hand again. He feels me up, enjoying my breasts. His bloody

hands reddening those till now unbloodied areas of cloth. More of the humiliation he promised? Then he fingers the

soft spot just under my sternum, as thought he didn't already know where it was.

"Make it quick asshole," I croak! Despite all my wounds and pain, I feel the tip enter the soft flesh, and see him gage

the angle upward toward my still beating heart. Then him pushing it in very slowly, and looking me directly in the eyes

the whole time. No kiss goodbye on bloody lips. No hug. No anything ever, ever again. "Bastard," I whisper to him in

his own language. Then his knife reaches my heart and I quickly expire. Dead!

After I'm gone he gently lowers my upper body down onto the bench flat on my back. He places my hands at my sides.

This is how I will be found later in the day. Reader, do you know who will find me first? You got it! Lover Boy nervously

comes to pay his last disrespects, and then quickly withdraws with the assassin and his team.

My spy chief and I reach MY dead body about an hour later. The assassination team and Lover Boy were, of course,

allowed to escape and carry word of my demise back to their estatic nation's leaders. The courageous lady impersonating

me is sadly dead, and we all grieve her loss deepy. She suffered a horrible death for our country. Most of my work so far

has been so clandestine that few know exactly what I look like. Lover Boy befriended the wrong lady. I knew this!

We are preparing a terrible vengeance against them. May their very complacency now aid our just cause. May we hurt

them this next time like never before. I will play a central role in this operation. But personal revenge against Lover

Boy and my double's assassin must not cloud my judgement, I'm ordered. Like hell it won't!

Written by Richard

5/11/99

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