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"Now: give me information." But she would never tell her victim exactly what information it was that she wanted, so she often learned the most interesting things. On one occasion, the information had enabled her to make a killing on the Stock Market; on another, she had the power to bring about the resignation of a Cabinet Minister - but settled for making him her slave instead. What information would this man give her, this man perspiring slightly outside the house with the red door?

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Fifteen years ago you would have found her with a gaggle of girls at the back of the school bus that wound through the streets of Moscow. The usual assortment of topics was being covered, punctuated by shrieks and screams: homework, teachers, boys, TV, the week-end just gone, parents, the week-end coming up, pop groups, money, the future.....

The bus was just passing a grim, monolithic building, with nothing but its size to recommend a second glance to the uninformed passer-by. But every day this was where she detached herself from her friends and gazed at the faceless edifice. As they chattered on, she lost herself in reverie. She had heard stories about that place which gave her the most intense sexual arousal; stories of beautiful, sadistic women humiliating and torturing men in shiny rooms; women who had been hand-picked for their sexual power and cruelty and then trained to extract any information from male captives.

The traffic here was always congested, much to her delight, and she felt the moisture between her legs as this morning’s fantasy developed in her vivid imagination. One of the girls was proclaiming her ambition to be a cosmonaut, then another returned them to earth with her reasons why engineering held a bright future. As the bus lurched forward again, attention turned to the girl gazing out of the window at the KGB Headquarters: "What are you going to be, Nastasya?" But she was still in her reverie. "Nastasya Semyonovna, what are you going to be?" She turned to them a face that was alive with a new idea: "My name is no longer Nastasya Semyonovna. It is Lubyanka. Gaspazha Lubyanka."   [Gaspazha is Russian for Mistress]

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

From that day on she gathered every scrap of information about those female KGB agents in Lubyanka, much of it myth and legend perhaps, but all of it bearing the undeniable truth, that women could hold power over men, could humiliate them, degrade them, bend and even break them to the female will. That was the power she craved and she studied hard to achieve it. She read about the great femmes fatales of history; scrutinised the sharp, assertive women in films noirs; and occasionally, found other women who surely shared her proclivities. These were often in uniform, directing traffic, stewarding trains: severe women with an arrogant bearing, their hair scraped back in a tight bun. Lubyanka noticed the gleam in their eyes when they reprimanded a man for some trivial transgression. There was also a teacher of English at school, who had spent two years in London, and seemed to take a special delight in punishing mischievous boys.

The new Gaspazha practised at first on the teenage boys at her school, but with their frenzied hormones they were too easy. Older men in their early thirties, with burgeoning careers, were more of a challenge. She enjoyed dismantling their oversized egos and breaking their brittle hearts. It helped, of course, that Nature had bestowed such lavish gifts upon her: a perfect, petite body, cascades of blonde hair, and huge brown eyes; but she added to these attractions a hard-earned knowledge of how to enmesh a man in her thrall.

By the time she took her degree in Philosophy at the Moscow State University, she had attained notoriety among not only the male student population but also the male staff of every single faculty. One professor, of high renown in the field of Natural Sciences, had entered a packed lecture hall and begged to be her footstool. Rather than recoil in horrified embarrassment, Lubyanka had calmly told him to lay face down at her feet; then she dug her heels into his back (she was the only woman in the University to wear stilettoes) and continued to take notes. At the end of the lecture, she produced a collar and lead from her bag, attached them to the professor, and led him out of the hall on his hands and knees before dismissing him with a sharp kick to his ample rump.

When she was awarded the highest mark in her year in finals, there were rumours that one of the examiners was her slave; but this was untrue. In fact, she was a brilliant student, incisive in thought and lucid in expression. Perfect material indeed for the KGB. But that organisation was no more: the period of perestroika and glasnost had seen its dismantling since the teenage Nastasya had fed her reveries as Gaspazha Lubyanka.

It was now that her thoughts turned to London. Her English teacher’s descriptions of the city had often given her a little frisson of arousal, especially when she spoke of having tea at The Savoy and being waited on by uniformed flunkies, or of being surrounded by male admirers at cocktail parties. Her teacher often spoke with barely veiled scorn of the ease with which the Englishman could be twisted around the female finger. So to her family and friends it was post-graduate studies that she gave as the reason for her departure for London, and yes, she did complete her doctorate at UCL; but within weeks of settling into a smart Bloomsbury apartment (need you ask how she could afford it?), she had discovered le vice anglais, fetish clubs and emporia, and the network of professional Dominatrices who possessed whole stables of slaves to attend them in luxury.

 * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The red door opened. Attached to it was a liveried footman. "Do come in, sir. Gaspazha Lubyanka is expecting you." He stepped into the vestibule of the Georgian townhouse. As the footman took his coat, he noticed to his left a salon where two women, both dressed in black PVC, sat on the strangest bar stools he had ever seen: for, strapped to the frame of the stool was a naked male, arranged so that his face presented itself as a seat. On further inspection he noticed other naked males functioning as furniture: a coffee table covered with magazines and a tray of used cups and saucers; a hat stand, hung with coats and jackets; a vacant chair at a writing desk. Each one of them was hooded and perfectly still.

His boss had primed him to expect something kinky, and the dossier on Lubyanka contained numerous references to "BDSM", and then of course there was the main focus of his investigation: that a Cabinet Minister was in some way "under her influence". But nothing in his briefing had quite prepared him for this. On each step of the wide staircase before him was a prostrate male, over whom had been rolled a red carpet monogrammed in gold with "L". To his relief, he was directed by the footman into a small lift, operated by a slave rendered mute by a ball-gag. Here, the footman left him, and when he emerged from the lift, he was on his own at one end of a long corridor.

At the end of the passageway was another red door, which opened as he reached it. He felt fear as soon as he crossed the threshold; this was even before his eyes took in the purple walls, the racks of whips, the flogging benches. The fear came from an instinctive sense that suffering occurred in this room. "Anthony. So pleased you could come." The Gaspazha spoke from a raised throne at the far end of the room. "I did enjoy our little chat at the ballet last night." Did he detect a mocking tone in her voice? He had approached her during the interval at Covent Garden, offered her champagne, and, as ordered, charmed her sufficiently to gain further access. There was something in her question that suggested knowledge of his mission.

"On your knees in my presence!" Now the voice contained no trace of playfulness, but came like a stinging slap, and he found himself obeying with only slight hesitation. Lubyanka smiled with gratification. This was where she liked to see all men, on their knees before her. She waited, to let him take in her beauty. Of course, he had been struck by her loveliness at the ballet, but it was a different effect now. Last night she had looked simply exquisite in a long red silk dress; now, her beauty exuded power through the shiny black thigh boots and black leather bustier.

As he knelt on the floor, looking up at her, all his training seeped out of him, and desire filled him, not the usual desire to make conquest and take possession, but the desire to worship and adore. He had never seen eyes quite like hers: deep and brown, they seemed to be regarding him with pleasure but at the same time contempt. He felt that he wanted to gaze into them and lose himself.

"Crawl to me." This time there was no hesitation. "Good. Now lick my boots." Lubyanka surveyed the grovelling form beneath her, clumsily performing for the first time a task that he would soon learn to perform with skill. For now it was only important that she had him in her power. "Lick them till they gleam, slave." There was a threat in her tone that made him work his tongue frantically, and she let him toil until his tongue would be red raw.

Then she stood, spurned him with her boot, and descended the dais to a full-length mirror for inspection of his efforts. "Not good enough, slave! I will have to punish you. Strip!" Fumbling, he undressed and cowered before her. "Get over that bench!" Lubyanka strapped him down tight, knowing that he had never been flogged before, and would therefore writhe and squirm. She hated a moving target. Selecting her favourite riding crop, she paused to savour the arousal that this moment always gave her; and then began the relentless rhythm of pain upon his exposed flesh. He struggled, gasping, crying out, all music to her ears, and soon he was begging for mercy. Just to make sure that he was truly broken, she gave him six more strokes.

When she unstrapped him, he fell limp to the ground. She rolled him over onto his back with her foot and stood astride him. She saw the look of abject surrender in his eyes and allowed the symbolism of the moment to take root. Then, slowly lowering herself onto his face, she smothered him and sent her fragrance deep into his consciousness. Rising, she commanded him to get on all fours and then buckled a collar around his neck and attached it to a lead. "Time to go walkies," she said."And when I say ‘heel’, you will kiss whichever heel is furthest away from you." After several turns around the room, she was satisfied that he had acknowledged his humiliation.

Now the time had come to degrade him, torment him and, at the same time, deprive him of her presence: she fastened his hands behind his back and led him into a cage, small enough to keep him kneeling and in discomfort. There was a dog bowl of water which he gratefully lapped up at her command; not for a moment did any pride encourage him to resist. He was aware of his degradation, but accepted it meekly. Now she took off her moist panties and through the bars of the cage forced them into his mouth. "While I am gone you will suck on these; taste me, slave, taste me, and yearn for me." He watched her in agony as she turned and walked from the room. Caged, crouched, humiliated, and worst of all, deprived of the presence of Lubyanka, he remained for three hours while she amused herself with other slaves downstairs. Her taste filled his mouth; her scent was still in his nostrils; her mocking voice echoed in his head and her cruel smile was stamped in his mind’s eye.

When she returned she found him whimpering. She opened the cage and pulled him out on his knees. He stumbled, stiff and in pain, but thankful for the relief of movement. She led him over to a crucifix on the wall. She had to help him to his feet. Strapped to the wooden cross, he wondered what torment she had in store for him now. To his astonishment, she began to caress him, running her fingers over his face then his chest. She spoke to him gently, though still with that tone of mocking triumph: "Now," she said. "Give me information."

The End
 

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