| Matryoshka Doll (mc, nc, FF, FD, oral)
By Aerosol Kid <firstname.lastname@example.org>
Visit me at http://www.asstr.org/~AK_Home
The people and events in this 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
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
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
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 until
she reaches her destination, and she's not allowed to exceed the speed
"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 in a suit. "Too bad her
mother a Brit and watered down that Russian blood, or Miss
Ilyukin here would be even more curvy. I assume she has her to
thank for her regrettable first name."
"How is it Russian can look so damn *good*?" the 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 decides. "She's fair, but not too pale. The client will love
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.
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 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 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 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
"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 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 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 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 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.
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.
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...
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...*
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 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 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 woman a
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
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 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 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,"*
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 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
"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
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
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
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."
"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
"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
"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
"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."
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.
By Aerosol Kid <email@example.com>
Visit me at http://www.asstr.org/~AK_Home