The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

September 29, 2003—Sydney, Australia

Yes, these are weird times. Terrorists talk about blowing up this or that, and occasionally follow through. Since they’re not formally attached to any nation state, it’s hard to fight them. The whole world is jumpy. You hear people talking about Doing Something About It, and occasionally someone decides to become a government spook. They’re usually young, idealistic types.

Like, oh, me for instance.

I know I don’t look like a spy. Think about it! Would you want your spies to look like spies? Anyway, I’m here to give you the details that your friendly recruiter leaves out of his/her pitch. Think of me as the voice of caution. I did a two-year stint with the Global Intelligence Agency, and I can tell you that there are worse people out there than extremist yokels with C4. While I was there, I endured things that hounded me even after I resigned. I’m going to tell you a little story, and afterwards, if you’ve got the apricots, then by all means, enlist. They could use people like you.

My name’s Nina Suenaga-Wentley. If you’re reading this from where I think you are, you probably know me through Akiko Masumi, and you know where I’m going with this.

I’ll start with Akiko. We didn’t meet under ideal circumstances—we were both deep undercover on what was essentially a tropical slave camp, and this scary lady named Ophelia decided I was going to be Akiko’s toy girl. I’d been brainwashed, so I wasn’t really in a position to argue, but I took a shine to Akiko right away. She’s so pretty it hurts to look at her, and she has this way of making you feel important and special. Plus, I’ve never met anyone so loyal in all my short life. When my cover got blown, she really saved my brickies. She’s gentle and sweet and funny and I could go on all day.

I thought we were in love, but after the mission, things took a turn for the weird. She holed herself up in this expensive apartment in Harajuku, never went out except to drive in the country, and didn’t ever check her answering machine. When she would see me, she treated me like some dumb little kid. Any time we’d talk about us, she’d start her sentences with “When you’re a little older,” like she was fifty or something. I think she was being irritating on purpose, and it worked because she pushed me right out of her life. So I resigned from the Global Intelligence Agency and went back home to Sydney with a brand new broken heart.

Yeah, I felt sorry for myself for a while. Took to chain-smoking, sitting out in the rain, going out on benders with my friends. Eventually I went back to music, which is what I’d done before that gung-ho recruiter from GIA talked me into serving my country. (She never mentioned I’d be doing it on my back, by the way, but more on that later.) I wrote a few sad little songs and recorded them at my brother’s studio, but none of the labels I shopped were interested. The A & R guys would look me up and down, taking in my perky bod, my tan, the platinum dye job and the blue contacts. And they’d say, “Well, Ms. Nina Suenaga-Wentley, we don’t think your look matches your sound. Furthermore, the kids don’t want to listen to an hour of sad love songs.” As if any of them actually remembered puberty.

More rejection. Great, right? I got pissed, but the business wasn’t going to get less shitty because I was crying about it. My spy money wasn’t going to last forever, so I went back to the drawing board. Maybe I wasn’t Prozac-and-Ritalin-soup happy, but I could at least go through the motions, and eight cheery pop songs later, yours truly was signed to Virgin Records. And no, the irony was not lost on me. The Virgin marketing people were in love with my mixed heritage (thanks to my loveable lunk of an Aussie dad and my kooky violinist mom from Osaka). What I had, they’d say in hushed tones, was International Superstar Potential. I’d just bite my lip and giggle, while I made notes on my PDA of things to go over with my lawyer.

These people were itching to break me into America, before I even sold a record at home, so they herded me onto a plane to Los Angeles to meet with producers. The label folks in L.A. spent an entire week wining and dining me. I may be a little naïve, but don’t think I let all the attention go to my head. Flying first class was nice, and getting driven around in a limo was fun. The all-day spa makeover was heaven, and getting randomly chatted up at Nobu by Josh Hartnett was cute.

Okay, so maybe L.A. was affecting me. A little.

My minder for the week was Christa: a cute bundle of fun in a tan, tight package. Unlike most of the locals, she had real lips, real boobs, naturally curly red hair, and she didn’t buy into her own hype. She was a chronic party girl with expensive taste and—oh, the humanity—she was straight. I can’t tell you how many times I had to just grind my teeth as I walked behind her, my eyes locked to her yummy, wiggling butt. And no, I don’t jump her bones later in this story.

On my last night in town, Christa decreed that it was time to let loose, and drove me to a posh party. This shadowy millionaire held monthly bashes at his estate, which were all the go with movie industry types. No one knew what he did for a living, but he was in with the execs at the studios.

Now pay attention, because we weren’t there twenty minutes before everything went straight to Weirdville.

I was in a strappy, blue tissue of a dress, nursing a martini. Christa, whose dress was translucently porn-worthy, ditched me to smoke a joint with some New York newspaper guy. After days of her leading me around by the nose, I was kind of at a loss.

The other guests were strictly Beautiful People. They were here to schmooze, and I was roundly sick of all that. They were so into talking shop that no one noticed me all alone on the couch—an experience I hadn’t had since just before puberty. Halfway through my martini I got up to powder my nose. Some giggling girls emerged from a narrow hallway, which I guessed was the way to the can. It was dim, and I was a little tipsy, so I stuck my hand out to steady myself against the wall.

Halfway down the hall, I saw a burly bloke coming toward me. Before I could ask him to point me in the right direction, he smiled and spritzed me in the face with something. My eyes fluttered reflexively against the cool mist. It smelled delicate and flowery. “Mmmm, nice scent,” I remarked, thinking it was perfume. The bloke’s smile widened. “Do you always go around spraying it on unsuspecting girls on their way to p—”

That’s when my tongue stopped working, my knees went on strike, and the hardwood floor got very large. Before I hit it, strong hands scooped me up. “Hey,” I warned. But it sounded more like I was answering a phone call from a close friend in the middle of the night.

I felt exactly the same as the time my friend Bev made me do eight shooters, specifically when she wiped the puke from my lips and tucked me into bed. Only this time I couldn’t protest that I really did want to get up on the bar and flash my tits. I was being carted off somewhere, in the manner of a bad monster movie. My shoes knocked against the walls, as my heart pounded very loud and fast. Then my assailant—whose support I’d quickly got used to—dumped me into a chair and secured my wrists and ankles. Everything happened so fast, I hadn’t had time to get properly scared.

“I’ll give you a chance to make this very easy,” a man said in a musical (South American?) accent. I didn’t know the voice, but I could tell he was used to getting his way. With effort, I opened my eyes and squinted at a tall, tanned man in a sleek black suit. Sharply dressed assistants flanked him.

Less than five minutes ago I’d been at a cocktail party. I couldn’t think of a neat social label to pin on what was happening now. I licked my numb lips in preparation for the pasting I was about to give him. “What. In the fuck. Do you think you’re doing?”

He was unfazed. In fact, he drew back his hand and struck me across the cheek. I yelped in surprise, because it stung like hell. But curiously, my old spy training kicked in, so I ignored the heat from the blow and gave him a frosty look. My reaction seemed to interest him greatly. He knelt in a little too close and said, “I’ll give you one more chance to make this easy. Tell me what you are doing here.”

What a ridiculous question! I fought angrily to keep my head from wobbling so much. “You gassed me and dragged me in here to ask me that? I’m with Christa. You invited us here, you fuck!” The sedative was wearing off, and adrenaline was kicking in.

He clearly wanted to hit me again, but he changed his tack. His face was still millimeters from mine. Pretty blue eyes, but his expression gave me the willies. “Ms. Suenaga-Wentley, please. Let’s skip the part where you pretend to be something you aren’t. Yes?”

My mouth opened and shut. He knew my name, but beyond that I couldn’t make any sense out of him.

His fingertips grazed my forehead, making me blink. “If you don’t, I’ll be forced to get inside your head. Now, I know that you’re a fucking little spy from GIA...” The last few words were delivered quite a bit louder than the rest. “...And I need to know why you’re here.”

Now I understood. Christ, this guy thought I was still an agent! Of all the parties in L.A. tonight, Christa had taken me to the home of someone who felt he needed to worry about government surveillance. That probably meant he was dangerous. And if he knew me from my GIA days, no wonder he was freaking out. I still had my poker face on, but I wanted to cry.

I knew I was facing torture, or worse: mind control. Which I wasn’t too excited about re-experiencing. But I really was in America to find a producer, and I really was at this party to have fun, and really not to spy on this suave Latino bloke. I pretended to break down, sputtering, “Look, I don’t know you! I just got signed to Virgin, and my friend Christa told me she was taking me to a good party, and now I’m tied up in this chair, and you hit me, and...” I paused to sob dramatically, “I want to go home!”

I can be a pretty good actress when I have to be, so it was gratifying to see my captor blink and jerk his head back. He straightened, motioned one of his flunkies over and whispered terse things in his ear. His vibe was, “Are you sure about this?” I made a point of continuing to cry. There was more whispering, then my ungracious host knelt and squeezed my shoulders. “Nina, Nina. Shhh. You may call me Arturo,” he soothed. “I’m sorry to pull you away from the party.” Like drugging me and tying me up was a trivial thing that partygoers endure every day. Nice. “But my men tell me that you are definitely listed as an agent of the Global Intelligence Agency.”

Leave it to outdated government records to put me in a pickle. But I sniffled dramatically, and decided to stick with the truth. “I know. Yes. I was a spy. But if you’ll just check again, you’ll see that I left GIA, in the spring. I really am here to find a producer. I’m supposed to fly home tomorrow!” I didn’t see a way out of this if they didn’t believe me, so I started to get really rattled then, damn it all, and my captor sensed this. He gave me another friendly squeeze.

I thought I was getting through to him, because he withdrew, to huddle with his henchmen. But when he reached into his jacket pocket and produced a syringe, I knew I was fucked. I ignored the needle, swallowed hard and asked, “Can I please go now?”

He smiled, shaking his head at the tragedy of it all. “I’m afraid not. A man in my position must be careful. You will have to be interrogated.” That last sentence didn’t sound good at all, the way he said it. “I have two ways of extracting information from people. Pleasure and pain. And in your case...” He made a lascivious show of running a finger across my lips. “I think pleasure will better serve.”

I flinched away from his questing fingers, and glared at him. “So you lost the nerve to beat on your party guests, and now you’re going to rape me?”

He stowed that bad temper of his. Smiled. “I look forward to interacting with you, sans the mouth.”

I drew a sharp breath. “Wait! You can’t do this!” I pleaded, as he stepped behind me. I felt the swipe of a cotton ball on my right arm, then a jab. “Ow!”

Arturo, suave and gracious now, explained, “Soon you will feel much better. And you’ll be more receptive to my questions. After I’m satisfied, you can go.”

I tried to plead with him some more, but I was already fading. The guys passed some time by doing a few lines of blow, waiting for me to go all the way under. While they got jacked up, I got warm and dizzy. I squirmed, because my little dress felt more and more like a giant winter parka. Then I groaned, and the guys got very interested in me. Just as I started to worry about a gangbang, Arturo curtly dismissed his assistants, and stepped behind me again.

He undid the restraints on the chair, which felt nice. Then he brushed the hair from my damp forehead and pinned it up, which felt even better. When he slipped the straps of my dress down over my shoulders, I grabbed his fingers. “I-I’d rather you didn’t,” I murmured.

He kissed the back of my neck. Ew. “In a moment, you’ll rather I did.”

I heard him open something, and I swear to God I’m not making this up: he started to rub me down with baby oil. He’d warmed it up in his hands, before working it into my neck and shoulders. And it was so icky. Did I mention I’m gay? I switched teams when I was fifteen (thank you Cassie Perlington, wherever you are), and never looked back. At first, his touch was so repellent, it shocked me. I wasn’t used to rough, thick man fingers on my person. I winced as he worked my shoulder blades, but he hit this pocket of tension, and as I relaxed, waves of dizziness washed over me.

He whispered, “Yes, Nina. The more relaxed you become, the more you’ll enjoy yourself.”

Fifteen minutes later, I could not get enough of Arturo’s slick fingers on my skin, and I started loving the way my shoulders were slipping around in his hands. It was like I was watching myself in a movie. There were things he was doing to the nape of my neck that nearly made me drool. The very ickyness of everything that was happening—me, drugged and incarcerated, getting molested with a Johnson & Johnson product by a coked-up gangster—was making me feel way sexy like a porn star.

Then his lips were at my ear. “Do you feel like talking now?”

“Oh...” Experimentally, I pictured his face between my legs.

“I injected you with something very nice,” he explained, rubbing my back. “Nearly everything I do to you will put you into a deep, relaxing trance.”

“Deep...” I breathed.

“That’s right. I just want you to do two things: relax and obey.”

I leaned into his hands. “Relax... And obey.”

“Yes, that’s it. Now I will ask you some questions.”

I felt more and more conversational as he peeled my dress down and palmed my boobs. My nipples jutted out enthusiastically.

“What is your mission?”

That was a tough one. I frowned. “Relax and obey?”

He laughed softly, then licked my ear, which made hot sparks dance in my ‘gina. “I mean, why did they send you here?”

“But I told you,” I complained, while I wriggled around against oil and hot fingers. “I’m not a spy anymore. I’m signed to Virgin.”

“Your resistance is impressive. But I want you deeper into your trance, Nina.”

My head lolled forward. “Yes.”

“I want you to go much, much deeper.”

“Yes.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I came to the party with Christa.”

“What is your mission?”

“I’m not on any mission.” I shifted around in the chair. I was perfectly happy to answer more questions, but I had an unfamiliar craving for a hard dick.

He sighed. “All right. I will ask you again, after you are more relaxed.”

More relaxed? My head was buzzing, my mouth hung open. There was a wet spot on my chair. It was hard to imagine being more relaxed. Behind me, Arturo briskly undressed himself. I turned around to get a look at him, but he faced me away, steered me over to a desk, and had me kick out of my heels. Then he slipped my panties down, flipped up my dress and bent me over.

Before I could prepare myself, there was a substantial meat-stick sliding into me. It was that fast. I realized with a certain drug-addled satisfaction that the sight of me—glistening, with my dress bunched up around my stomach—must have made Arturo very hard. It was so strange, getting banged over a desk by a stranger. By a man, even. And it was that strangeness that made my cheeks flush. Made my clit swell. Made me creep up on tiptoes to improve the angle.

Whatever he’d dosed me with, it was making sex very, very good. In turn, the sex was making me more docile each passing minute. Sex was hypnotizing me: it was his rhythm, not his meat that was making my wits run down my thigh. I focused on his slow gait, the way he took me to the hilt with every stroke. I was so tight, and every nerve ending in my labia blazed. I began to see a flash of color every time he pulled back. My jaw worked in time to the colors. In a minute, there was a noise along with the colors. It took another minute for me to realize I was cooing in time with him.

He grabbed my hips to improve his leverage. I backed into him eagerly. He gently bit my ear and said, “I want you to come for me, Nina.”

I was so wet. But I wasn’t so far gone that I could peak on command. I wanted to say, “Well, then take care of it, Captain Bend-Me-Overton.” What I actually said, well, panted was, “I can’t come like this. Turn me around.”

He withdrew, spun me around roughly. There was a great crash, as he swept his hand across the desk, pushing everything to the floor. Then, with great care, he got me out of my delicate blue dress. Now I was starkers, and he scooped me up in his arms, deposited my bare bum onto the cool desktop. I’d barely opened my legs to him before he slipped back inside me. And we were off!

His thumbs were brushing over my nipples as he licked my collarbone. Oooo, that’s what I’d been missing. I threw my head back and gasped. If you ask any of my ex-lovers, they’ll testify that I’m a wildcat in the sack. I clamped my little legs around Arturo like a vice, and scratched the hell out of his back. All that just egged him on. One of his big hands gripped my arm, while his other hand stroked my back, just above my ass.

Clever Arturo changed his thrust, grinding into my clit. My skin tingled alarmingly as I shook and groaned. I crammed my open mouth against his chest and made a noise intended as encouragement. Possessive fingers cupped my ass. The center of my life was our slippery, rocking point of contact, and the shivery waves emanating from that point. I gulped for air so I could keep making the sounds that were connected to the waves that he was giving me, one after the other.

Presently, my clit became unbearably hard. My cheeks burned. My thighs began to buck around him. My chest was scarlet. My mouth was frozen in an “o,” but it seemed like hours before the scream actually left my lips. Sweat broke through baby oil, as I keened and convulsed and melted away, until I felt warm and invisible.

Arturo had a savage orgasm himself, but I barely noticed. He was right about the drug: after I came, I was so deeply entranced that I couldn’t even stand up on my own. I’m sure I looked like a passed-out sorority bimboid, freshly date-raped after unwisely hooking up with the star quarterback. And my troubles were just beginning.

I remember being gently roused by Arturo. I was naked, on a soft couch in a large guest room. He’d put his suit back on, and was thoughtfully washing my vee with a warm cloth.

“That’s right,” he coaxed. “There’s my lovely spy.”

It seemed like only a few minutes had passed, but I couldn’t be sure. And since I couldn’t even formulate a sentence, I just squeezed my thighs around the washcloth.

“I must make an appearance at my party, and tend to some business,” he said. “Before I go, you will make a call to your lovely friend. I’m told she has been looking for you for about twenty minutes.”

He gave me some elaborate instructions, which I seriously doubted I’d be able to follow. I was mildly surprised to find myself dialing Christa’s cell, even more surprised at my chirpy voice when she answered. “Hey girl! Where you been?”

Christa sounded a little high, but professional. “Chillin’. I was going to ask you the same. Where are you? Don’t tell me you left without me.”

I giggled knowingly. “Up in Arturo’s room...”

Christa was scandalized. ”No you are not...“

“I’m afraid one thing led to another,” I explained. Arturo smiled his encouragement. He was being very thorough with the washcloth.

“Do tell!” Christa implored. But I stuck to my lines, apologetically informing her that I’d be staying the night, and possibly flying back to Sydney later in the week, and would she be a dear and let everyone at the label know? Christa assured me that her feelings weren’t hurt, and that she’d pass along my travel plans. Then she asked, “Catch you on the flipside?”

I blinked, unsure how to answer, but Arturo had instructed me to act naturally. I decided on a cheerful “Hoo-roo!” and closed up the phone. He took it from my hands and pocketed it.

Instead of getting the wild, intimate night I’d hinted at to Christa, I was left alone in a big bed, in the dark. The only thing I wore in the chilly, air-conditioned guest room was a pair of headphones. As I drowsed, Arturo’s voice tickled the inside of my head: a series of suggestions repeated over and over.

Eventually, the sun began to seep in through the curtains. I remember servants fussing over me, treating me like some sort of concubine. I was bathed, fed, carefully anointed with suntan oil, dressed in a lime bikini, and placed outside, in a deck chair next to a ridiculously large swimming pool. I still felt pretty much the same as the moment Arturo blew his load into me, so I lazed in the sun without a care in the world.

I was about to fall asleep again, when I heard movement, and twisted around in my chair to see what was up. Two Secret Service looking guys quietly emerged from the house and flanked the back door. Just as I started to turn back around, Arturo appeared, exchanged a look with the man to his right, and walked briskly toward me.

The voice in those headphones I’d been hooked up to all night had dramatically changed my opinion of him. He was wearing a robe, and he looked so virile and dashing. I gave him a smile and a flirty wave, my shoulder bashfully meeting my chin. He liked that.

“Good morning,” he said, as he eased himself into the deck chair next to mine. “I trust you slept well?”

“Like a baby,” I assured.

He nodded. “Now that you’ve had a chance to sleep on it, don’t you think it’s time to be honest with me?”

I couldn’t remember ever being dishonest with him. “What are you going on about?”

“I want to know the details of your mission, and what GIA intended to learn about me,” he said patiently.

He was still worried about that ridiculous spy thing, and his bringing it up was starting to feel like foreplay. I thought it was kind of endearing. “Baby, I told you. I’m not a spy anymore.” I reached out with a toe to lift his robe.

Arturo sat up quickly and grabbed my ankle. It didn’t hurt, but I was surprised by his speed. “Nina, you will tell me why GIA sent you.” He was speaking loudly, clearly.

I gave him one of my famous looks, the kind that tends to make the recipient forget that anyone else exists in the world. His grip on my ankle loosened, so I took the opportunity to hop up and straddle his waist. “Look,” I said, brushing my lips against his. “You and I both know that I’d do anything you asked. I could never lie to you.” I nibbled on his ear. “I don’t work for GIA any more.”

He just sat there, taking in my affections, carefully watching my eyes even though my boobs were right under his nose. I was a little scared, because I could tell he’d had a few lines for breakfast. The bloke had a nasty habit, and a tendency to get violent, as my bruised cheek could attest. But I guess I forgot how incredibly fucking charming I can be. His big hands encircled my waist, and he smiled broadly. “I’m sure you have no peer among your fellow agents...” he began.

I cut him off by slipping my tongue between his lips. After an elaborate kiss, I insisted, “I am not a goddam agent,” breathing the words onto his face.

His hands traveled up my abdomen. “It’s been fun trying to break you, and it appears the job is not finished.” He punctuated this thought with a kiss of his own. “I estimate that I have another day or so to interrogate you before arousing suspicion from your handlers.” Another kiss. I started ever so gently squeezing my hips against his. “I will try my own methods once more, and if they don’t work, I will bring in a specialist this evening.”

“What specialist?” I asked, as I felt the familiar sting on my hip. Did this guy always keep happy drugs on his person?

He concentrated on giving me the injection, then kissed me again. I was already starting to feel wobbly. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

He waited patiently, as I fought to stay astride him during the head rush. When I started to sway, he informed me, “I’ve given you a much stronger dose this time. I do enjoy our witty repartee, but I’m running out of time.”

My lips were quite loose. “You paranoid fuck,” I said tenderly. “How many ways do you want me to say it? I’m not lying to you.” I felt around for his dick, underneath the robe, and gave it a good squeeze.

He grabbed my hips and lifted me up. “I’d like it very much if you’d jump into the pool.”

I was obeying him before I could even try to wonder if it was a good idea for me to throw my fucked up self into the water. I tossed my hair back, stepped away from him, and dove into the deep end. When I surfaced, I noticed he’d joined me. I was glad he wanted to do me in the water, because his gardener was piddling around the yard, along with a couple of maids, and his guards. It wasn’t the most intimate setting. Plus, I was slick with suntan oil and chlorine, and my wet bikini looked fabulous. I felt like the sun-kissed summer Goddess of the Pool. I raised my arms to the pool deck in invitation.

He did something behind my neck, then behind my back, and I saw my bikini top float by. I wrapped my legs around him and said, “Do whatever you want with me.”

But I should’ve been more specific, because he told me to get out of the water and lie down on the deck. My cheeks burned with embarrassment as I climbed the ladder, topless in front of his staff, and meekly took my place on the hot concrete. Warm water dribbled off of me and made a hot puddle under my back.

Arturo emerged from the pool and created some shade over me for a moment. I thought he was admiring my bod, but I heard a soft thud next to me. “On this,” he proclaimed. I turned clumsily to see a huge clear plastic float. I guess he didn’t want me to get abrasions from the rough concrete. Either that, or he had some colorful fantasies about fucking young, blond pool nymphs like myself. I was eager for his odd brand of man-love, so I hopped onto the float and peeled off my wet bikini bottoms.

The drug was really kicking in now, and the intensity was uncomfortable. I kept almost forgetting that he was going to fuck me in front of several of his employees. I’m red right now, just thinking about it, but at the time it was reduced to a vague bother.

He pushed my legs apart and climbed on top of me. The float groaned under us. He wasn’t hard yet, which was a little insulting. Maybe it was because we were putting on a show for his employees. He began to grind his semi-limp dick against my very warm, moist labia, and I sucked his earlobe to encourage him. His cock kept brushing my clit, and about the time I was ready to come, he tentatively pushed inside me. He slid all the way in, real easy, and barely a few thrusts later, I was helplessly shivering against his hips as I came.

I was limp in afterglow, but he was just getting warmed up. All I could do was just lie there, feeling my wet skin squeak against the float, while he gave me a proper banging. My hair was stuck to my face, and my feet were starting to get sunburned, but Arturo never let up. When I remembered where I was, I came instantly, which happened every few minutes. And every orgasm melted me into that plastic float a little more.

He didn’t show any signs of coming any time soon. He was, in short, a fuck machine. I think he banged me for half an hour, while I took to dozing off between orgasms. I’m guessing, but he seemed to get a thrill out of fucking me while I was asleep, and an even bigger thrill when I’d suddenly wake up and have another savage climax. I guess I wasn’t conscious when he shot his wad.

He gently tapped me awake, then we went through the same song and dance about the Spy Thing. Then he got very angry, and I passed out.

When I finally came to, I was lying on linen sheets. Dressed in my bikini, with a couple of odd accessories. One was a gas mask; some kind of hospital thing. I didn’t like the way the gas smelled, or the way it made me want to hurl. When I realized I had electrodes dangling from my forehead, I tried to sit up. A bald, bespectacled man unceremoniously shoved me back down.

“Just relax, Nina,” Arturo soothed from somewhere in the room. “Soon you’ll have no more worries.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. “What’s going on?” I slurred.

“You’ve left me with no other option, Agent Suenaga-Wentley,” he shot back.

I felt the prickle of intense fear, which didn’t get on well with my intense nausea. “What are you going to do to me?”

“My methods, thus far, have been temporary,” he explained, as if to a pre-schooler. “In a few days, you’d recover. My associate will try a more permanent solution. He will extract the information I require, and after that, you’ll belong to me.”

I wanted to go ahead and faint, before I got sick. But the idea of being the property of Arturo for the rest of my life was even more revolting. “Please,” I began, but the room started to spin.

Then I heard a familiar voice say, “I think Ms. Nina is all finished here.” Followed by lots of panicked scrambling and the distinct bip-bip of a silenced pistol. The bald man pitched awkwardly over me, and I felt something wet splash onto my stomach. Then strong hands ripped the gas mask off my face, and the most beautiful woman who ever existed kissed my forehead.

“Let’s get you out of here, kid,” said Assistant Director Akiko Masumi.

“Oh God, baby!” I warbled. My voice was thick with the gas I’d been anaesthetized with. “I’m so glad to see you! This bloke thought I...”

“Shhhh-shhh-shh,” she soothed, rubbing my temples. “We’re going home.”

I relaxed, drinking in her calm, professional self, resplendent in what I liked to call her Uniform: black tank, black cargo pants and boots. Then something in my guts demanded my attention. “Sorry,” I warned. “I’m going to be sick now.”

She chivalrously directed my head toward her boots as I did the Technicolor Yawn.

So that’s my story about how working for GIA got me kidnapped and almost turned into a turnip. Like I said earlier, you won’t find stories like that in the brochure. Think about it.

For those of you dying to know how my love life turned out, read on.

After Akiko collected me from a now very dead Arturo’s home, we spent a few days at a hospital in L.A., where the doctors decided I was none the worse for wear, and could go home. Akiko flew with me to Sydney, which was nice, because I had this lingering tendency to sit very quietly, waiting to be told what to do.

She stayed with me at my apartment, and when I was up to it, we had what I’d like to think was the best makeup sex ever. Ever ever ever. At least, all the broken shit in my bedroom will attest to that.

There were no arguments when I announced to my manager that I wanted to record my record in Sydney.

The suits at Virgin were horrified to learn that I’d been abducted while in the States, and shocked that I had a mysterious connection to the Shadowy Forces (i.e., the love of my life) that had promptly terminated the perpetrator. They wanted to know more than Akiko and I told them; there were remarks about National Security and knowing winks. Somehow, all the cloak and dagger stuff made them love me even more.

I had to intervene when they made noises about firing Christa. It only took a few minutes to convince them that what went down in Arturo’s mansion was a little beyond her skill set, and that she shouldn’t be punished for it. A lovely, handwritten letter of thanks showed up a week later, signed “Catch you on the flipside, Love, Christa.”

One night I asked Akiko, “How did you find me?” I’d asked before, but she got a certain look on her face that I can elicit when I run my yap too much.

This time she looked embarrassed. “You’re not going to like it,” she warned, but I just kissed her until she got over it. She explained that she’d been keeping tabs on me, and when I went to L.A., she just “happened” to have business in San Francisco. She’d made arrangements with Christa, who was led to believe that Akiko represented a private security company; so private I didn’t need to know about it! The night of the party, Christa thought I sounded weird on the phone, and she got worried the next day because she rang my cell, like, a zillion times and I never picked up. She felt that not having contact with me for twelve hours fell within the parameters stipulated by Akiko as a “possible situation,” and dutifully rang her up. It didn’t take long for Akiko to come charging to my rescue.

“So,” I said, running my fingers through her hair. “You were stalking me ever since we broke up.”

“Yeah,” she whispered, absurdly adorable in her embarrassment.

“You didn’t think I could watch out for myself,” I observed, loving how squirmy she got.

“Well...” she attempted.

I just looked at her, milking the moment. But not for long.

“Thank you baby,” I said.

We’re looking for an apartment, now that she’s transferred to GIA Sydney. But don’t jinx me, because we just started looking yesterday, and I don’t know how this is going to play out.

Wish me luck!