The Soviet Comeback by Jamie Smith (best ereader for academics TXT) 📕

Agent Taras Brishnov almost shook with excitement. Being forced to play second fiddle to the black piece of shit, a man he exceeded in rank, experience, kills, and not to mention the fact that he was actually Russian, had started a fire of rage in his gut. Now, finally a mission worth his quality.

From his days growing up in Leningrad he had always felt different to others. Other children shunned him and he viewed them all with a cold detachment. The only time he felt anything was when he was allowed to cause them pain.

Pain.

That was everything. Pain was power. Pain was pleasure.

He snaked the barrel of the gun over the quivering form of the woman below him, enjoying her whimpers. She could not be much older than eighteen and looked half starved, but those big brown eyes drove him wild.

“Pwease, you are hurrding me,” the skinny young woman pleaded dully, the leather strap stretching her mouth and drawing blood as she tried to speak. Bruises on her arms showed that she was used to cruelty, but rarely did she feel as afraid as she did now. The leather strap wrapped around the back of her head and looped into a handle which the KGB agent had his hand through and was pulling back.

“Hush, child,” he crooned, trailing the barrel of his Desert Eagle down the spine of her pale white back as he stood behind her, with her crouched on all fours on a shabby four-poster bed. Not usually his gun of choice, it felt too showy and he preferred something much subtler. But for an occasion such as this he could not deny it gave an enormous sense of power.

“This is a very special day and we must treat it as such. Do you know why it is so very special?” he asked. The girl said nothing, and he tugged on the strap sharply causing her to groan with pain.

“I asked you a question, my dear,” he said flatly.

“Why it speshal?” she said, her head jerked round as he pulled at the leash again. A thin trail of blood was trailing its way down her neck from the corner of her mouth.

Brishnov unbuckled his belt and pulled down the zip of his swollen trousers and his eyes rolled into the back of his head as he forced his way inside the young prostitute. He snaked his finger up the trail of blood, before putting the gun to her temple as his pace quickened.

“Pwease no,” she said stutteringly, trying to grimace and get through the ordeal. He laughed cruelly and pushed the gun harder into her temple, so that blood was drawn from there too, and he felt himself become even more aroused. He let the gun drop onto the bed in front of the woman.

“This day is special, my love, because I have been asked to kill the vice president of the United States.”

Now she began to cry and the tears made their way down her cheeks, mingling with the blood and sweat around her chapped and gagged mouth. “Pwease, I donn wanna know,” she sobbed, knowing what him providing her with that information meant.

She began to squirm against the bonds around her wrists, which only served to drive the man behind her even wilder.

“I am going to strike a fatal blow right to the heart of these capitalist pigs who think to govern the world. Soon America will fall to the might of Communist Russia,” he gasped as he pounded faster and pulled back harder on her leash so that her body was contorted painfully. Now the blood fell thickly from her mouth and she was crying in fits.

He broke into a stream of Russian that the girl didn’t understand, and she tried to push him backwards with her foot but he was so strong that she had no hope of overpowering him. He pulled her head around to the side so that she could not see him reach for the gun.

He allowed the leash on her head to relax and she prayed to God for the first time in years that he was showing her mercy, but then she felt the cold metal of the gun’s barrel press against her skull.

“Please no!” she screamed, in her terror having managed to bite clean through the leather at her mouth. His pace was fast and furious and he was grunting amidst the solid monologue of Russian that he uttered in a fast, low voice.

The screaming only served to spur him on and suddenly he tensed and shouted, “Mat’ Rossiya!” As she screamed once more, and her back arched, he pulled the trigger of the Desert Eagle.

She slumped forward and he gasped as drool dripped from his mouth and he shuddered from the intensity of the pleasure.

He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and looked down at the pitiful form in front of him, a mixture of blood, sweat and tears and the shame flooded him, as it always did.

Looking around the room as if taking it in for the first time, Brishnov looked at the crumbling four-poster bed with the well-worn satin sheets and sputtering candles around the walls. How could he have been so careless?

“Bol’ do udovol’stviya,” he said to himself. Always pain before the pleasure.

To become a slave to his own depravity was unforgivable. And with an American girl no less. His father would never forgive him.

But then, he probably would not have forgiven his son for killing him either. Taras Brishnov’s father had been a cold man who would warm himself on cold Leningrad nights with strong vodka and even stronger kicks to his young son. Like every beaten dog, one day he turned on his master. It was Brishnov’s first kill. He fervently hoped this American hooker was not his last.

He moved over to the window of