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Copyright Oggbashan February 2016
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.
“Rory? Can you do without your car today? The garage has a slot for servicing it.”
“Of course I can, Heather. I’ll be working at home. See you soon.”
That phone call was a coded message. The British Embassy had rung me at seven o’clock in the morning. But if her call had been traced it would appear to have originated at the garage. Her message meant ‘your cover is blown and you’ll be arrested soon. We’ll get you away shortly.’
I was an illegal — a spy working in this secretive dictatorial country but apparently nothing to do with the Embassy. My cover was as a businessman exporting collectors’ toys to Europe.
The country’s factories still produced 1940s style tinplate toys than sold well at collectors’ events. So well that not only was I supporting myself, paying myself a good salary, but making profits for my apparent employers, who are really an arm of Her Majesty’s Secret Service.
My British car was serviced at a garage also used by the Embassy, the only garage with a manufacturer’s approval in the whole country. They serviced almost all British made cars for expatriates like me.
Heather is the name of the garage’s secretary/receptionist. But the woman who had rung me hadn’t been Heather. She was an Embassy employee, apparently a diplomat’s wife working as a junior secretary, but actually the deputy spy chief responsible for every illegal like me.
My reply meant ‘Yes, I’ll be ready and waiting to go’.
How I would be extracted from the country I didn’t know. How close the surveillance would be around me? I didn’t know. Day to day monitoring was a normal occurrence. I had to live in a designated block of apartments for foreigners.
All access was from a central courtyard that was also the car park. Entering or leaving the courtyard by car was controlled by electric gates, operated by the security guards on a double gate system. Any car leaving or arriving had to pass one gate that closed behind the car.
Two security guards would then check the identity of the driver and passengers and do a quick search of the car before the second gate was opened.
Pedestrians went through the same procedure beside the guards’ post. Anyone not resident or previously vouched for by a resident with documented details would be thoroughly searched. Even then the resident had to come to meet the visitor.
Most of the time that security was welcome. Any car left on an open street might be stripped of valuable items in minutes. My office car park was similarly controlled. Any unprotected apartment might be broken into a couple of times a year.
But now? If my identity as a British spy was known, I might be prevented from leaving the apartment block until the secret police arrived. They might be here in minutes or hours. If they knew I was at home, all they had to do was inform the guard post, and I couldn’t leave, so they wouldn’t have to arrive quickly.
What I could do, I did. I packed a few items into a carrier bag and made a production of taking things out and putting things into my car. Anyone watching, even if watching closely, wouldn’t be able to tell whether there were more or different items in the car when I had finished. The things that mattered were in the car.
At ten o’clock I had an intercom message from the guard post. Heather from the garage had arrived to collect my car. Could I bring the keys to her at the guard post?
I went down in my shirt sleeves, carrying nothing except the keys. It was the real Heather from the garage. I handed over the keys in full view of the guards. She thanked me and walked to my car while I chatted to the guards as I might normally do while waiting for the security check. One of them did a cursory search of my car before Heather was allowed to drive out and away. A resident was slowly approaching the security gate from the courtyard. I waited for her.
“Hello, Rory. You’re just the man I want.”
Sophie is another British resident in the apartment block. She is well known locally because she is very large, seriously obese, walks with two sticks or rides around on the largest mobility scooter ever seen in this country.
We had been friends for a long time. When she arrived she was recovering from an operation after a road accident. I had driven her around until her mobility scooter was delivered. I liked her but wished she wasn’t so obese. A slim Sophie might have been the woman of her dreams.
Sometimes she was, but in my dreams she shed a hundred pounds of weight.
I had spoken to her many times but we kept our conversations to bland topics because we were sure everything was recorded. She was wearing what I can only describe as a denim canlı bahis şirketleri tent dress. It buttoned up to her neck and the skirt dragged on the ground as she walked.
“Hello, Sophie,” I replied. “How are you? How can I help?”
“I’m OK, Rory, but my scooter isn’t. It seems to be stuck on something, or it won’t engage reverse properly. I need to go to the airport today. Can you have a look at it?”
“Of course, Sophie. Is it in its usual place?”
“Yes, Rory. Thank you.”
This whole conversation was in front of the security guards who seemed to take no notice but we both knew every word would have been recorded on video.
Sophie’s apartment was on the ground floor and had an addition to the side to house her scooter while it was being recharged. Sometimes she couldn’t use it because we had experienced yet another power cut, and I would take her in my car to the department store reserved for foreigners and high ranking party officials. My car was the only one large enough to cope with Sophie’s bulk.
We walked very slowly towards Sophie’s apartment. She unlocked the scooter garage’s door and we walked in. I was surprised when she shut the door behind us. She turned on a fluorescent light that hummed noisily.
“OK, Rory,” Sophie said. “We can talk quietly now. That light jams any audio or video surveillance and my garage door is impervious to other devices.”
“OK, Sophie,” I said. “I understand, but what have we to talk about?”
“Getting you out, of course, Rory,” Sophie replied impatiently. “You’re coming out with me.”
“I am? That would be great. But how?”
“I’m not really as fat as I appear, Rory. You will be riding my scooter inside my dress. I’m well known so won’t attract any more attention than usual. Once beyond the security gates and around a couple of corners I and my scooter will be loaded onto the only taxi in this town that can take me, and driven to the airport. There I’ll unload you in a disabled toilet. When you emerge you won’t be Rory.”
“If it works, that’s wonderful. But I can’t see…”
“You won’t see. Your ride will be uncomfortable, possibly unpleasant, but should be a good way out of the country.”
“The guards suspect that I smuggle items under my dress when I’m on my scooter. Sometimes they poke and prod me to make sure it’s me and not contraband under this dress. They might poke you.
If they do, you can’t make a sound, nor move. I’m afraid that you are going to be really uncomfortable. You’ll be bound immobile, gagged silent and in complete darkness until we get to the airport’s disabled toilet. You will probably be screaming silently for release by then.”
“What do I have to do, Sophie?”
“First Rory, you have to wear this ball gag to stop you making a noise. Second, you crawl up under the black lining of this dress until your head is between my breasts. OK so far?”
“Yes, Sophie but won’t my shape show?”
“See that?” Sophie pointed to an electric motor mounted below the handlebars of her scooter.
“That’s an electric pump, just in case I have a puncture in a tyre. But it also connects to the lining of my dress. It inflates it to give me more bulk. Once inflated, any poking or prodding will seem like body fat. Partly deflated I can hide smuggled goods, or this time, you. I’ll have to inflate it once you are inside. The air will conceal your shape but you’ll be firmly fixed against me. Very firmly.”
“If you say so, Sophie. When do we go?”
Sophie fitted the large ball gag in my mouth and fastened the straps around my head. It was soft yet filled my mouth uncomfortably full.
“In you get.”
Sophie lifted her dress as she stood beside the scooter. I crawled inside and moved my body upwards until my head was resting in her cleavage. I was surprised how pleasant her real body was and that her perfume was attractive. This Sophie was better than the woman of my dreams and my face was against her breasts. I could enjoy this.
“Now we move sideways so I am standing on the scooter footboard,” I heard her say from a distance.
That was awkward. I was shuffling on my knees and had to lift first one leg, then the other, up to the footboard.
“Sit down with your legs outstretched alongside the seat pillar,” Sophie ordered.
As I sat down, so did she. My body was bent forward with my head still in her cleavage. Sophie twitched her dress so that it hung down all around me. The hem was obviously weighted. I was in complete darkness. The dress lining was lightproof.
“Arms by your sides, straight if you can.”
My fingertips were touching the footboard.
“I’ll start the pump. In a couple of minutes I’ll ask you to try moving your arms. If you can, I’ll have to inflate some more. If you can’t, we’ll start moving.”
I heard the whirr of the pump and felt a constriction around my body. Gradually my confinement became tighter and tighter. My arms were clamped hard against my body. The lower part of the skirt inflated canlı kaçak iddaa minimally. The pump stopped.
“Try to move, Rory,” Sophie ordered.
I tried. I could barely twitch a finger. My head was firmly clamped into her cleavage. I could breathe because the centre seam of her bra was holding my nose slightly clear. But it was pushing that ball gag hard into my mouth.
“OK, Rory. We’re off.”
Inside Sophie’s dress that was imprisoning me I couldn’t hear much. I couldn’t see a thing. I couldn’t move. How long could I endure this? I’d have to. Sophie’s real body was a compensation for the tight imprisonment. Almost anything was better than being caught by the local Secret Police. Their torture methods were barbaric and usually fatal.
I heard Sophie talking to the security guards as they let her out through the vehicle gate, but not what was said. Sophie drove her scooter for a few hundred yards and turned several corners before she stopped. I heard two different voices, some metallic scrapes and clanks, and then we went up a ramp, presumably into the only taxi that could take Sophie’s scooter. I would have flinched, if I could move, when the scooter was suddenly clamped down inside the vehicle. The rear doors slammed shut, cutting out the faint traffic noise.
The two voices spoke much clearer. I could hear them if I strained my ears, muffled by one of Sophie’s breasts on each side.
“Miss Smythe,” the male voice said, “the government has decided that if I am carrying a disabled woman, I have to have a woman with me. This is Irina, one of my cousins, who has volunteered to help today.”
“Pleased to meet you, Irina,” I heard Sophie say.
“You might not be,” Irina said. “The government’s rules also say that all passengers in taxis must wear a seat belt, even you in your disability scooter.”
“But how?” Sophie asked. “I’m not in a taxi seat.”
“Your chair is clamped to the floor of the taxi through reinforced strong points, Miss Smythe,” the taxi driver said, “so all that is necessary is to use a seat belt to attach you to your scooter. Irina will fit it. It had to be a full harness because it can’t be attached to the taxi’s seat belt points.”
“OK,” Sophie said, “If I have to wear a seat belt, I have to.”
I felt slightly increased pressure as a shoulder straps came over the back of my body, and more pressure as the waist belt was clipped in place.
“One last part,” I heard Irina say. “Just in case your arms flail about in a crash.”
“No…” Sophie’s voice was cut off.
“Wrists fixed, Irina?” the male voice said.
“Yes Marco. They’re clamped to the chair’s arms.
Is she properly gagged?”
“Can you hear her protests?”
“Then she’s properly gagged.”
The female voice spoke much louder.
“Rory Jones? I’m sure you can hear me, even if you can’t answer. You and Miss Smythe have been declared PNG by our government. Both of you will be deported this afternoon. Of course you know what PNG means because you are both illegal spies — Persona Non Grata. We have known about your activities for years but have left you alone because the known is better than the unknown. Unfortunately two of our illegals were PNG’d by the British government and we have to reciprocate.
We have arranged a flight for you, joining an RAF plane that just happens to be landing in a few hours. Until then, I’m afraid that your experience will be unpleasant. Not painful, but unpleasant. We want to ensure you do not return to our country. You are restrained by Miss Smythe’s ingenious dress and now her seat belt, but just in case you have ideas of escape, we’ll inflate her dress lining a little more…”
I thought I couldn’t stand any more pressure. I was already firmly clamped to Sophie’s body, my breathing just possible. I heard the pump start.
I was squeezed harder and harder. My body sank into Sophie’s flesh. My mouth was nearly torn apart by the ball gag and my nose was pushed deeper and deeper between Sophie’s breasts. My head dragged her bra inwards which forced her breasts harder against the sides of my head. The pump stopped when I had just a quarter of inch clearance between my nostrils and Sophie’s warm scented body. I panted through my nose as I felt the vehicle start to move.
I was helpless, tightly sheathed against Sophie’s body. Even if I were to be released now my muscles wouldn’t work for several minutes. She and I were impotent captives being taken who knows where. Could I believe Irina’s statements? I hadn’t known that Sophie was also an illegal spy. I shouldn’t have known because it was safer that way. What we didn’t know couldn’t be extracted by torture.
As the taxi drove along I felt my air gap reducing. Would I suffocate before we reached our destination? I couldn’t turn my head even slightly and it seemed that Sophie’s breasts were expanding, possibly because the heat generated by our bodies jammed together. My breathing was becoming impaired every minute as my head sank further into her cleavage. The tip canlı kaçak bahis of my nose was pressing hard against Sophie’s body. A slight increase in pressure behind me or a small expansion of her breasts and I would die.
My only relief came from the poor roads and the taxi’s crude suspension. Each bump moved me minutely. Sometimes that gave me a chance to snort some air, sometimes my nostrils were totally covered. We had been driving for what seemed an unnecessarily long time. Perhaps they were trying to make sure we didn’t know where we were going. I couldn’t, but surely Sophie could?
The bumps became more frequent. We had obviously turned off a major road into a minor one with more potholes. A sudden bang from the suspension and I could breathe freely. Sophie’s bra fastening had finally broken under the strain of my head forced between her breasts. Each breast slumped sideways and down. My chin and mouth which had been cruelly forced against her unyielding bra were under slightly less pressure.
The gag, still banged against her cleavage, had lifted my nostrils away from her soft flesh. I could breathe through my nose and unless anything else happened I could continue to breathe.
The taxi stopped. I heard the sounds of a pair of electric gates similar to that at our apartment block and then a much heavier barrier being moved and closed behind us. The taxi drove a few yards further and the engine was switched off.
The ramp was fitted and Sophie’s scooter was driven slowly backwards with its two occupants still helplessly bound to it. I thought I heard it being driven across a wooden floor.
“Miss Smythe?” It was Irina’s voice. “How do you deflate your dress?”
There was no answer. How could there be? Sophie was still gagged. I could feel a slight movement as her gag was removed. Irina repeated the question. Sophie’s voice was so strained and quiet that I didn’t hear the words of her answer.
I felt the effect as the air pressing around my body was slowly and gradually released. It didn’t have any real impact on my captivity. I was still swathed inside Sophie’s dress and my shoulders and torso were clamped by the seat belt.
The skirt of Sophie’s dress was raised. I was just conscious of light from below, followed by a flash, presumably from a camera.
Behind my head, Sophie’s dress was unbuttoned and my head was revealed. I blinked in the sudden light. More pictures were taken.
“Now you should get off,” Irina said.
I couldn’t move. Although my head was free, my arms and legs were too stiff. Irina pulled Sophie forwards and dragged the dress upwards and off us. Sophie struggled to stand, pushing me backwards against the scooter’s steering column.
Irina and another woman had to half-lift, half-carry me off the scooter. They pushed me on to a large double bed. I slumped in agony as the returning circulation made my muscles spasm.
Irina’s hands unfastened the straps holding the large ball-gag in my mouth. I recognised her as a woman who worked in an office the floor above mine. She is an attractive natural blonde with long legs. I had thought she might be an agent of the State Security. Too late I knew that I was right.
As Sophie was helped off the scooter I looked around the room. Beside Irina was another blonde, slightly older and harder looking. Standing between the bed and the door were six women dressed in the unflattering local Police uniforms. Each was carrying a long wooden truncheon, frequently used by the Police on members of the public.
In front of them were three video cameras on tripods. Each had a red light showing that they were recording.
“Sophie, please strip and remove your enhancements,” Irina ordered.
Sophie took off her bra which was already hanging loose. It was obviously heavily padded. She stepped out of her waist petticoat, then pulled down her bulky panties. Without them she was still large, but a normal large woman, not an excessively obese one. This Sophie was desirable.
“And the pads in your cheeks…”
Sophie put a finger in her mouth. Once she had removed those pads her face was rounded but not bloated.
Sophie unfastened a very discreet flesh coloured neck wrap. Once off, her neck was almost slim. I was watching an attractive woman appear without her disguise as a fat lady.
“Rory? Strip and come here please.”
It was a struggle to get off that bed. The other woman helped me off the bed and to undress.
Sophie and I were positioned against a wall painted with height lines marked in metric measurements as Irina’s assistant took still pictures of us face on, left and right sides, and from the back.
Irina picked up Sophie’s massive dress.
“We want a record of how you were going to evade our cordon. Rory, kneel in front of Sophie and put your arms around her waist.” Irina said.
“And if I don’t?”
“Those…” Irina pointed at the policewomen,
“will beat both of you up with their truncheons until you comply. We don’t want to hurt you. We want compromising videos of you just in case you return to our country. If you cooperate, recording those videos will be embarrassing, perhaps uncomfortable, but not painful. If you don’t cooperate, you will be hurt. Understood?”
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