For the Country!

Puma Swede, Russian interrogation officer, sits behind the steel table. Her uniform clings tight across heavy breasts and strong thighs. She lights a cigarette, exhales, and watches the imperialist spy twitch. Sandy is already naked, wrists cuffed above her head, ankles spread and bolted to the floor. The single lamp throws harsh light over pale tits and the thin strip of hair between her legs. Puma stands. She moves slow, heels ticking against concrete. Her gloved hand slides between Sandy's thighs, two fingers parting the slick lips. She finds the spy already wet. A smirk. "Spreading for the enemy. Typical Yankee whore." Two fingers slip inside, knuckles deep, then withdraw shiny with cunt juice. Puma tastes them. Salt and fear. She smiles wider. The first strike lands flat on a swinging breast. Sandy gasps. Puma strikes again, harder, watching the red print bloom across soft flesh. Another slap. Another. She works methodically, turning flesh pink then crimson. Between each slap her fingers return to the spy's cunt, pushing deeper, harder, testing how much the American will take before she begs. When Sandy finally moans, Puma bends close, breath hot against the woman's ear. "We have all night, little girl. You will give me everything." She drops to one knee, spreads the pink folds wide, and runs her tongue flat over Sandy's swollen clit. The spy shudders. Puma sucks hard, tongue flicking, then stops. "Names. Locations. Codes." Her teeth graze the engorged nub. "Or I stop." She waits, fingers still buried inside the dripping hole, patient as a cat with a cornered bird.