0 comments/ 19763 views/ 0 favorites Mrs. Ivanova's Coming Out By: JMaxwell69 "Owwwh." I groaned as I struggled to get up from a position lying on my stomach on the limp mattress. I was in bed in my small sublet apartment in Moscow. It didn't help that the mattress was severely worn such that one had to fight to get up from a central depression that had developed over the years. I would have moved out by now, but the rent was cheap, the location conveniently near the Kremlin and Lubyanka where I spent much of my time doing interviews, and... I don't know... I had an inexplicable attachment to the run-down and musty old place. This was the worst I'd felt by far since, shortly after arriving in Russia, I began to become ill. I became convinced, as I rolled over with great effort, that I was going to have to make a trip back to America to see a specialist. I hated that it would set back the timeline on my project, and I would probably have to get my publisher to agree to a revised roll-out date. I dreaded that conversation. However, it was now clear that whatever my ailment was, it was getting worse. After seeing Doctor Elovich, a stocky balding physician recommended by my landlady, twice the only thing resembling a diagnosis I had received was that I worked too hard, was under great stress, and my body was slowly adjusting to the Moscow winter. I knew that I'd better get myself looked at by a doctor with access to X-ray machines, MRIs, and CAT-scanners. Elovich apparently wasn't willing to deal with the hassle of a hospital referral for what he seemed certain was an over-reaction to a minor affliction at best, or perhaps even a case of hypochondria. I had reached the limits of what he could do in his little office, which was disturbingly cluttered as if it were the collection point for materials that would form the exhibits of a Museum of Soviet Era Medical Implements. At least I had not had to wait in the depressing little waiting room, which I had never seen contain an occupant. The waiting area was the opposite of the observation room in that it was devoid of anything except four molded-plastic chairs spaced around the periphery. It would have been zen-like if not for the fact that it was so ill-maintained - having a flickering fluorescent light and a dark water stain down the wall adjacent to the outside of the building. The aches, pains, and general lethargy started gradually the week I arrived in Moscow. At first, it was easy to chalk my condition up to a combination of cold and lack of daylight. It was late November in Moscow when I arrived, and that bore little resemblance to the late November I was accustomed to in Miami. For the first week-and-a-half, I figured it was a combination of jet lag, Vitamin D deficiency, and, perhaps, the onset of a cold. If it had just been for the tiredness, achiness, mild malaise, I might not have thought anything more of it. However, with increasing frequency I began to have generalized, but occasionally intense, pains in my lower abdomen. My internal organs felt like they were bruised - pummeled from the inside out, and I occasionally had bloody stool. The odd thing was that I kept having the feeling that I should know what my problem was and what was causing it, but as soon as I thought I might know, the thought vanished. I had had similar experiences all my life in which I thought I had a glimpse of a memory of a dream, but the more I tried to recall the dream, the less I could muster anything but an unexplained feeling. Now, the feelings I felt were consistently dark and macabre. There was no activity in my life to explain my aches and lethargy. My life consisted of work, occasional requisite evening social functions of a subdued nature, and sleep. While I usually exercised fanatically, lately I could not muster the effort. My sex drive was diminished to nearly the point of nonexistence. The tall, blond, and buxom young Russian women that attended the aforementioned evening social functions barely made it onto my radar screen lately. This was quite a change from my normal mode of operation at parties, but lately I wanted nothing more than to get home to sleep as soon as I could politely manage. Dr. Elovich was, like the landlady who had recommended him, dour and humorless. Where the two differed was also apparent. Elovich was a nervous fidgety little man, whereas Mrs. Ivanova was a font of stern confidence. Elovich responded to inquiries and attempts at levity alike by repeating his mantra that I just needed to rest more and that the "little aches and pains" of my middle-aged frame were simply exacerbated by the bone-chilling Moscow winter. He further expressed a belief that Russian food was probably also taking some getting used to by my body. I didn't put much stock in this explanation because, while I had never before spent such an extended time in Russia, my job involved constant travel and I had spent months in places with much harsher cuisine (spicy, raw, curdled, you name it) without a problem. In fact, I was known for my cast-iron constitution. Elovich gave me Vitamin D tablets to make up for the lack of sunlight, and told me that if I spent a few days in bed I would be good as new in a week. The latter could not happen given my tight deadline for the book. When I finally sat up in the bed, my jaw dropped in astonishment. I was dumbfounded. Except for my things, the tiny apartment had been cleared out. Had I been robbed? The thought crossed my mind, but it seemed that if anything Mrs. Ivanova had been robbed. But that made no sense. A cursory look around gave no indication that anything of mine was missing. It defied logic that robbers would leave $5,000 worth of camera equipment and a two month old fully-loaded Panasonic Toughbook laptop sitting around while they took the dusty old lamps, unimaginative pastoral artworks, stained doilies, tattered curtains, little bronze statues of Stakhanovite workers, and all the other cheap drab North Korean-made 1970s Communist-era decor and tchotchkes that had adorned the apartment. One could see where paintings had hung by the rectangles that were several shades lighter than the rest of the wall, and one could see where the cylindrical and rectangular bases of statuettes had sat on the shelf by the dust-free geometric shapes. There was an extra level of mustiness to the air as it seemed the dust continued to be stirred by recent activity. Amazingly, there was a Brownian motion of particulate matter that continued to swirl around in a shaft of light that angled in through the room's solitary window. In the abandoned apartment, it did not take long for the folded yellow legal pad note with a USB-drive taped to it to catch my eye. It was the only thing left that wasn't mine, and the modernity of the flash-drive seemed strikingly out of character for Mrs. Ivanova. The yellow page had the oddest statement hand-written on it. "Dear Subject X: I'll miss our little experiences together, but it is time to say ado. I have a message to get out, and you are just the person to be my mouthpiece. As a reward, I grant you permission to tell my story without revealing your own part in it. But tell it you must, or I will come to visit you again some day. Watch the video on the attached device [referring, ostensibly, to the USB drive] it should make clear what I am talking about. Also, I put a number of files on the disc that will provide background information and cases for your story. As you watch it, just know that I treated you better than the others." It was signed "Mistress Ivanova". My mind reeled as I tried to decipher the note. "...our little experiences together..." To what did that refer? Unlike my earlier mentioned attempts to grasp a fleeting memory, now I was trying to push away, to deny, a distressing thought that was beginning to dawn. Mrs. Ivanova, as I called her, was not exactly the gregarious type. I knew almost nothing about her, and had spent little time in her presence. It was telling, in fact, that I called her Mrs. Ivanova. I knew her first name was Elena, but could not seem to put myself on a first name basis with her. The "Mrs" in lieu of "Ms" was indicative of her status as a widow. That she was a widow was one of the few personal things I had managed to extract from her during our initial conversation. For example, I did not know how the relatively young woman, she seemed to be in her fifties and talked as though her husband had died at least a decade earlier, had become widowed. During that initial meeting, when she showed me the apartment, Ivanova displayed a reasonable facsimile of warmth and friendliness - at least with the hindsight derived from seeing her subsequent behavior. For the first week, I wondered if she was not angry with me, because of her change in demeanor. However, I gradually concluded that she wasn't one for chit-chat, and had probably just screwed on a smile in order to rent the dismal little apartment. "Subject X"? That was coldly impersonal even for Ivanova. In conversation she called me "Alexiy" - short for my proper first name of "Alexander", but either more diminutive or Russified than the "Alex" most people called me. I grabbed my laptop. I was a little scared by what I would discover - given the odd and ominous tone of the note and the gnawing feeling of foreboding in the pit of my stomach. Part of me just wanted to pack up and get my life back to normal, but this part was overwhelmed by another that was driven to find out what Ivanova was talking about. I inserted the thumb-drive into the laptop, and watched as the machine worked to recognize the new memory source. What normally would have been an inconsequential instant for the computer to recognize the device and to get its files ready to open seemed interminable under the circumstances. I took a deep breath, and braced for a jarring impact to my psyche. I now had a rough idea of what the recording contained. There were a number of clues. First, there was my recent physical condition - the nature of which I now felt I had been in denial about. Second, there were the odd comments on the note. Finally, I now recalled the vague glimpses of imagery in my mind's eye that I had had in recent weeks, but which I had chalked up to nightmares. Yet, I needed to know something about the "why" and "how" to match my knowledge of the "what" that was on the recording. A static frame popped up on the screen, frozen for a few instants before the file began to play. It was Mrs. Ivanova's face poised for speech, and I recognized the background as her living room. Seeing her created an odd swirl of thoughts and feelings. I was angry and scared and, at a conscious level, I hated Ivanova for what I expected I was about to find out she had done to me, or, at a minimum, for scaring me severely. Yet, I could also feel something else. It was as though, at a subconscious level, I had an attachment to her that was almost maternal in nature. I realized that this was not a new feeling. All along as I thought about how stern and hostile she seemed, there was something that I had always found appealing, or even endearing, about Ivanova. Then, I had chalked it up to an ambiguity of her physical appearance - now I did not know. While Ivanova maintain a sullen countenance, her features were attractive for a woman in her mid-fifties. She was likely considered quite pretty in her day, or, at least, capable of being beautiful if she made an effort to smile and let her hair down. She had high cheek bones, a nose that was aquiline but small and not excessively beak-like, and skin that, while it was now a little sun-browned and creased in places, was still reasonably smooth. In short, she was a pretty older woman that may have been a gorgeous young woman. She was lean and had a build suggestive of an adolescent, but did not have the frail or gaunt appearance common in petite women of her age. Her jet black hair seemed to always be worn in a tight bun. I had once wondered if letting her hair down wouldn't get the blood flowing to her face, replace the scowls with smiles, and, just possibly, make her seem less irritable. I suspected she was from the South, the Caucuses, rather than an indigenous Moscovite. Her look reminded me of the women I had seen in Grozny when I was on assignment there briefly after the Chechen War. I stared transfixed as the video started. Mrs. Ivanova began to speak. She was sitting on a chair looking straight into the camera. "Dear Alexiy, before we get to the more titillating parts of the show, I would like to give you some background information, some context." She said. "You will no doubt have heard of a program run by your country's CIA that was called MKULTRA. Hollywood depictions like the 'Manchurian Candidate' and 'Bourne Identity' give one the impression that this program, and fictional one's based on it, were just about making assassins. However, this was just one facet, the one that had dramatic appeal to story-tellers. MKULTRA was concerned with a wide range of behavioral modification applications from getting tight-lipped spies to tell all to building soldiers willingly and even apparently eagerly to engage in activities that were at least as out of character for them as shooting someone in the head." She paused for effect. No doubt she knew she would have my attention at this point. Was she telling me she had made me into an assassin? I didn't think so, but, then, I didn't really know what to think. "Our Soviet Union had a program of a similar nature, but we were able to do it much better and to run our program for much longer." The way she said it, it seemed that she was reminiscing over the glory days of the USSR. "Your government was hamstrung by nosy journalists and buckled under public pressure." Her tone indicated that she intended this commentary on the power of American civil society more as an insult than commiseration for the relative ineffectiveness of MKULTRA versus its Soviet analog. She continued. "I was part of the Soviet program from the time I entered graduate school in 1977 until the break up of the Soviet Union, at which time our program was radically downsized and I was among those who were let go. "It is not particularly hard to find a person that can be trained to be a cold killer. It is also not so hard to find someone that can be used for blackmail operations. However, a good spy might need to suck dick like a little bitch one day and be cool in a shoot-out the next, and building a person who could switch between such roles without a hitch was the objective of our program. My task was to find a subject's deepest inhibitions, and then develop a conditioning program that would break down those inhibitions. We sought to build a person for whom nothing was taboo - who wouldn't show the least bit of reluctance no matter what they were asked to do. We used drugs, hypnotism, and combinations of both in this process, and we got progressively better at it. We learned about picking the right subjects, tweaked the recipe of our drug cocktail, and perfected methods for triggering altered mental states instantaneously in subjects in a waking state. At the risk of showing hubris, I was responsible for a number of these advancements, and was fast-tracked up through the ranks. By the time I was 34, when the Soviet Union Collapsed, I held a civilian rank equivalent to Major General in the Army. Then, just like that, it was all over. "I loved my job. I'm going to tell you something that I never told anyone - not my co-workers, not my husband, and not even my subjects while they were under hypnosis. Perhaps I owe you as much given what I put you through, but I'm telling you this because it is an important element of the exposé you will write. Not only did I love my job, but it might not be going too far to say that I had an addiction to it. My dirty little secret was that I lived for the thrill of dominating my subjects and making them do all the things they abhorred. Watching some macho sexist soldier swallow his buddy's cock or some prissy moralistic prude sexually service her son and several other young men and women alike gave me great satisfaction. "My only regret, the thing that most detracted from my joy, was that the subjects had no idea what I had done to them. They awoke every morning, and while they might have had an inkling that something was out of sort, they had no recollection of what they had done at my command. I wanted them to know what power I had over them, just as you are about to know. The individuals whose dossiers appear on this drive are those that I particularly wanted to know. They were arrogant and thought they were my superiors, even while they spent their nights being my bitches. "That is why I want you to tell my story. Don't try to look for me. I know you are a quite skilled investigative journalist, but, if you were to find me, I guarantee you would regret it. However, between my old comrades from government service and the individuals I can still trigger to do my bidding, I am quite well-connected for an old spinster. When a professional writer came to look at my apartment, I took it as a sign of providence. The rest of this movie is sort of a 'greatest hits' of our little midnight trysts." She concluded, and the screen when blank for just an instant. When an image came back on the screen, it was green and grainy. It was clearly filmed on the camera's night-vision setting. The camera was close enough that it was a simple matter to make out the subject of the shot. It was me - a sleeping me. I was lying in bed under the thick layer of covers needed in the apartment because it got chilly at night. I lay on my stomach. Mrs. Ivanova tip-toed into the frame, and sat gently on the corner of the bed. She then leaned in and seemed to be whispering something in my ear. I could not make out what she was saying. I pumped up the volume setting to the maximum, but it was still no more than a garbled mumble. I was startled when the image of me on the screen spun sharply to his back, and, tossing sheets and blankets aside, said "Yes, ma'am." The volume was still blaring, and I paused the video long enough to turn the volume down. I exited the frame briskly, and, an instant later, the screen flashed bright green before it went dark as the camera's setting was apparently changed to the normal mode. When the camera came back on, it was panning on me as I walked briskly back to Mrs. Ivanova. I stopped and stood before her. "Why are you wearing clothing? Do you think you are a person? Get naked this instant!" Mrs. Ivanova commanded. I was wearing boxer shorts and a t-shirt, but I shed them on command and stood there unabashedly naked. Ivanova reached down and grabbed my scrotum and gave it a sharp tug. On film I involuntarily grimaced slightly, but the me watching winced and turned away in reaction to the disturbing sight on the video. She punctuated the action with a remark. "There, you'd better learn to be a good pet." "I'm going to lend to you my friend Olga, you will call her Mistress Karpov, now you're her toy." Before Ivanova finished speaking, the camera panned away to a previously unnoticed occupant of the room. Olga Karpov was physically the antithesis of Mrs. Ivanova. Where Ivanova was petite, Karpov might best be described as powerfully built. She was younger than Ivanova, and had a strong athletic, but not particularly feminine, physique. One could easily imagine her throwing shot put or javelin on a Soviet Olympic team. Her hair was dyed a dark shade of red and was kept in a frizzy pony-tail. She had an ominous glowering expression. "Go get my tool, and bring it to me!" Karpov commanded. On the video I responded immediately to the command by moving out of frame and then returning with a leather harness with about a ten inch long black plastic dildo attached to it. The demeanor and mannerisms of my on-screen doppelganger were completely foreign to me. Mrs. Ivanova's Coming Out Following commands delivered in a deprecating tone, I stripped Karpov from the waist down and put the harness on her. I received a slap to the head, more demeaning than injurious, when I cinched one of the straps too tight. When I was done, Karpov held the phallus straight out stroking it as if it were her true appendage. "Don't you wish you had a cock like this, instead of that pathetic little dick of yours?" Karpov asked. "Yes mistress." I was stunned by the response that I heard myself give. While I was not exceptionally well-endowed, at seven inches, neither could I fairly be described as pathetic. "Well, at least you're not Shrimp-dick over there. His tiny prick is not even fuckable. Look at it." Karpov demanded. I saw myself looking toward but below the camera. "Shrimp-dick" must have been the cameraman. I had already realized that there had to be one more person in the room running the camera. There might have been more, but the camera had panned around the small room extensively, so it was likely that it was just the four of us - Ivanova, Karpov, the cameraman "Shrimp-dick", and myself. "What do you think of it, his dick that is?" Karpov asked. "It's pitiful." My doppelganger said. I showed no semblance of the polite behavior that was engrained in socially well-adjusted people. I was watching a sociopathic version of myself. "Anyhow, show me your fuck-hole?" Karpov demanded. I got down on the floor on my knees and elbows with my knees spread wide and my ass up in the air. "Shrimp-dick, prepare his fuck-hole!" Karpov commanded. The camera shook as it got closer and the cameraman apparently dropped to his knees. He was handling the camera awkwardly with one hand and his other hand came into the frame holding a squeeze tube of some sort. The thumb of the hand holding the tube flipped open the cap, and what appeared to be a clear viscous lubricant was squeezed onto my sphincter. I became a little more nauseated watching the man's hand rub the lube around my bunghole, and particularly as it breached the tight sphincter to get the lubricant inside my anus. I felt vulnerable just watching myself willingly ass up. The camera backed away a little and Karpov moved into position on her knees behind me. She pushed the head of the dildo against my sphincter, and seemed to apply gradually increasing pressure until it breached the hole suddenly. She worked the fake cock in only a few inches several times slowly to distribute the lube, and then with an accelerating series of thrusts eased the full length into my ass. At Karpov's direction, Shrimp-dick squirted some lube onto the shaft of the phallus. Then she began to really ram it home. The ass fucking seemed to go on for an interminable period of time. I was in shock watching it. "Shrimp-dick, rub my balls." Karpov said, apparently getting into character as a man. The camera became shaky and sometimes lost the framing of the shot as the cameraman tried to continue recording while he ostensibly reached around from behind and between Karpov's legs to rub her pussy. I could occasionally see his finger tips between her legs as the camera shifted around. Soon she began to spasm uncontrollably and her thrusts into my backside became less measured and paced. Ivanova was ostensibly just watching the spectacle the entire time. As the camera panned around erratically while the cameraman apparently struggled to get up, I could see Ivanova briefly. She had the front of her loose-fitting flowery nightgown unsnapped, and seemed to be touching pussy lightly. Ivanova said: "Olga dear, now that I've let you have your fun, take the camera. I need to use Shrimp-dick, too. Between the two of them, they might just be able to satisfy a woman." "Pets, get over here and lick my tits." Ivanova commanded, and, after a rough hand off of the camera, Shrimp-dick entered the frame for the first time. I was stunned to see that it was the pudgy Dr. Elovich. I flushed with rage as I realized the extent of the deceit perpetrated against me. Elovich began sucking Ivanova's right nipple because I had already taken her left. Her breasts were just slight swells, but her nipples were rather long and pointy. "Use your hand to get Shrimp-dick ready. Do you think you can find his little prick?" Ivanova asked. "Yes Mistress Ivanova." I said. I turned away from the video momentarily, but then forced myself to watch. I needed to figure this out. I was disgusted as I began to stroke Elovich's already erect member. The Shrimp-dick moniker was apropos as the doctor had only about four inches of erect penis, and was not particularly endowed in girth either. Given the betrayal the doctor had engaged in, I no longer felt bad about having ridiculed him. I was sickened to see myself calmly rubbing the man's erection. "You are not being a good girlfriend. Be a good girl." Ivanova demanded. I couldn't believe what I saw. My doppelganger on the video began to act in a coquettish feminine manner as it gave Elovich a hand-job. I didn't recognize these mannerisms. I did not think I knew how to act in such a feminine manner, and I wondered how Ivanova had trained it in to me. I had no idea whether what I was seeing was at the beginning of my time residing in Ivanova's apartment or just last night, but I had to think it took a while to train me to behave so unrecognizably different. My whole conception of self was being torn down as I saw myself run a hand through Elovich's chest hair while tilting my head flirtatiously and jacking him off. "Stop! Shrimp-dick's little pud is prone to premature ejaculation. Shrimp-dick get over here and blow your load in my twat." Ivanova commanded. Elovich did as he was told. Ivanova lay on my bed cross-wise with the front of her gown still opened up. Elovich positioned himself between her legs missionary-style and began to thrust his cock into her. "Are you in yet? Hurry up and blow it already. I need a real dick." Ivanova declared brutally. Elovich ejaculated almost on command. He was sweating and breathing hard as he withdrew and eased himself off the bed. "Good. Now get his dick ready to service me. Use your mouth so you can get intimately familiar with what a cock is like." Ivanova gave Elovich the order. Elovich got down on his knees and began to suck my member to erection. In the video, I stood there glassy-eyed without objection but seemingly indifferent to the blow job I was receiving. As an observer of the video, I kept turning away because it was too repulsive to me. Elovich, on the other hand, was going at it enthusiastically. He seemed more comfortable sucking dick than fucking Ivanova's pussy. "You're being rude. Show some interest, and face-fuck him properly." Ivanova ordered me. I responded by putting my hands on the bald man's head and thrusting my manhood into his mouth until he began to gag and sputter. "Stop! It's time to fill me." Ivanova ordered. I pulled out immediately, while Elovich continued to try to suck me off. I moved over to the bed, and the camera panned to follow me. I followed directions by gesture and positioned myself as Elovich had to fuck Ivanova's pussy. I proceeded to thrust inside her for about ten minutes before I climaxed and shot my load into her. Throughout this, she lay almost unmoving and apparently indifferent. Ivanova acted as though it was just a task to get through. "That was disappointing, get on your back!" Ivanova commanded, and I obediently rolled over onto my back while still on the bed. Ivanova became more enthusiastic as she continued: "Now you are going to suck every last drop of cum from you two limp-dicked whores out of my cunt. Suck it out." As she said this, Ivanova sat onto my face so that she was facing the bed's chipped and scratched wooden headboard. Ivanova writhed as she grinded her pussy onto my face. As I watched the video, I could taste the bile rise in my throat, but in the video I showed no reluctance. Despite the mini-cam's poor quality audio, I could hear the slurping as I sucked semen out of the woman's vagina as if it were a straw. I could not believe how long the noises continued. "For someone with such an inconsequential pecker, Shrimp-dick sure does pack a lot of cream in his nuts doesn't he?" Ivanova asked. I mumbled something incomprehensibly garbled due to the mouth full of semen and pussy, but presumably it was "Yes, Mistress Ivanova." "That's because he doesn't get to cum for two weeks between these little sessions. If he ever ejaculates when I didn't tell him to, I'm going to cut his little nuts off." Ivanova said looking straight into the camera, which had apparently been handed back over to Elovich. There was a clear pecking order, and Karpov was over Elovich, Ivanova was over everybody, and I was everyone's bitch. After I had finished sucking out the semen and licking Ivanova's pussy inside and out, she continued to ride my face in a manner reminiscent of a rodeo bull rider. Unlike her indifferent get-it-over-with attitude toward getting her pussy fucked, now she was fully-engaged and zealous in her actions. It was apparent that the only reason she had Elovich and myself fuck her was so that bringing her to release orally would be a more demeaning and demoralizing task. The objective of the vaginal sex was not pleasure for anyone, but to make certain the oral sex would be something I wouldn't do under normal circumstances. It was to show me how much control she had over me. That was the end of that night's activities. Ivanova delivered a series of commands to me that made many things clear. In my altered state she could apparently deliver suggestions that would influence my behavior and perception in my waking state. She said that I was only to see Dr. Elovich for my symptoms, that I should not tell anyone but Dr. Elovich about these symptoms except to say that I was tired lately and might be coming down with an illness, and that I was to continue to live in Ivanova's apartment until told that I was free to go. She finished by telling me to climb back in bed, and then whispered something in my ear that appeared to return me to the sleeping state in which she had found me. There were more clips from other "sessions", as she called them, but I did not have the stomach to watch more at the moment. I did, however, begin to look through the case files that she had also left on the drive. Her subjects varied, but most were soldiers. The early groups, guinea pigs, were prisoners having been court martialed, but eventually Spetznaz special operations soldiers were included. There were also political prisoners. I would write the book. What really angered me was that I would have done it without the manipulation. It was right up the ally of what I wrote about, and information about program's like this didn't fall into one's lap everyday.