Anna Chapman was a skank. She knew it, her marks knew it, and after getting outed as a spy, the whole world knew it. What the world didn't know was what happened to the skank after her high-profile time in the spotlight.
Most people stopped bothering with her once she faded from the headlines. More attentive fans thought they watched her parlay that fame into gigs as a TV show host, an editor, and Instagram stardom. But this was Putin's Russia, and in Putin's Russia, Russia doesn't reward you for good service. You reward Russia.
"Anna, come."
"Right away, sir."
She strutted to her owner, Anatoly Smirnov. Aside from sounding (in her opinion) like shitty vodka, the man was one of the lowest ranking oligarchs in the country. He technically had power and influence, but to say anyone feared him would be a lie. He mainly held value as a gopher of goods. He had many means of transporting them undetected. His favorite? It was walking up next to him.
With a sigh, Anna placed her hand on Anatoly's chair and looked to the other man in the room. Seated across a table, that man was distinctly British and spoke with a telling accent just like Anatoly's rougher Slavic one.
"I don't want women, Mr. Smirnov. I want my package."
"Then you shall get it."
Anatoly snapped his fingers, and Anna scowled. Turning around in her red high heels, she exposed the wide open back of her black dress. Her thong clearly showed, as did her bare ass cheeks... which she slapped her palms against while bending forward. The act pushed her rump across the table as she spread those cheeks to reveal something buried in her aching hole. A massive object about the size of a baseball bat stretched her pucker. On its end, a string dangled before the British man.
The man reacted as one would expect without warning. "You can't be serious."
"Is very serious," Anatoly answered.
"What if she crushed what's inside? Are you going to reimburse me?"
"Oh, I assure you Anna did no such thing. She's a skank. She fucked hundreds of men and learned how to accept all sizes when she was a spy. Isn't that right, Anna?"
Anna muttered curses under her breath, before obeying his command as he had trained her. "Yes, sirs. My skanky ass can handle any load no matter how wide or deep. It's been stretched, pounded, chafed and cummed in so many times that I feel empty without something inside it. I live to have it filled for your needs."
The incredulous Charlie sputtered, "What kind of a woman-"
"Call me Annal Slut, or just Annal if you want," Anna encouraged. "It helps clients remember that I'm an object to be used however I'm needed."
As with most clients who saw this for the first time, there was reluctance and a pause. But then also like most clients, Charlie grabbed the string and pulled.
Anna squeezed her cheeks hard. She winced, she moaned, relaxing her pucker as best she could for the man to slide it out. Which wasn't nearly as bad as the massive thigh-thick butt plug package on the table, waiting to occupy that void. Or worse yet, her ruined ego when she made the mistake of searching for herself online that morning to find her double carrying on with the happy, glorious life she should have had.
All she could do was take that next load up the ass like a good patriotic Russian spy. Anything for the glory of Putin.
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Anna Chapman was a skank. She knew it, her marks knew it, and after getting outed as a spy, the whole world knew it. What the world didn't know was what happened to the skank after her high-profile time in the spotlight.
Most people stopped bothering with her once she faded from the headlines. More attentive fans thought they watched her parlay that fame into gigs as a TV show host, an editor, and Instagram stardom. But this was Putin's Russia, and in Putin's Russia, Russia doesn't reward you for good service. You reward Russia.
"Anna, come."
"Right away, sir."
She strutted to her owner, Anatoly Smirnov. Aside from sounding (in her opinion) like shitty vodka, the man was one of the lowest ranking oligarchs in the country. He technically had power and influence, but to say anyone feared him would be a lie. He mainly held value as a gopher of goods. He had many means of transporting them undetected. His favorite? It was walking up next to him.
With a sigh, Anna placed her hand on Anatoly's chair and looked to the other man in the room. Seated across a table, that man was distinctly British and spoke with a telling accent just like Anatoly's rougher Slavic one.
"I don't want women, Mr. Smirnov. I want my package."
"Then you shall get it."
Anatoly snapped his fingers, and Anna scowled. Turning around in her red high heels, she exposed the wide open back of her black dress. Her thong clearly showed, as did her bare ass cheeks... which she slapped her palms against while bending forward. The act pushed her rump across the table as she spread those cheeks to reveal something buried in her aching hole. A massive object about the size of a baseball bat stretched her pucker. On its end, a string dangled before the British man.
The man reacted as one would expect without warning. "You can't be serious."
"Is very serious," Anatoly answered.
"What if she crushed what's inside? Are you going to reimburse me?"
"Oh, I assure you Anna did no such thing. She's a skank. She fucked hundreds of men and learned how to accept all sizes when she was a spy. Isn't that right, Anna?"
Anna muttered curses under her breath, before obeying his command as he had trained her. "Yes, sirs. My skanky ass can handle any load no matter how wide or deep. It's been stretched, pounded, chafed and cummed in so many times that I feel empty without something inside it. I live to have it filled for your needs."
The incredulous Charlie sputtered, "What kind of a woman-"
"Call me Annal Slut, or just Annal if you want," Anna encouraged. "It helps clients remember that I'm an object to be used however I'm needed."
As with most clients who saw this for the first time, there was reluctance and a pause. But then also like most clients, Charlie grabbed the string and pulled.
Anna squeezed her cheeks hard. She winced, she moaned, relaxing her pucker as best she could for the man to slide it out. Which wasn't nearly as bad as the massive thigh-thick butt plug package on the table, waiting to occupy that void. Or worse yet, her ruined ego when she made the mistake of searching for herself online that morning to find her double carrying on with the happy, glorious life she should have had.
All she could do was take that next load up the ass like a good patriotic Russian spy. Anything for the glory of Putin.