Kiss Kiss Bang Bang

Alfred woke to find himself lying on a cold cement floor. He stared through his broken glasses at Ivan Braginski who towered over him; he was gagged and trussed up, which told him that he was in trouble. As he tried to sit up, a sharp pain knifed through from the back of his skull and he had to stop, tears stinging his eyes. His head throbbed. He tried to groan, but all that came out was a gurgling noise from the back of his throat, which alerted Ivan who looked up from his sheaf of papers to gaze mildly down at him.

"Good evening, Agent Alfred Jones," he greeted in a soft, lightly-accented voice.

Fuck, Alfred thought.

"Oh yes, I do know your real name. Not quite the simple college dropout – Tommy – you pretended to be, hm? Let's see… bachelors' in criminology and criminal justice… some military training… a few years in the TA… and now a CIA agent. My, my, my. This is a very impressive résumé for a twenty-two-year-old."

Ivan paused then. He looked back down at Alfred.

"Oh, but you lied about your age too, didn't you?"

He heaved a heavy sigh. He let the papers drop from his hands to the floor – photographs, profiles, certificates; the entire history of Alfred Fitzgerald Jones. They fell fluttering all around Alfred in a shower of uncomfortable truths testifying his deceit. Alfred felt physically sick.

"You have been a very busy little bee, haven't you?"

Ivan's voice had dropped to a near-whisper. He had a soft voice and a penchant for giggling, which were frankly at odds with his large Russian build and a reputation for cold-blooded ruthlessness. But seeing him now, Alfred would believe anything of him. He was afraid, and his mind raced round and round in a desperate futile search for a way out of this.

"You've done your homework, Agent Jones. You know what I am capable of."

At this, Ivan pulled out a gun – Alfred's gun – and pointed it with all the compassion of a hiring assassin squarely at Alfred. Alfred flinched. He cowered from Ivan, pressing himself tight to the floor, willing himself to grow as small as he possibly could.

"I am going to kill you," Ivan said, matter-of-factly.

He slipped a leather-gloved finger through the trigger guard as Alfred stared, wild-eyed, shaking and dry-mouthed with fear. He tried to squirm away from firing range, his broken glasses falling off his nose as he wriggled frantically back, but it was futile. Ivan simply took a step forward, foot crunching heavily on the fragments of his glasses, and took aim again, his head cocked to one side. Alfred felt as if he was pinned by an invisible force to a quivering still.

"Goodbye, Agent Jones. It's been a pleasure."

Ivan squeezed on the trigger.

Click!

A scream had risen and died in his throat before Alfred heard that fatal click. He could hardly believe it. He stared with wide disbelieving eyes, his heart hammering in his chest, his breath coming out in short, sharp bursts whistling through his blood-clotted nostrils.

Ivan smiled a thin, mirthless smile. Then he laughed. The arm holding the gun dropped to his side as he threw back his head and gave way to wild laughter. It was a chilling sound, high, cold and ugly, and downright deranged, bouncing off the bare walls so it seemed as if there were ten of him laughing, laughing in the claustrophobically tight room. Alfred suppressed a shudder.

"I'm not going to kill you yet, Agent Jones! Oh no, not like this! I could never!"

As his laughter subsided to giggles, Ivan pulled from the pocket of his suit jacket a long black object – a magazine round. Holding them out so Alfred could see, he slotted the magazine into the gun, slid back the slide with practiced ease and hefted it, testing its new weight.

"This is in very good condition," he said as he examined the gun. Then his eyes took on a wicked gleam. "Ah but you love your gun, don't you? You Americans do so love your guns."

He took the few small steps towards Alfred and squatted down beside him, his patent leather shoes creaking under his weight, polished to shiny black mirrors. Alfred could see his bruised, bloodied face reflected back at him. Ivan reached down to tear off the duct tape plastered over his mouth; he took one heaving gasp, rolled to his side, and vomited a sticky, colourless pool of bile.

Some of it got on Ivan's shoes. Ivan retaliated with a vicious kick to his chest.

As he doubled up, coughing and spluttering, Ivan grabbed a handful of his dirt-matted hair and dragged him yelping to his knees.

"We are going to play a game," Ivan said in a sickly sweet voice.

He brought the gun pointing at Alfred who flinched. But he could not get away. Ivan had his fingers wrapped into his hair, and he held Alfred tightly in place as he brought the tip of the gun to trace along the bottom of Alfred's lips. Alfred began to tremble violently.

"Open up."

Alfred kept his lips pressed together. His blue, blue eyes searched wildly for mercy, but there was none to be found in Ivan. Ivan pulled Alfred's head back by his hair and jabbed the gun hard against the underside of his chin.

"Open up or I'll blow your head off right now," he hissed.

Alfred's mouth fell open with a pitiful whimper. The gun was jammed brutally in before he could beg for mercy. He let out a frightened sob.

Ivan was on his feet again, holding the gun at an angle which forced Alfred's head back, still on his knees, shaking so hard the gun rattled against his teeth.

"Now suck."

It took a moment for Alfred to register the command. Still rattling, knees planted shakily apart, he closed his eyes, hollowed out his cheeks, and sucked tight to the barrel of the gun, tasting metal and lubricant oil.

Battered, bloodied and bruised, he made for a pretty sight sucking on the loaded gun; his clothes torn and dishevelled, his lips pink and moist around the gun barrel, his eyes a deep, dark shade of blue with tears clinging to his eyelashes. As his head bobbed along in tight, jerky movements – lips moving down, down along the barrel and up again, tongue trailing along the underside – a hint of a blush began to grace across his freckled nose. His breathing was hard, saliva trickling from the corner of his mouth as his lips smacked wetly around the gun, occasionally clicking teeth against metal. He began to shift uncomfortably on his knees, his breathing growing harder and shallower.

Without warning Ivan pulled the gun out of Alfred's mouth. Alfred felt a surge of relief, but he was not given long to relish in it. Ivan had caught him by his hair again, and he flung his captive carelessly down. Alfred landed sprawled on his back, groaning as new pain shot from his elbows; he had not been able to break his fall with his arms tied to his sides. But his focus quickly fixed to Ivan looming over him.

"W-what are y–" he began.

Ivan kicked Alfred's knees apart and, ignoring his protests, brought the sole of his foot down on the considerable bulge between Alfred's legs. "You're hard," he accused softly.

Alfred swallowed. "Please st-stop…!" he pleaded as Ivan took to stroking the length of his arousal.

"Begging already, Agent Jones? Why, the game's hardly begun."

To be continued...