Undercover — Part 1 Rating: NC-17
Diana

"You've been giving that pussy away, haven't you? You've been a bad girl, Iella."

I think I can be excused for being shocked. This was not the polite and meek man I'd known for so many years.

"Bad girls need to be disciplined."

I was growing concerned. Was he drunk?

"Wedge, stop. This isn't funny. I asked you to leave." I was using my stern, schoolmarm-ish high-authority-voice.

"I know you Intelligence types, you'll do anything to get what you want. You'll offer your holes to anyone in return for information. But not love. No, never for love." He sounded very grim. He was starting to scare me.

"Antilles," I hoped that using his surname would make him come to his senses, "you leave right now, or I'll be forced to call my security man."

"Forced?" A smile oozed onto Wedge's mouth, but his eyes still looked stern and foreboding. "Are you fucking him, too? Does he do this?"

He reached for me and I stepped back, away from him. What was going on with Wedge? Nothing I knew about him indicated he could be unstable.

He stepped forward and I moved away, in a dance that was snapping my mind into escape-mode. Up till now, I was sure I could make him do what I wanted. As usual.

Wedge moved quicker and to my surprise, he didn't grab for my arms, which I kept down and behind me to avoid capture. Instead, he put his hand over my throat and squeezed lightly.

Shocked, I moved away again, but he spun me into him. I pushed into the spin to knock him over, but he predicted this and added his momentum. When we fell over, his body pressed over mine and my face was being pushed into the floor.

"I'll take this as an admission of guilt," Wedge wasn't even breathless as he growled into my ear. "A good girl wouldn't have resisted." I thought I heard him giggle.

"Wedge, please!" I was actually panicking. I never panic. "I can't breathe, get off me!"

He let go of my throat and pulled up off my body. I tried to get up but discovered he'd put his knee against the middle of my back, between my shoulderblades. I couldn't get up. When I tried, he pressed harder.

He pulled my arms back, making my chest press hard onto the floor, and started tying rope around the top of my arms and pulled the cord he was using tight, feeling like he was going to pin my elbows together. He bent my arms and looped my wrists together in the middle, and then to my dismay, I discovered he must have done this before: I couldn't move my arms!

I tried wriggling to make the rope loosen against my arms, so they'd fall downward, but I soon felt him pulling the cord from my wrists up around my neck. Any attempt at pulling on the cord around my arms would choke me!

I wondered where he'd learned to do this, but as a fighter pilot often working behind enemy lines, and a senior Intelligence officer, I'm sure Wedge would have had plenty of call to learn many things.

I was totally unprepared for Wedge's behavior. We'd been friends. We had even almost been lovers. But there was always something in the way of us getting together.

He'd come to my apartment to "talk." He had obviously been thinking of me for years. He asked me to use my ability to contact New Republic Intelligence; he is on a diplomatic mission to this planet and there are problems he needed to convey to HQ.

I am undercover here; I'm working, too. Contrary to Wedge's accusation, I do not compromise myself when on a mission. I do not give away sexual favors, nor do I risk my cover to help out anyone not associated with my mission. So, I had told him, "No."

He looked defeated and unhappy. And maybe something more. I felt powerful; I don't know why I relish denying him what he wanted. I'd really been doing it for years. I'd always hidden behind good reasons, but really, I enjoyed it.

Maybe he picked up on my enjoyment. Maybe he thought I was doing this to him on purpose. Maybe he got mad.

I was so stunned by Wedge's unexpected behavior that I didn't notice him looping cord around my knees and pulling that around my neck as well, before flipping me over and bending up my knees.

I felt like a trussed mynock for roasting!

By the time I remembered to kick out at him, he had cinched the bindings around my throat and I nearly blacked out when the skillfully knotted rope around my neck constricted my throat.

Gasping, I came to when he pushed my knees up into my chest, giving the rope some slack. "Keep them here and maybe you'll live to enjoy it."

He was threatening me!

He had me on my back, lying on the arms tied uncomfortably behind me. My legs were drawn upward and splayed open. He was pushing my ankles up and inspecting his handiwork. "Very nice," he murmurred. "Even clothed ..."

I tried not to cry. Here was a man -- a NICE man -- whom I trusted and liked for years. He had me bound up in a compromising position, ready to be ...

Oh no ... he was going to rape me!

"Wedge," my voice wobbled out to him, as softly and as calmly as I could muster (which was not particularly soft or calm), "you don't have to do this. Let me go, and I won't tell anyone. Just untie me and we'll pretend this never happened."

He was opening the fastenings of my blouse. I concentrated on breathing evenly.

"Please, Wedge. Don't do this. This isn't right. This isn't like you ..."

He was squeezing my exposed breasts now, mashing them together and appreciating the cleavage and heft. I tried not to squeal as he pinched hard on my nipples.

"These are nice," he murmurred. "But they wouldn't be good enough to get information out of your sources just on their own, eh? What else do you do to get what you need, Iella?"

I tried to roll away from him. I don't know where I would have gone tied up as I was, but he was really hurting me and I was so afraid.

"No no no," chuckled Wedge. "You're not ready to go. We haven't even started discliplining you, bitch!"

I jumped at his swearing. He said it with great force and emphasis. I jumped again when he slapped me hard across both tits.

"Mmm, you like that, don't you?" Wedge continued to slap my naked flesh. "Your nipples are like little stones!"

"Stop! Please stop!" I didn't care that I was begging. He needed to stop!

He leaned into me, between my outspread thighs. The pain of his weight on me was cutting off the circulation in my arms behind me.

Before I could protest, he pressed his lips on mine. I tried to scream, but he bit my lips and he worked his tongue into my mouth. He was pressing so hard I knew he was bruising me.

All the while, he was mauling my breasts, molding them into shapes that pleased him. And every time I struggled, the cords around my throat tightened and forced me to stop.

He was thrusting his body onto mine, dry-humping me so I could feel how hard he was. Pilots are small men, so I was surprised at how large he felt.

To Part 2


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