by John Savage
Secret Agent Blaze Lane seems to find herself in tight bondage far more often than anyone deserves or could possibly want. As much as she enjoys the challenge of escaping from skilfully-tied ropes and other restraints, particularly when applied by one of her friends who might also feel the desire to sate his (or her) lust on Blaze’s magnificent body or, perhaps, encourage her efforts to escape by the application of some mildly painful punishment if she fails, far too many bad men she encounters in the course of her career are far more extreme in the way they want to deal with her.
But Blaze is very good at her job. It’s not that she’s particularly skillful (she’s not), and it’s not that she’s particularly clever or knowledgeable (she’s definitely not). She simply has plenty of plain dumb luck – and “dumb” may well be the right word. Of course, Blaze Lane has other assets, not least her unshakable optimism, her outstanding good looks and a body that no red-blooded man can possibly ignore. She also happens to be an extremely good shot.
Inevitably, Blaze’s success makes her less than popular with other agents, particularly men who have had to work very hard to reach their current status. It’s not too much of a surprise, therefore, to find that Blaze has been sent on what must surely be a suicide mission, along with another female agent who most definitely has upset the men within the Agency – she hates them.
How the hell does she do it?”
Matt Houston turned back from the window to face the visitor in his office, Henry Hensley. “How does she do it?” he repeated.
“Do what?” asked Hensley.
“You’re her handler, you should know. Blaze has got to be the worst secret agent we’ve ever had. Yet, she manages to complete every assignment, and with flying colors! How does she do it?”
Hensley settled back in the chair and bit his lip. “I’ve been wondering that myself,” he finally admitted. “I guess she’s just lucky.”
“Lucky!? Plain dumb luck doesn’t cover it. What about that incident in Venice? Bruno Cappora, the man known as the ‘Killer of Venice’, had a gun on her, she was handcuffed, and he was about to shot her. Then what happened?”
“Well, apparently Bruno was allergic to cats, and Blaze had just been petting one and when Bruno began sneezing violently he dropped the gun and she picked it up. Just lucky.”
“Lucky? And that time she was naked, hogtied and gagged in the basement of the Serbian Secret Police. Yet she escaped. How?”
“Well, she said that a rat ate through the ropes and she was able to sneak out a basement window. I guess animals just like her.”
Houston stomped around behind his desk and plopped down in the well-worn chair. “She’s a menace to the Agency. We have the most highly trained agents in the world; everyone of them of high IQ and physically fit. Yet she has a higher success rate than all of them! She can’t decrypt a simple code. Can’t lie worth a damn. She thinks that hand-to-hand combat is slapping the opposition silly. Or hitting him over the head with her purse. She thinks a strenuous workout is two laps of the pool then lying out in the sun with her bathing suit off to get an even tan. All she knows about spying she got from watching James Bond films, for Christ sake!”
“She can shoot well,” interjected Hensley meekly.
“Oh, and there’s that. Anytime she fires a gun the bullets home in on the target bull’s eye like homing pigeons. She just can’t miss!”
“Well, she’s good looking, and that body…”
“Hensley, stop it! There’ll be no sexist comments. Not politically correct.” Houston sighed and leaned over his desk, fists balled. “Oh, yes, she’s good looking! Most of our agents are males and damned near every one of them is begging me to assign them with her on missions. Except for Brucie Handsworth. And we all know about him.
“Did you know that, based on her record, she would have won the ‘Agent of the Year’ award if I hadn’t intervened and ordered it be given to Worthsmith.”
“Wasn’t Worthsmith killed when he slipped on a banana peel and struck his head on a fire hydrant?”
“That’s beside the point. She’s a real headache for me,” he summed up.
“Well, I guess we could fire her.”
“Why?” Houston moaned. “She’s given us no reason to fire her – beyond being a real pain in my rear. It just isn’t fair!”
“Well, maybe we could give her an assignment so dangerous that she could never complete it and survive,” suggested Hensley.
Houston froze, his eyes fixed upon the letter opener in the shape of a Japanese Samurai sword. For a long time he stared at it, yet not really seeing it. In his mind’s eyes he saw Blaze in front of a Russian firing squad. And kneeling with a huge scimitar about to descend upon her bare neck. And being staked out on a nest of fire ants by the rebels in some God-forsaken jungle.
When he finally looked up there was a strange glow in his eyes. Hensley almost winced when he saw it. An evil smile curved the corners of his mouth.
“I have just gotten an assignment that demands our toughest, smartest agents. One that even the best would agree is damned near impossible.”
“Is it dangerous?” asked Hensley, catching the drift of his boss.
“Very. Some might even say it’s a suicide mission.” He was smiling as he said it, very close to chuckling aloud. “A very low probability of returning.”
Turning his chair towards the sunny Virginia sky, he leaned back and rested his hands behind his head. “And,” he said, “I know just who I’m going to send with her.”
“Who is that?” said Hensley, suddenly worried.
“I’ll kill two birds with one stone!” chortled Houston, aware that it was a pun he was making. “I’ll team her with Agent Orange.”
Hensley relaxed, and a grin spread over his face…
- * * * *
… Agent XX was running across the tops of railway cars, chasing the bad guy, the two of them trading shots as the train sped along the countryside. The wind of the high speed barely ruffled the perfectly creased tux of Agent XX and he jumped from car to car, an arrogant smile on his face for he knew he would catch this villain.
“Gee, but they’re lousy shots!” commented Blaze from her position on the floor.
“They’re running along a speeding train, honey. That makes it harder,” said her friend Sally from the couch.
“They’re still lousy. And that bad guy has fired eighteen shots from the Smith and Wesson model 67 .357 Magnum. It only holds six round.”
“Honey,” said Sally sweetly as she nudged Blaze with her foot, “you may know guns but you still haven’t gotten out of those ropes.”
Blaze only grunted as she tried to reach her fingers down to where the knots on her ankles were tightly secured. The hogtie she was in was, however, a very good one, applied with loving care by a friend who had lots of practice at binding the Agency spy. It was, of course, just so Blaze could practice getting out of the ropes, an admittedly useful skill for a secret agent. At the current time, while the movie on the large screen TV was nearing the exciting climax, Blaze had been hogtied for almost an hour and a half, struggling, resting, and then struggling again. Because Sally was a very close and good friend of Blaze’s, she had added a very tight pair of crotch ropes between her legs and pressing very hard against her most sensitive places. With the struggling and all, that pressure had been varying and, to be totally honest, was stimulating the poor, helpless young woman. So, both the movie and Blaze were approaching exciting climaxes at the same time.
Without taking her eyes of the daring, handsome, secret agent on the screen, she was clenching her thighs and rocking her body. Just as Agent XX was dispatching the villain over the cliff, Blaze gasped and went rigid. She closed her eyes and floated along on a wonderfully intense orgasm high until the credits had finished rolling, having to endure multiple orgasms because the pressure of those two crotch ropes kept squeezing her between them.
Sally switched off the TV and sat there watching Blaze moaning and slowly, very sensually, arching her body against the ropes. She sighed. Blaze was not very good at being an Escape Artist – even though she had been given private lessons from the number one female escape artist in the world, Stella Walters – but she got an A for effort. She was always begging Sally, or someone else, to tie her so she could get practice.
On that evening, Sally was feeling ornery and a little bit nasty, so she did not untie Blaze after the naked and quite helpless girl had exhausted herself. Instead, she grabbed Blaze by the ropes connecting her wrists and ankles and carried her into the bedroom, where she deposited her on the thick fur carpet at the end of the bed. She then slowly removed her own clothing, knowing that Blaze, having recovered pretty much from her wonderful orgasm(s), was watching. When that rather fine body was as naked as Blaze’s was, she sat on the end of the bed, spread her legs wide and lifted Blaze by the shoulders to pull her up until she was resting upright on her knees between Sally’s bare thighs.
“You know what your punishment is for failing to escape, don’t you?” she asked Blaze.
“I can guess,” said the bound girl with a shy smile.
“For not escaping, you’re going to have to use your tongue and lips to bring me to sexual satisfaction. And you know how long that can take. I have excellent self-control.”
“I know,” sighed Blaze dreamily.