Margaret Towns-More Missions

‘Yes, this number.’  

Margaret Towns let the sleek, green sheer negligee slide through her fingers. She didn't have the typical silhouette for a spy—not the skin-tight sheath of a Bond girl or the severe, masculine tailoring of a covert operative. But Margaret was not a prototypical anything.

Her record was undeniable. A long career, marked by endless, quiet successes. At a size 12, she was a woman of solid curves, and beneath those elegant lines lay coiled, lethal muscle. Firm to hold, impossible to forget. She mesmerized her opponents not with stealth, but with a dynamic personality and a vivacious sex appeal that felt both classic and utterly consuming. Even in the swinging sixties, there was a premier place for her particular brand of elegant annihilation.

She moved to her vanity, the soft glow of the bulbs illuminating her focused expression. ‘

First, my nails.’

The file in her hand looked ordinary, a simple emery board. But its grit was diamond-dusted, and her movements were not merely to shape. She carefully, meticulously, sharpened the edges of each almond-shaped nail to a razor’s edge. She admired her handiwork with a satisfied smile.   The elegant points catching the light. Then, she uncapped a bottle of polish, a deep, mysterious olive green. She painted each nail with steady, practised strokes until the smooth lacquer settled and hardened into a polished gleam.

'Should it be necessary,' she murmured to her reflection, 'I can scratch him… for a very intimate injection.' The polish was standard issue, part of her vast array of cosmetic weapons, this was a fast-acting neuro-toxin suspended in lacquer.

'Next, my lips'. She surveyed a small case of lipsticks. 'A paralyzing agent? Or a muscle relaxant?' A slow, genuine smile touched her lips. 'I think I want to have a little fun first. A non-instant relaxant. Enough for several kisses before the toxins begin their work.'

She selected a tube of a deep, rich crimson. After applying it perfectly, she sealed it with a clear topcoat. 'A little pressure from my lips… an array of good kisses… and the seal will dissolve. Then, the fun truly begins.'

She stood, her body a testament to disciplined strength. She dusted herself with a scented powder, careful to get all her curves, the air filling with the intoxicating fragrance of night-blooming jasmine. 

'My protection. In two ways,' she mused. 'A skin sealer, should my target be wearing a poisoned lotion of his own.' She let the thought hang as she reached for a can of hairspray.  But it wasn’t for her hair.

She shook the can and then generously sprayed the contents over the green negligee she had hanging on a clothes hook. The garment was a masterpiece of sheer, smoky green silk, so translucent it was little more than a whispered promise. It was a favourite number, one that never failed to seduce, to draw a man inexorably closer. She let the aerosol settle before slipping it on. The cool lace whispered against her skin, her nude form a tantalising dance of shadow and suggestion beneath the delicate fabric. Finally, she stepped into a pair of elegant black heels.

In the toe of the right, a needle, tipped with a sedative potent enough to drop a horse. In the left, a nearly invisible spool of death-silk, a translucent, adhesive fibre that would contract and bind an opponent in a lethal embrace.

A final glance in the full-length mirror. At forty-five, she was a force of nature. There were active female agents half her age, all lean limbs and youthful arrogance, but Margaret was always selected for these particular missions. The ones that required patience, psychology, and the art of the intimate conclusion.

The doorbell to her penthouse apartment chimed, a soft, melodic sound. She didn’t hurry. She never hurried. She walked with a liquid grace, the negligee flowing around her, hinting at the powerful sweep of her hips, the curve of her waist. She unlocked the door and opened it with a warm, breathy smile.

‘I thought you may have forgotten my address,’ she smiled, her arms trailing up the side of the door allowing her hips to tilt forward.

The enemy agent, he was using the code name Derek Watts smiled back at her.  He was younger than she was but that little matter in this game and at this precise moment.  She could clearly see he had eyes for her as she had for him, although their intentions were completely opposite.  They’d met at the party that afternoon.  Margaret wearing a very effective sundress had let her legs and her breasts do all the work..She secured his appearance with a kiss that promised more.

He was exactly as his file described: tall, broad-shouldered, with a handsome, rugged face that spoke of outdoor missions and hard decisions. His eyes, a startlingly clear blue, swept over her, and the professional assessment she saw in them quickly melted into pure, unadulterated male appreciation. The door had barely opened, and already the game was underway.

‘Do come in.'

‘Gliding toward the drinks cart. The silk swaying ever so slightly offered a tasty view of her ass and long full legs. He accepted the glass of bourbon she offered, his fingers brushing against hers, she moved her cheek just an accepting touch to sell she was interested.

Margaret moved to the sofa, elegantly arranging herself upon it, ensuring the lines of her body were displayed to their best advantage. He followed, sitting closer than was strictly polite, his thigh just inches from hers. The air thickened with the scent of jasmine and expensive bourbon.

He leaned closer still, closing the distance between them. His presence was overwhelming, warm and solid. She could see the pulse beating at the base of his throat. One quick, sharp movement with my nails… The thought was clinical, a professional assessment.

But another part of her, the part that excelled at this particular game, wanted to play. He was handsome. The tension between them was a live wire, sparking and dangerous.

He raised a hand, not to strike, but to gently tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. His knuckle grazed her cheek, and a genuine, unexpected shiver raced down her spine. A good sign. The reaction feels authentic.

'May I?' he whispered, his voice husky, his gaze dropping to her mouth.

This was the precipice. The first move in the final act. She gave him a slow, deliberate smile, the one she knew made her eyes crinkle at the corners. The one that promised everything.

'I thought you’d never ask,' she breathed.

He bridged the final gap.

His lips were firm, confident. The kiss started slowly, an exploration. She met his pressure, letting her own lips part just enough.  She kissed him back, her hands coming up to rest on his broad shoulders, her sharp, olive-tipped nails delicately tracing the line of his shirt.

He deepened the kiss, one hand sliding to the nape of her neck, the other settling on her waist, pulling her closer. The sheer lace of her negligee was no barrier at all; she could feel the heat of his palm through it.  The kiss was becoming hungrier, the intention of where this would lead clear for both of them.

She undid his shirt, turned him gently by the shoulders, then removed it. Her sharp nails, a ghost of a threat against his skin. He complied without resistance, his movements relaxed but very definitely encouraging.

The plus got up and draped the jacket over a nearby chair with deliberate slowness, then turned back to him. Her hands went to his pants, undoing the belt then the clasp, then finally the zipper in a slow pull down, the bulge in his pants more than evident as the zipper bumped up and over it.  She removed it then hooked her fingers into his underwear and slipped them off with the practiced ease of a master seductress all the while watching his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, his eyes locked on hers.

She stood before him, before slowly sinking to her knees.   Leaning forward so he could smell the scent of jasmine and feel her warmth enveloped him.

'Now, 'where were we?'

He was fully, magnificently erect. A part of her, the woman beneath the agent, acknowledged the sheer physical beauty of him. The other part, the professional, calculated the timing required.

She took him into her mouth.

The groan that ripped from his throat was guttural, primal. His hands tangled in her chestnut hair, not guiding, just holding on as her skilled lips and tongue began their work. This is the other way, she thought, the idea a dark thrill. The friction, the warmth… it will wear the last of the seal away far more efficiently than kisses. She relished the taste of him, a clean, salty sweetness that was all male. She worked him with a practiced rhythm, her tongue swirling, her lips creating a perfect, tight pressure.

She felt his thighs tense, heard his breathing become ragged, punctuated by soft, helpless groans. His grip on her hair tightened. Now. He cried out, a raw sound of frustration and overwhelming sensation, his hips thrusting involuntarily into the empty air. The clear sealer was now dissolved as was his will from her skill, she rose and straddled him, administering tender long kisses as he tried to recover from her oral talents.

She pulled him to his feet,took his hand and led him toward her bedroom.  Margaret had artfully arranged her furniture creating a large open space where she stopped, turned around,slipping her arms about his neck for another long kiss,then shifted her strong limbs securing them about his waist for one final wonderful kiss.

Looking into his eyes she saw the exact moment it hit him. The tension in his body didn't just ease; it melted. The powerful muscles in his abdomen went slack. The hands in her hair loosened and fell away. His head lolled to the side, his eyes struggling to focus on her.

'Wh… what…?' he slurred, confusion warring with the fading echoes of pleasure.

'I’ve been told my kisses make men weak in the knees,' she said, her voice cool now, all the purring warmth gone.  Looking slightly up at him. 'That may be true in some cases. But for you, my dear Derek, it’s the special ingredient in my lipstick,’ a cunning, victorious smile touching her lips.

One hand reached between them and untied the single satin bow that held her negligee together. The sheer green silk sighed open, parting to her sides, the spy stepped in to fill the video pressing their two nude bodies together.She shrugged it off her shoulders, letting it pool at her feet, standing against him in nothing but her heels and her triumph. His eyes drank her in, the powerful curves, the athletic build, the absolute control she radiated.

Margaret gave him another kiss then casually draped the loose sides of her garment over his shoulder,turned about him so she was at his back.  The negligee wafted against his front.  The spy seized the fringes, pulled them around his back until they overlapped then tied the two arms together against his shoulder blades.

The effect was instantaneous. The fabric, treated with its lethal aerosol, clung to him like a second skin, a shimmering, sticky web. It began to contract almost immediately, tightening across his chest, constricting his arms at his sides.

'It’s quite something, isn’t it?' she mused, walking in front of him again.  'My little nightgown. It sticks to whatever it catches—in this case, you. And then it just keeps getting tighter. Hour after hour. A slow, inescapable crush.'

She selected a tailored, white dress from the rack, holding it up. 'How come it didn’t stick to me? Simple, darling.' She glanced back at him. 'The jasmine powder. It’s my protection. You, unfortunately, have no such protection.'

She began to dress with efficient, unhurried movements, stepping into the dress and pulling it up over her hips. 'I wanted to be dressed,' she continued, her voice casual, almost conversational, as she smoothed the fabric. 'I want you to see me at my absolute best before I leave you to your… conclusion.'

She turned to face him fully, zipping up the dress, the picture of elegant composure. She walked back toward him, her heels silent on the rug. She stopped just inches from him, looking at him trapped in the glistening, constricting silk, his breathing already becoming more laboured.

She leaned close bringing her face close to his, her sharp, olive-tipped nails gently brushing a strand of hair from his forehead.

'In a few hours a clean up will be by to pick you after my negligee has done its duty.  Any last words, sugar?'

***

Margaret rolled her lips over his a second time, their nude forms interlocked in the dim light of her penthouse. His skin was warm, his breathing a ragged, shallow thing against her neck. She smiled, a predator savoring the final moments of the hunt, and repeated the slow, sensual motion of her body against his paralyzed frame. ‘It's dangerous to fall for a plus, especially one wearing Peony Paralysing Lipstick,’ she murmured, her voice a husky whisper in the quiet room. ‘We’re not all about brute power, sugar. I prefer the soft approach to fulfilling my missions. It's much more fun. So much more feminine.’

His blue eyes, clouded with a potent mix of betrayal and lingering desire, tracked her as she gracefully disentangled herself and rose from the sofa. He was a magnificent specimen, even now—all hard planes and sculpted muscle rendered utterly helpless. A wave of something almost like regret passed through her, a ghost of a feeling she quickly smothered. Sentiment was a luxury her profession could not afford.

She walked, naked and supremely confident, to her vanity. The array of tools of her trade glittered under the soft lights. 

‘Now the question is how to finish you. So many delightful choices.’ She picked up the bottle of hairspray, giving it a playful shake. ‘How about I encircle you in that very negligee you were so eager to remove?  There now,’ she crooned. ‘A quick spray and it contracts. Exquisite torment, wouldn’t you say? Hours of my form, my scent, wrapped around you, coiling and tightening with your slightest motion. Very erotic. A female spy's best weapon is her own lethal body.’

She placed the can down and selected a different lipstick from its holder, a creamy, neutral shade. ‘Or perhaps this.’ She uncapped it, the sound sharp in the tense silence. ‘A sealant. I could kiss and kiss you all over, sugar, sealing your body in a suffocating imprint of my lips.’ Her eyes drifted down his body with deliberate slowness. ‘The last part, of course, being your cock. A final, intimate goodbye.’

She saw the faint tremor that ran through him, a last-ditch effort of his nervous system to rebel. It was futile. The paralytic held him in its gentle, unbreakable grip.

‘But I’m feeling particularly inventive tonight,’ she continued, her tone light, almost conversational, as she set the lipstick aside and opened a drawer. She drew out a pair of sheer black stockings, holding them up so the light caught their delicate weave. ‘These are new. They’re code-named The Pantyhose Python.’ A slow, wicked smile spread across her face. ‘Sticky and stretchy. I could wrap several pairs about you, like a spider spinning a cocoon about its prey.’ She approached the bed, the stockings trailing from her fingers like silken shadows. ‘They adhere on contact. Then, your own body heat causes them to contract, crushing you slowly, over time. It’s a terribly efficient process.’ She leaned close, her breath ghosting over his ear. ‘These ones have the added bonus of tiny paralyzing dots woven into the fabric. They dissolve into the skin as you struggle, ensuring your complete and total submission. Yes, another lethal accessory for the modern female operative.’

She kissed him then, a soft, dry press of her lips against his, a mockery of the passion they had shared just minutes before. It was the kiss of a victor placing a flag on conquered ground.

She mixed business with pleasure, she wasn’t about to waste such a fine operative, even if he was an enemy agent.  His cocoon took several pleasurable hours to weave and Margaret, a hungry spider, was in no hurry.  She screwed him multiple times and in multiple positions, both for her pleasure and she suspected his, it also had the effect of tiring him out.  

‘Draining his seed also drains his strength and resistance,’ she smiled as he once again succumbed to the sweet and lethal efficiency of her hips.

‘There all finished, you in both ways, my hose and your semen,’ she smiled, leaving him to shower.

With practiced efficiency, she began to dress. The forest-green dress she had selected earlier awaited her. She stepped into it, the crisp fabric a stark contrast to the delicate negligee that was his shroud. She pulled it up over her hips, smoothed it over her waist, and fastened it. Each movement was economical, precise. She was no longer the seductress; she was the professional concluding her business.

Fully dressed, every chestnut hair in place, she returned to him one final time. She looked down at her handiwork: the handsome, dangerous Trident operative, reduced to a captive audience inside the black web of her pantyhose, his breathing a shallow, strained rhythm.

‘Goodbye, sugar,’ she whispered, her voice devoid of its earlier purr, leaving only cool finality. ‘My web has you. And I have another mission calling.’ She turned on her heels

She plucked her car keys from a porcelain dish on the console table. The exit was clean, her narrative set. He would be found eventually, a curious and embarrassing end for a man of his reputation. A fitting epitaph, written in lipstick and silk.

^^^

‘It’s a dangerous mission,’ Margaret's Section Head explained.  'That's why we want you for it.’

‘By that you mean you want my size.  Your standard agent wouldn't last,’ Margaret answered coolly, crossing her legs to notice.

'Yes,that and your skills.  To be blunt, your ass & the danger it can unleash.  We want them both alive.’

'Not my usual 'MO' but you know you can count on me.’

Margaret uncrossed her legs and got up looking chic and sexy in her side zip halter dress and heels.  Again he noticed.  He had worked with Margaret when he was an agent, knew her, respected her and if truth be told still had affection for her.  She came to him to ostensibly pick up the mission packet.  She knew his desk was just out of the eye of passersby.  As a hand reached for the manilla envelope her lips reached for his imparting a soft but burning kiss then the briefest of smiles as she pulled away.  That kiss told him more than any words ever could, he had picked the right agent for the mission.

^^^

The humid Phuket air clung to Margaret’s skin like a second satin sheet as she stepped onto the pool deck. This is it. The mission parameters were unorthodox, even for her. Not termination. Acquisition. And the targets weren’t just any marks; they were Sun and Yan, the infamous Trident operatives known for their lethal efficiency and their particular… appreciation for the feminine form. A form her own agency’s slimmer assets had tragically failed on several occasions to entrap them instead falling victim to their array of lethal knots.

‘All sexual in nature I imagine,’ Margaret said under her breath while surveying the area.

Her Section Head’s voice echoed in her memory. ‘We want your ass & the danger it can unleash.’ A blunt instrument, but an effective one. And now, encased in electric blue lycra that did nothing to hide the powerful curve of her hips or the formidable strength of her thighs, she was the bait.

She spotted them instantly. Sun and Yan held court near the infinity pool, two slim, sleek predators surrounded by chattering sparrows in string bikinis. They were exactly as the files described: with eyes that missed nothing. Their attention was a tangible force, and Margaret felt a delicious thrill ripple through her. This wasn’t just duty; it was a challenge she was built for.

With a subtle shift of her shoulders, she walked. It wasn’t just a stroll; it was a performance honed over two decades in the field. Every sway of her hips was a declaration. The muscles in her back, toned and defined, flexed with a graceful power that made the surrounding 'bikini babes' seem like fragile dolls. All eyes followed her, but she kept hers locked on the two men. 

‘Got you.’

She wove herself into their periphery, a disgruntled executive from a shady bank with assets to move and a price on her head. The cover story flowed from her lips like honey, laced with just the right amount of avarice and desperation. She watched their interest shift from casual to calculated. They saw a mark. Perfect.

Then, she changed the game.

Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial purr. 'But my potential business partners must understand… I deal in complete packages.' Her hands, smooth and confident, found the small of Sun’s back, then Yan’s. The touch was electric, proprietary. 'All assets on the table.'

She leaned in, her full lips hovering just a breath from Sun’s mouth. 'My cabana. Last one on the line. We can discuss the… finer details.' Before he could respond, she sealed the invitation with a kiss—firm, promising.  She pulled back, her eyes glinting, turned to Yan, granting him the same fierce, promising kiss. 

'I’ll be waiting.'  With a final, audacious squeeze to each of their backsides, she turned and walked away, feeling their heated stares on her every step back to her cabana.

Now, inside her rented sanctuary, the faux-calm evaporated, the training kicked in.

‘It was of course worth a try,’ by that Margaret meant her kiss to the both of them.

‘I didn’t think my knockout lipstick would work.  Men this experienced with female agents know many of their tricks, but it was worth a try even if all I got out of it was a couple of nice kisses.’

The Plus also got more, her enticing touches also gave her a partial map of their bodies which could come in handy during their coming tryst.  Margaret mused on that for a second.  She had been knotted before, but always in a one on one situation and she counted herself fortunate to escape.  The intel she had looked at showed no woman or man had ever escaped a dual knotting.

‘Well, I’ll be the first then,’ she smiled.  ‘The question is how?’

All her research said the Male Dual Knots were sexual with the female entrapped in their prongs while slowly being screwed and constricted.  She imagined those pretty young agents thinking they could fuck their way out of it only to fall victim to their own overconfidence and fate she did not intend to share.

‘That does in some perverse way mean I don’t want to experience it,’ she smiled. ‘I just need to think about how to trap them while they have me or maybe I can separate them long enough to incapacitate one then turn my attention to the other.

The soft thud of the door closing behind them was the only sound in the cabana aside from the distant hum of a resort speedboat. Margaret stood in the center of the cleared living space, the polished teak floor cool beneath her bare feet. The only thing adorning her powerful, nude form was a single, extravagant feather boa, its vibrant white plumage draped artfully over her shoulders, its ends just grazing the tops of her full breasts and the swell of her hips.

Sun and Yan entered slowly, their predatory charm replaced by a new, sharper alertness. Their eyes, dark and assessing, scanned the room first—the pushed-aside furniture, the open-plan space, the lone, confident woman at its center—before landing on her. The wariness in their gaze was palpable, a silent acknowledgment of the failed poolside ambush. But it was quickly eclipsed by a raw, hungry appreciation for the feast before them.

Margaret let them look. Let them soak in the sight of her toned muscles, the confident set of her broad shoulders, the way her waist tapered into the formidable curves of her hips. She was a weapon, polished and displayed for their inspection.

'I did say pleasure before business,' she purred, her voice a low, inviting hum in the quiet room. She gave a slight, deliberate shift of her hips, making the feathers whisper against her skin. 'And I am all about pleasure. How about you two?'

Their answer was physical, immediate. The growing bulges straining against the confines of their loose shorts were a language she was fluent in. Enthusiasm, indeed. They were predators, yes, but they were still men, and she was the most tantalizing prey they had ever encountered.

Without a word, they began to undress. It wasn’t a striptease; it was the efficient, unselfconscious shedding of garments by men accustomed to action. Sun’s shirt came off first, revealing the sculpted planes of his chest. Yan followed, his own physique a mirror image of sleek, dangerous power. Their movements were synchronized, a silent communication between partners that sent another thrill through her. A challenge within a challenge.

Soon, they stood as nude as she, their bodies radiating a fierce, masculine energy. They began to circle her, a slow, deliberate orbit of tanned skin and intent. Margaret held her ground, a slight, coy smile playing on her lips. She let them come close, letting Sun’s hand brush at her back, allowing Yan’s fingertips to trace the hard line of her arm.

She turned her head, capturing Yan’s lips in a deep, searching kiss. It was a promise of everything her body could offer, a distraction woven from pure sensation. She broke away, only to pivot and grant Sun the same, her mouth moving over his with a confident possession that made him grunt in surprised approval.

Then, with a throaty laugh, she backed away a single step, holding out her hands in a seemingly inviting gesture. 'Come here.'

They moved as one, closing the distance. It was the moment she’d been waiting for.

In a blur of motion too fast to track, Margaret’s demeanour shifted from seductress to combatant. Her hands yanked the ends of the boa, and the feathered accessory uncoiled from her body like a serpent shedding its skin. She didn’t throw it; she flowed with it.

She spun a whirlwind of nude muscle and white feathers. The boa, its deceptively soft appearance snaked through the air. In one fluid motion, she looped it around Yan from his shoulders to his ankles, the feathers seeming to caress him.

Sun watched, momentarily frozen by the shocking speed and grace of her attack.  They were both caught off guard, just as she had planned.  With her boa about one, she delivered a kick to the other, then two sharp punches to the kidneys.  Margaret was on him instantly.

She coiled her nude form around him, her powerful body wrapping around to hold him in a trap of warm strong flesh. With a powerful twist of her hips, she used his own momentum and weight against him, taking them both down to the teak floor he trapped in her inverted knot.

He landed with a gasp, her entire body enveloping him, pinning him. He writhed beneath her, muscles bunching, but her hold was like smooth steel—unyielding, perfectly applied. She laughed, a low, victorious sound close to his ear.

‘You’re the lucky one sugar, you get to feel me about you,’she hissed as her body quickly coiled about his thin form.  

For insurance she had coated her lips in an instantly paralysing lipstick, she suspected it would be useless, but her back up plan no matter what sealer he was wearing would not save him.  Her form contracted him still in seconds,powerfully sculpted thighs sealed his arms and torso, well toned sexy calves intricately slithered about his neck where her toes pinched his neck stilling him.  

'Your bodies may be sealed against my poisons,' she murmured, her breath hot against his cock as she glanced at Yan, who was swaying on his feet, his eyes going glassy before he crumpled silently to the floor beside them. 'But my boa has hundreds of tiny, sharp needles. They’ve just given your friend a very effective paralytic. A special cocktail, just for Trident men.'

'You,' she said, leaning down so her lips were almost touching his prong, 'will join him soon. But not from any poison, but from a far more intimate method.'

 Her mouth closed about his soft manhood that quickly started to harden in her caress as she slid up his shaft.  Margaret enjoyed his tropical sweetness multiple times as he writhed,gasped, then thrust into her repeatedly.  When she had finally had her fill a series of sharp bites to certain parts of his stem followed ,the last one she held, his form getting increasingly limp in her knot.  She released his cock, smiled and discarded him.

'Since I couldn't use a poisonous lipstick I used a paralysing technique I'm quite the mistress of, Persehpone's Kiss.  Precise bites to your stem send a feedback that short circuits your nervous system.  The result is the same as your partners only. I'm sure you'll agree that it was delivered in a much more pleasant way, lucky you.’

'I did promise pleasure before business,' she whispered.  'Now if you'll excuse me I have to call my organisation to have you two picked up.  Then the business end of our tryst will be completed.’

Or this scenario

In a blur of motion too fast to track, Margaret’s demeanour shifted from seductress to combatant. Her hands yanked the ends of the boa, and the feathered accessory uncoiled from her body like a serpent shedding its skin. She didn’t throw it; she flowed with it.

She spun a whirlwind of nude muscle and white feathers. The boa, its deceptively soft appearance snaked through the air. In one fluid motion, she looped it around Yan from his shoulders to his ankles, the feathers seeming to caress him.

The feathers cascaded to the teak floor like a splash of blood, revealing the slick, almost oily sheen of Yan’s sealed skin. Margaret’s shock was a cold spike in her gut, instantly vaporized by the heat of Sun’s movement. She saw the blur of his nude form in her periphery, a perfect, airborne cartwheel that brought his legs scissoring around her upraised arms, his own locking around her thighs.

The impact was breathtaking. Her powerful frame buckled under the perfectly synchronized force. She staggered back, her balance stolen, and fell directly into the waiting, immovable wall of Yan’s chest. His arms, like bands of steel, wove into her arms joining his partners.  His legs encircled hers trapping Margaret in a living, breathing vise.

She writhed, a magnificent, furious display of muscle and curves, but for every shift of her hips or clench of her shoulders, they adjusted with infuriating ease, their hold only tightening. Yan tilted her head to the side, his lips finding the sensitive skin of her neck. 'Our sealer is very slippery,' he murmured against her flesh, his voice a low thrum that vibrated through her entire body. 'Very little adheres to it. But it does not work the other way, as you will soon find out.'

His mouth was hot, his tongue tracing a line up to her earlobe. Margaret’s breath hitched. This was not part of the plan. This was a complete and utter loss of control. And yet, a treacherous, liquid heat was pooling low in her belly.

Then she felt it.

Sun, entangled, lowered his head. His tongue, hot and unforgivingly skilled, ran a strip up her center, parting her folds to find the sensitized bundle of nerves beneath.

Oh, god. A strangled moan was torn from her throat. Her head fell back against Yan’s shoulder. Her body, trained for endurance, for pain, was utterly defenseless against this assault of pure, undiluted pleasure. Sun’s mouth was a weapon more precise than any she’d ever encountered. He worked her with a devastating combination of soft, fluttering flicks and firm, circular pressure that had her seeing stars behind her clenched eyelids. Her climax ripped through her with the force of a tidal wave, her body seizing, every muscle going rigid as a silent scream of ecstasy locked in her chest.

For a fraction of a second, in the blissful, boneless aftermath, her guard was down. It was all they needed.

As the last shudders of her release were still wracking her frame, they struck. Yan twisted her torso sharply to the right while Sun leveraged her hips to the left. A sickening, deep pop resonated through her core, not of breaking bone, but of something far more insidious. A neural inhibitor shockwave, jolting her system, flooding her limbs with a heavy, prickling numbness.

Her legs gave out.  Her captors relaxed just enough to let her limp rubbery form slither, slip and slide down between them to the cool mahogany floor. She lay on her side, her body not totally paralyzed but useless, a weak, continuous tremor the only movement she could muster. 

The cool mahogany surface beneath her cheek was a stark contrast to the inferno raging inside her. The neural inhibitor’s paralytic effect was receding, but not quickly enough. It left her a prisoner in her own voluptuous form, every nerve ending screaming with hypersensitivity. A weak, continuous tremor was the only movement she could muster, a humiliating testament to their control.

Sun’s voice, smooth as silk and just as dangerous, cut through the buzzing in her ears. 'A neural inhibitor, Miss Margaret. Do not distress yourself. It will wear off in a short while… just long enough for us to have you properly entangled in the deadly Thai Triangle.'

The words sent a fresh wave of dread and illicit thrill straight to her core. The Thai Triangle. She’d read the briefing, a footnote on their preferred methods of… interrogation. It was a form of erotic bondage, a living knot designed to stimulate, disorient, and utterly dominate. A fatal trap wrapped in the guise of ultimate pleasure.

They moved with a terrifying, practiced synchronicity. Yan’s slick, sealed skin made his grip on her shoulders effortless as he pulled her fully onto her side. Sun took her ankles, his own skin feeling wonderfully, treacherously normal and warm against her soles. They stretched her out between them, a prize to be arranged. Margaret’s spirit rebelled, a fiery spark in her mind, and she managed a weak, futile twist of her hips. It was less an escape attempt and more a spasm of defiance.

Sun chuckled, a low, rich sound. 'Fight all you like, beautiful. It only makes the final surrender sweeter.'

And he was right. The slight strain in her abdominals, the clench of her powerful thighs as she resisted—it all served to stoke the fire they had lit inside her. She was already wet, her arousal a slick, undeniable truth. Her nipples were hard, pebbled peaks begging for attention.

This was the trap. Her own body was the key, and they were master locksmiths.

They began the slow, meticulous weave of their nude forms around and against hers. It started with Yan pressing the entire length of his body along her back, his chest a hot brand against her spine, one leg slipping between her thighs from behind. Simultaneously, Sun lay facing her, his sculpted chest hovering just above hers, his own leg mirroring Yan’s, slotting between hers from the front. Their limbs were a cage, but one that promised ecstasy.

Her curiosity, her lifelong hunger for the extreme, began to override the professional panic. A threesome of this caliber, with two such lethal and beautiful men, had been a fantasy she’d never dared to fully entertain. Now, it was her reality. A deadly one, but a reality nonetheless.

She turned her head, finding Yan’s mouth waiting for hers. The kiss was deep and hungry. She gave as good as she got, her tongue dueling with his, a small act of defiance she could still manage. When she broke for air, Sun was there, his lips capturing hers with equal fervor. She was the filling in the most dangerous sandwich imaginable, and a deep, guttural moan escaped her.

The duo stopped their intricate weaving at various points, at each pause, they took turns delivering her to climax with their tongues.

First, it was Yan, his mouth scoring into her wet and willing paradise.Margaret even managed to tilt her lips into him, aiding her assassins.  He brushed and circled her clitoris with the expert skills of the accomplished lover he was.  She was helpless to it, her body soon twisting in delicious joy and low guttural moans that ran along the mahogany. 

Then Sun.  His mouth, sucking gently at first, then with a firm, rhythmic pressure that had her crying out, her back arching off the floor. The pleasure was so intense it bordered on pain, a bright, sharp star of sensation in the fog of her helplessness.

She revelled in it. She was a connoisseur of pleasure, and this was vintage. Deep moans tore from her throat, followed by slow, swaying tilts of her hips.  Each movement, each desperate quest for more joyful release had an unintended consequence.

This is all part of it, the rational part of her mind screamed, a sudden, clear note of panic in her internal voice. I’m being pleasured deeper and deeper into the knot! Every buck, every tilt… it’s drawing the bindings tighter, draining me of any strength to fight back once the final connection is made!

The world tilted, and the ceiling—a vast, mirrored surface that showed her everything. Her own nude body, glistening with a fine sheen of sweat, powerful muscles defined in the low light. Woven around her, like two sleek, predatory vines, were Sun and Yan. Their dark hair contrasted with her fair skin, their bodies a tapestry of tense muscle and intent. She was in the center, completely and utterly dominated. The visual was as humiliating as it was arousing.

She was exhausted, overheated from the endless waves of pleasure they’d coaxed from her. The inhibitor had worn off completely now, her spy’s body recovered and screaming to move. But there was nowhere to go. She squirmed, she wormed, she tested the living bonds, but every movement only served to tighten their hold, to press their bodies more intimately against hers.

A slow, deep yearning was building again, a coil of need tightening low in her belly, stoked by the relentless pressure of their cocks against her—Sun’s against her thigh, Yan’s against the cleft of her ass. The mirror showed her the helpless want on her own face, the parted lips, the glazed eyes.

Sun his voice a whisper.   'Almost there, Margaret. The final connection.'

She held her breath, her eyes locked on their reflection, waiting for the final, devastating penetration that would complete the Thai Triangle and seal her fate.

With a series of coordinated rolls and shifts of weight that spoke of terrifying practice, they worked the final parts of themselves into the weave. The pressure intensified, becoming absolute. She was encased, a living core within a sculpture of taut muscle and slick skin.

Then she felt it. The blunt, insistent pressure of Yan’s erection against the small of her back, and simultaneously, the hot, hard length of Sun pressing against her inner thigh, perilously close to her soaked, desperate center. A final, shocking tremor racked her body. The ceiling mirror above reflected the entire, terrifying tableau: three nude forms stretched and interlocked, a human knot of immense power and devastating intent. She was the centerpiece, completely dominated, exhausted, and burning with a slow, yearning heat that was rapidly becoming an inferno.

She squirmed, a feeble worming motion inside the death trap, and the movement only served to slide her and them perfectly together against the twin points of their arousal. They let her natural motion begin to pull their stems inside her.

All the entangled spy could do was slow her motion to delay total penetration.  ‘I’ll make them work for me right to the end, even if it's my end,’ Margaret thought as she lay motionless.

‘An excellent strategy Miss, but one that has been tried before and will fail.  All you’re doing is delaying your inevitable death,’ Sun explained with glee.

Margaret soon understood what they meant.  The stillness allowed her to rest but it also amplified their pulsing cocks partially inside her.  The instinct she fought was to pull them in.  Instead she occupied herself and them with kisses, a wonderful array of nips, soft wet rolls, long probing ones, her tongue teasing them only to pull away as they wanted more.  The problem for her was the energy she was expending along with her rising body temperature from their closeness.  Over several hours she’d managed to keep from contracting extensively but she was still pulling them closer and getting hotter.  She could no longer kiss at will, soon finding one of her cheeks resting against one of either Sun or Yan’s.

As her body slowly turned a wet burnished orange colour the males folded themselves fully into her, one final thrust would seal her in the knot and death.  Margaret ever the fighter decided to make that decision for them rather than have them push into her.  

An exhausted Margaret after all the hours in their knot let a small smile cross her face as the rush of juice poured into her.  She contracted her ass and pussy causing them to quiver then a minute later they came again and the knot relaxed a little.  The Plus slammed her hips pack and forth against them sending them into spasms.  

It took several hours for Margaret to loosen herself enough to breath comfortably then several more to untangle herself from the knot revealing her means of escape.

‘I couldn’t turn down the opportunity of a threesome.  I just had to know and experience it, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t take precautions,’ she smiled her face on the floor between them.  She kissed one, turned her head and kissed the other.  ‘Their called ' Snapdragon's', is a very ancient female assassination technique.  Basically that ring around each of your cocks that you can't remove is touched released when you're deep into me.  I simply contract my paradise and it activates.  In this case tiny teeth hold your cock while a harmonic pulsing beat is delivered making you cum every minute or so.  The original ones had poisonous needles that were released with contraction from the female.  They still exist but these being modern times, well, weapons advance.  The anal one is much newer, but just as effective.  You’ve both had more than enough climaxes that you're now in a catatonic state and will stay that way for some time.’

'I did promise pleasure before business,' she whispered.  'Now if you'll excuse me I have to call my organisation to have you two picked up.  Then the business end of our tryst will be completed.’

                                                                              ^^^

The scent of jasmine and sandalwood hung heavy in the air, a fragrant cloud that clung to Margaret’s skin and filled her lungs with every ragged breath. She knelt on the soft tatami mat, the woven reeds imprinting a familiar pattern on her bare knees. Across from her, Eriko moved with an economy of grace that was hypnotic, her alabaster skin glowing in the low light of the paper lanterns. She was a vision of slender perfection, a living doll pouring steaming ocha into a delicate ceramic cup.

'Something about Japanese women and how they make love I crave,' Margaret thought, accepting the tea with a nod. The mission in Osaka had been messy, a symphony of cracked bones and silenced alarms. Her body, a powerful size-12 frame honed for combat, ached for a different kind of tension. For release. And Eriko, with her knowing eyes and soft smile, had been the perfect answer.

The tea was floral, sweet. It washed the grit of the mission from her throat. Eriko’s gaze never left hers, a faint, enigmatic smile playing on her lips. Her dark hair was a sleek curtain, shifting as she leaned forward to refill Margaret’s cup. The silk of her kimono whispered with the movement, the neckline gaping just enough to offer a tantalizing glimpse of small, perfect breasts.

'You carry much tension, Plus-san,' Eriko murmured, her voice a low, melodic hum. 'A woman of your strength… it must be a heavy burden.'

Margaret’s laugh was a short, sharp exhale. 'You have no idea.'

'Perhaps I can lighten the load.' Eriko’s fingers, impossibly delicate, traced the rim of her own cup. 'There are… techniques. For unwinding what is wound too tight.'

The air shifted. The professional seductress in Margaret recognized the script, but the weary woman in her was more than willing to play her part. She let her own robe, a simple cotton yukata provided by the teahouse, fall open a little further. An invitation.

Eriko moved then. It wasn’t a walk; it was a glide, a seamless flow of limbs that brought her behind Margaret. Her hands, cool and sure, settled on Margaret’s broad shoulders. The massage started there, a firm, knowing pressure that made Margaret groan, her head lolling forward. God, she’s good.

The touch quickly evolved. Eriko’s fingers trailed down her spine, tracing each vertebra through the thin cotton. The robe loosened further, slipping down her arms. Margaret didn’t stop it. The heat of the room, the intoxicating scent, the slow, deliberate touch—it was all working on her, melting the armor she wore like a second skin.

Eriko’s lips found the sensitive juncture between Margaret’s neck and shoulder. Not a kiss, but a whisper of contact, followed by the faint, waxy sensation of lipstick. A unique fragrance, like crushed night-blooming flowers, filled Margaret’s senses. Pink lipstick, some distant, analytical part of her mind noted. The thought was slippery, dissolving into the warmth spreading through her muscles. A delicious heaviness was seeping into her limbs, a pleasant lethargy that made resistance feel like a foreign concept.

'Just relax, Plus-san,' Eriko whispered into her ear, her breath warm. 'Let me take care of you.'

Margaret’s world narrowed to sensation. Eriko’s hands were everywhere, coaxing the robe completely away until Margaret sat nude, her bronzed skin gleaming with a fine sheen of sweat. Eriko shed her own kimono with a single, fluid shrug, revealing a body of breathtaking, slim perfection. She didn’t pounce; she enveloped.

She guided Margaret down, first to one knee, then the other, in a slow, controlled descent onto the tatami. Margaret went willingly, the mat soft and yielding beneath her. Eriko’s nude form pressed against her back, then slid around her side, a silken constraint that was more embrace than bondage. A knot, Margaret thought drowsily, she’s tying us together with her own body.

Eriko’s limbs, surprisingly strong, wove around hers. A slender leg hooked over Margaret’s thigh, an arm coiled around her torso, a hand splayed possessively across her stomach. Margaret was pinned, but not unpleasantly so. It felt… secure. Intimate.

Then Eriko’s mouth was on her breast, her tongue circling a taut, pink nipple with agonizing slowness. Margaret cried out, a strangled gasp as a bolt of pure pleasure shot through her. The languid heat in her veins ignited into something urgent. She tried to arch, to press herself more firmly into that clever mouth, but Eriko’s delicate limbs held her fast. She’s so strong. How is she so strong?

'You see?' Eriko murmured against her damp skin, her voice thick with something that sounded like pride. 'Asian techniques are… deviously effective. I am skilled in hundreds of oral methods.'

Margaret could only moan in response, another climax already building, coiling low in her belly. Her hips bucked instinctively, a helpless, circular motion against the empty air. Each tremor, each peak of pleasure, seemed to grant Eriko a new inch of leverage. With a subtle shift of her own hips, Eriko tightened her hold, the sleek length of her body conforming to Margaret’s curves even more completely.

'You orgasm… I adjust my knot,' Eriko whispered, her voice a venomous silk. She moved again, a sinuous full-body writhe that somehow reversed their positions without ever fully letting go. Now she was on top, her weight a feather-light pressure, her face hovering above Margaret’s. Her dark eyes were no longer soft; they glittered with a cold, sharp intelligence.

The pleasant fog in Margaret’s head swirled. The teahouse. The mission. The lipstick. It was all connecting in a sudden, terrifyingly clear circuit. Poison. Not passion. The relaxed mush of her body wasn’t just arousal; it was a toxin. The truth serum wasn’t a fantasy; it was the jasmine-scented powder dusted on Eriko’s skin, now soaking into her own.

'You have questions for me,' Margaret slurred, the fight to form words Herculean.

Eriko’s smile was a cold, beautiful thing. 'I have all the answers I need, Plus-san. My powder has seen to that.' She lowered her head, her lips hovering a breath from Margaret’s. 'But the game is not quite over. I so rarely get to play with a woman of your… substantial beauty.'

One of Eriko’s feet, with its delicate, prehensile toes, slid down Margaret’s inner thigh. The touch was shockingly intimate, a promise of a devastating technique yet to come. Margaret heaved, a final, powerful surge of her strength, trying to dislodge the slender assassin, but the intricate wrap of limbs held firm, tightening almost imperceptibly with her struggle.

Eriko’s lips finally met hers in a deep, claiming kiss that tasted of jasmine and victory. When she pulled back, her whisper was the last thing Margaret heard before the world faded to shades of pleasurable heat and darkness.

'Sayonara, Margaret-san.'

A low, guttural moan was torn from Margaret’s throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated sensation that seemed to vibrate through the very tatami mats. Eriko’s words were a venomous melody in her ear, but her toes… her toes were a revelation. They moved inside her with a preternatural skill, a dual rhythm that stroked and teased with infuriating precision. Each subtle flex was a masterful caress, a knowing pressure on a spot that sent glittering shockwaves through Margaret’s core.

Her body, a powerful instrument trained for endurance and violence, was being played like a delicate shamisen. She tried to buck, to twist her hips away from the overwhelming pleasure, but the Spreading Fan Knot held her fast. Eriko’s slim alabaster form was an unyielding silken cord, a living prison that tightened its embrace with every tremor of Margaret’s climax. Each peak of ecstasy wasn’t a release; it was a concession. A surrender of another inch of control.

'I know you take many orgasms to weaken, Plus-san,' Eriko purred, her lips brushing the shell of Margaret’s ear. Her voice was a breathy contrast to the devastating work of her lower extremities. 'My Lotus Petal Lipstick has been wonderfully exhausted, but you fight its lethargy so well. Terminating you with climaxes, slowly… so slowly… is a most welcome bonus.'

She punctuated her sentence with a deep, languid kiss. It wasn’t harsh or demanding, but impossibly soft, a brush of lips that spoke of intimate knowledge and total domination. Margaret’s lips parted involuntarily, a traitorous response to the expert touch. Eriko’s tongue didn’t plunge; it explored, tasting the lingering floral notes of the tea and the unique salt of Margaret’s sweat. It was a kiss that told of things to come.

Everywhere Margaret struggled, she was met with the soft, unyielding resistance of Eriko’s body. There was no brute force, no straining muscle. It was all clever angles, perfect leverage, and an almost supernatural patience. Asian ‘Soft Knotters’, Margaret’s training supplied, the thought hazy through a fog of pleasure and toxin. They don’t overpower. They outlast. They entangle.

The two women lay partially illuminated by the flickering lanterns, a sculpture of entwined limbs and glistening skin. The only sounds were the soft rustle of their movement on the reed mat and the symphony of Margaret’s heavy, ragged breathing, punctuated by her choked cries of pleasure. Each moan that escaped her lips was, to Eriko’s ears, a tiny victory.

'Now you see, Plus-san,' Eriko whispered, her voice dripping with smug satisfaction. 'You are no match for a Japanese woman. Your magnificent size is so easily controlled by ancient technique. You are so very responsive to my touch. The Caressing Cricket is draining you, one exquisite climax at a time.'

A sly smile touched Eriko’s lips as she spoke. With a subtle, fluid motion that seemed to defy physics, she bent her other leg, drawing both of their limbs up. Margaret felt a new pressure, a second impossibly deft toe trailing a fiery path up the incredibly sensitive skin of her inner thigh. She held her breath, a final, futile act of defiance that shattered as the new point of contact joined the first.

'But,' Eriko hissed, her eyes flashing with predatory glee, 'Two crickets are always better than one.'

The effect was instantaneous and catastrophic to Margaret’s resistance. A powerful, rolling orgasm seized her, wiping all coherent thought into a white-hot void of sensation. Her back arched as much as the knot would allow, a strangled cry ripped from her throat. It was a climax of terrifying intensity, and she felt the subtle, shifting grip of Eriko’s knot tighten another crucial degree in its aftermath, pressing their bodies together from chest to thigh.

As the waves slowly receded, leaving her trembling and breathless, Eriko nuzzled her neck. 'You have incredible resilience, Plus-san. Truly, a worthy opponent. But each climax brings us closer… me to you, and you to your end.' Her whisper was full of a soft, intimate menace. 'I am in no hurry to deliver you to that finale. Your succulent body offers endless stimulation. Your torment… our dance… will continue.

She was losing. Not just the physical battle, but the mental one. The line between interrogation and seduction wasn't just blurred; it was gone. The danger was intoxicating. The lethal embrace was becoming just an… embrace. Her body, starved for the very connection it was now being force-fed, was beginning to respond not with struggle, but with a hungry, shameful acceptance.

Eriko sensed the shift, the slight yielding not of muscle but of spirit. She smiled, a genuine curve of her lips this time, and dipped her head. She didn’t kiss Margaret’s mouth again. Instead, her lips found the frantic pulse hammering at the base of Margaret’s throat. She pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss there, her tongue tracing the frantic beat.

'Your body tells me all its secrets, Margaret-san,' she breathed against damp skin, her words a warm promise and a dire threat. 'Shall we see what else it has to say

A breath. That was all Margaret could manage. A shallow, ragged sip of air that did nothing to fill her burning lungs. Her world had condensed to a single, devastating point of contact—the impossibly skilled, maddening work of Eriko’s toes. Each flick, each slow, torturous circle was a masterclass in pleasure-as-torment, and her body, slick with sweat and trembling from exhaustion, responded with violent, shameful sincerity.

Another climax tore through her, a silent scream locked in her throat, her head thrown back against Eriko’s shoulder. As the waves receded, leaving her shuddering and spent, she felt the subtle, insidious shift. The silken constriction of the Spreading Fan Knot tightened another infinitesimal degree, drawing Eriko’s alabaster form that much closer, that much tighter against her own straining muscles.

Each orgasm a concession. Each peak another turn of the screw.

Eriko nuzzled into the damp hair at Margaret’s temple, her voice a husky whisper against the shell of her ear. 'Your wriggling body is heaven, Plus-san. The way you fill my deadly knot… your taste… your heat…' Her tongue darted out, tracing the whorl of Margaret’s ear, tasting salt and desperation. 'But you are nearly finished. I can feel your muscles weakening from pressure and exhaustion as I slither tighter. A silken snake, draped around her prize.'

Margaret heaved, a monumental effort that used the last dregs of her formidable strength. Her broad shoulders strained, her powerful legs tried to find purchase on the tatami, but it was no use. Eriko’s slender limbs, woven with impossible precision, held firm. The struggle only served to press them closer, their bodies sliding against each other in a slick, intimate friction.

Eriko moved her toes in a subtle, corkscrew motion, and a broken sound, half-sob, half-moan, escaped Margaret’s lips. Eriko kissed her then, not on the mouth, but on the straining tendon of her neck. Her lips were soft, brushing and pulling at the sensitive skin, feeling the thunderous pulse beneath. Feeling her climax again. The Poison Geisha’s touch was everywhere, a map of pleasure-pain being drawn across Margaret’s crumbling defenses.

A small, rational part of Margaret’s mind, the part not drowned in toxin and sensation, recognized the assassin’s contentment. Eriko was in no rush. She would let her living knot do the work, constricting slowly, relentlessly, until Margaret’s magnificent size-12 frame was compressed into submission, into silence. ‘She’s going to let me be killed by my own orgasms,’ Margaret thought, the absurdity of it almost making her laugh, if she had any air left to do so.

Her hands and arms, bent and secured behind her own head and neck by Eriko’s cunning arrangement, were completely numb. Pins and needles screamed their protest, a distant, fiery signal her brain could barely process. Eriko’s legs were a vise around her own, rendering her lower body useless. The forced posture arched Margaret’s back forward, her taut stomach muscles screaming as they fought a losing battle to keep her from being bent further. Her breasts, firm and heavy, were pushed forward, her pink nipples hard and aching, droplets of perspiration falling from them onto her own heaving stomach with a steady, rhythmic patter.

Eriko kissed her way across Margaret’s collarbone, her lips applying small, calculated bites of pleasure. As she did, her own small, perfect breasts—cool and firm—pressed strategically into specific nerve endings on Margaret’s sweat-slicked back. A strange, heavy numbness bloomed there, a warmth that traveled down Margaret’s trapped arms, effectively blocking the last screaming signals from her brain. Making them go fully, completely limp.

A tear of sheer frustration mixed with the sweat on Margaret’s cheek. She was golden from her labours, her skin gleaming under the lantern light, her usually vibrant hair matted and dark. With a gentleness that was its own unique cruelty, Eriko used a liss ti hold Margaret’s hair between her lips then move it away from her face, tucking them behind her ear.

'You are getting very tight, Plus-san,' Eriko murmured, her breath hot against Margaret’s ear. Her tongue flicked out, a quick, teasing stroke. 'You will not perish from orgasm, as most do. You will perish from the knot… as my body slowly, slowly crushes the air and fight from you.'

She drew in, her lips finding Margaret’s earlobe, sucking gently as her toes never ceased their devastating, gentle rhythm. A deep, guttural moan was pulled from the depths of Margaret’s chest, the sound one of utter defeat and unwilling, overwhelming pleasure.

It was the sound Eriko had been waiting for. The final fracture.

She shifted her weight, a minuscule adjustment that nonetheless sent a new wave of pressure through Margaret’s constrained form. 'But the crushing… it is such a long way off,' Eriko purred, her voice dripping with a dark, sensual promise. 'Happily for me. Your stamina is a gift I intend to savor fully. Now… let us see what other sounds I can draw from you.'

Margaret knew she had only herself to blame. The intoxicating dance that had led her here, from the first sip of tea to this silken, paralyzing embrace, had been entered into willingly. A shared hunger had ignited it, a spark that Eriko had expertly fanned into a controlling inferno.

Now, that inferno was being used to consume her.

Eriko began to rock them. A slow, deliberate forward and back, a motion that was both a cradle and a torture device. Each forward sway drove her toes in deeper, running along Margaret’s oversensitive, swollen clitoris with unerring accuracy. Each backward motion tightened the intricate weave of limbs, constricting Margaret’s lungs a fraction more. The Plus spy climaxed again, a weak, shuddering convulsion that was less pleasure and pure physiological betrayal. She was being unraveled orgasm by orgasm, constricted breath by stolen breath.

Her corded muscles, the very foundation of her physical prowess, fought on instinct, a lifetime of training screaming for one last, desperate stand. Margaret grunted, a raw, guttural sound of pure strain, her body a rigid, sweat-slicked bowstring against Eriko’s silken bonds.

Eriko felt the end nearing, a predator sensing the final tremor of its prey. She turned Margaret’s head with surprising gentleness, her fingers tracing the strong line of the spy’s jaw before toying with her parted lips. 'A few more rocks, Plus-san, and you are finished,' she purred, her voice a husky promise of oblivion. She sealed the prediction with a deep, claiming kiss, her tongue exploring Margaret’s mouth with a possessive intimacy that felt like a final brand.

Margaret felt her consciousness fraying at the edges, the world narrowing to the rhythm of their joined bodies. Her lips, numb and slack, dropped away from the kiss. Eriko placed her cool cheek against Margaret’s heated one, a smile gracing her lips as she savored the impending victory. This was the end. The beautiful, lethal finale.

The duo rocked back. Margaret’s mind, a vortex of toxin and exhaustion, latched onto a single, desperate calculation. She knew the next forward motion would be the last. It would contract Eriko’s body like a python’s final coil, and it would finish her.

In that sliver of time, Margaret used everything she had left. Not just muscle, but will. Decades of escapes, of near-certain deaths cheated, of a determination forged in fire. She focused it all into one explosive, desperate act: instead of resisting the momentum, she accelerated it, throwing the last of her formidable weight into the backward rock.

The result was catastrophic for Eriko’s perfect control. Their center of balance shifted violently. The forward motion never came. Instead, they tipped, the world upending in a dizzying whirl of lantern light and pale limbs. They fell over forward, their entangled bodies slamming hard onto the unforgiving tatami mat. The impact was a thunderclap that knocked the air from both of them, and the intricate Spreading Fan Knot, reliant on perfect tension, came apart.

For a heartbeat, there was only the shock of impact and the gasp of returned breath. Then, training  took over. As Margaret’s arms came free, her right hand wheeled down, her fingers forming into a rigid, practiced knife edge. It wasn’t a punch; it was a piston-driven strike, all her condensed desperation and surviving strength focused into the heel of her palm. It slammed into Eriko’s throat with a sickening, wet crack.

Silence. A long, suspended moment where the only sound was the frantic beating of Margaret’s own heart. Then, a wet, choking gurgle filled the room, a horrible, bubbling counterpoint to the gentle rustle of the paper lanterns.

The Plus spy, too weak to crawl, turned her heavy head. Eriko’s hands were clasped to her throat, her beautiful face a mask of stunned horror, her dark eyes wide with the shock of the impossible. The elegant assassin was drowning on dry land.

A cold, professional clarity washed over Margaret, burning through the exhaustion. She managed to roll her body over toward the convulsing woman, her movements sluggish, each one a monumental effort. Her powerful ankles, finally free, found their target, slipping around the delicate column of Eriko’s neck with a grim finality.

With a groan of pure exertion, Margaret rolled again. The motion was slow, brutal and effective, forcing Eriko’s head up off the tatami mat, suspended between Margaret’s slim ankles.. The Poison Geisha’s hands scrabbled weakly, futilely, as the powerful legs now constricted her airway.

Margaret closed her eyes, gathering the very dregs of her strength, every ounce of will she had left in her broken, glorious body. She concentrated, her own breath coming in ragged pants. Then, with a final, brutal twist of her hips and ankles, she turned her legs.

The sound was definitive. A sharp, clean crack that echoed in the hushed room, followed by the immediate, limp dead weight of Eriko’s head between her ankles.

Margaret released her, collapsing onto her back, her chest heaving. The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the sound of her own tortured breathing and the faint, settling rustle of the tatami. She lay there for a long time, staring up at the shadowy ceiling, her body a map of pain and exhaustion. It would be a while before she could even think about moving, about escaping the teahouse. Her body, her sanctuary and her weapon, would need time to recover from its own passionate, poisonous embrace. The fight was over, but she knew more battles awaited.  That thought alone brought a small smile to her lips.