DOMINATION AND ASSASSINATION

JACK RHODES is a salesman that attempts to wear many disguises to get what he wants: women. One day, he gets a video letter from a mysterious video-artist, MONIQUE (Shannon Tweed), who challenges him to meet her. She plays him like a fiddle and takes advantage of him. Now the tables are turned and Jeff can't escape, not even with his life.

Domination and assassination... good post title for a Femme Fatale Blog.


I missed this series on HBO. 1984 and on... The Hitchhiker.  I must look for it, but in the meantime, I love what snippets I have found on the internet.  

And if you see it, does it scare you that I love it? (-:

MISTAKEN INTENTIONS

Certainly there are sexless men out there somewhere, people who feel that erotic pleasure is utterly uninteresting. The guys at work who spend all their free time checking out sports scores or fantasy league standings, or who are devoted exclusively to their model airplane collections. Admirable things, to be sure.

Certainly. He knew that. But it had never been like that for him. He had always noticed the curve of a calf, the sheen of stockings, the rosy flash creeping up a neck as a sign of embarrassment or incipient excitement. It was like a kind of radar or ESP. Sure, it had created awkward moments, a restlessness that wouldn’t go away. Every day, it seemed, there was a moment – an image, a thought, a flash of recognition in a passing glance, a sight that took his breath away – that resonated in his mind as he pleasured himself. Yet it was never right, never enough, and increasingly he imagined darker but unarticulated things. But several months ago, things started to go haywire, and it was only now that he realized things had gone beyond his control.

It started at the carousel at the airport. His bag was identical to Hers. By the time they’d sorted it out – he’d been helpful and deferential, of course – he’d not only been intrigued by Her perfume and the dangle of the bracelets on Her slim wrist but by the lacy hem of the leopard print slip he’d seen in Her bag when he’d opened it to show Her that the bag was his. He felt silly, of course, but also flushed: the rosy tint creeping up had been on his neck, not Hers. She’d simply smiled.

The shared cab ride, the drink at the bar of the bistro near her home with the twin bags on the floor, side by side, the dinner, the exchange of phone numbers, and then dropping her off and helping only to the door and the soft kiss of her hand on his cheek and the lingering scent – had she freshened it in the restaurant’s bathroom while he paid the bill? – as She said goodnight.

In time he’d discovered that She was every inch a lady, down to the tautness of Her neck as She arched her back before thrusting Her hips forward when on the edge of orgasm.

She epitomized the woman that had danced darkly in his imagination for so many years. Yes, of course he’d looked at porn and knew the allure of leather opera gloves and garter belts. But he’d never before felt the smooth bindings of stockings around his wrists as they were pulled out to be tied to the bedposts or the insane pleasure of being mounted and ridden as She rubbed herself to orgasm and collapsed against him, still hard, panting, and more aroused than he’d ever been in his life.

For the first time in his life, he discovered the most intoxicating form of arousal of all: the pleasure of a woman who feels no shame in the pleasure She experiences and is without reservation in making it happen.

Soon, things he’d started to say seemed to remain stuck in his mind. First it was during their lovemaking – how amazing She felt, how intense the pleasure was, how he’d all but begged her again and again to slow down so She would come first and how She’d breathlessly complied, often leaving him fully engorged until She’d regained Her composure and finished him off with a few twists of Her fingers. Not that he was complaining. For some reason, even with the minimal, casual, almost forgetful touch, he would come more intensely than ever.

And for the first time, when he was alone and making himself come, he thought only of his partner, of Her, and not the open, expectant gaze of an attractive woman waiting for him to approach her.

And soon, also, the things he’d routinely said to soothe the ego of a partner when out in public – “you look stunning,” “there isn’t a man here that wouldn’t want to be in my shoes,” “how can you stand being so sexy” – had a resonance and solidity. The words didn’t evaporate but stayed with him when they were apart. And when She had him repeat them, as She had him massage Her feet and kiss the tops of Her arches, they stuck even more.

When he confessed those feelings to her – surprisingly, after he’d released and was normally inclined to get lost in his regeneration – She’d smiled slightly and Her tongue would slowly and unconsciously glide across Her lower lip.

And then, things changed. There was a problem with Her bank account. Could she write him a check for $500 and get cash? He’d be able to deposit it later. Later became later and later still. And then one night when he was snugly bound and deep inside Her, She asked if he wouldn’t mind forgetting about the check. He said, ‘No, of course,’ and She paused and asked him to speak more clearly, asking if he was sure it didn’t matter, and that he was happy to forgive the debt, to admit that actually he was the one in debt to her. Which he did. Careful to articulate every word. She shuddered as She came, and he spasmed to his core.

The check – the checks, actually – were only part of it. Where they had regularly seen each other a couple of times a week, it became erratic, some weeks just once (and one time not at all), others three times. Sometimes it was simply dinner out, which became more provocative than he’d expected. He spent one weekend entirely with Her. They’d planned to fix things up, and had started. But She remembered a pressing need a client had, so while She worked on some code on Her computer, he scrubbed clean the grout of the bathroom floor. She was effusive in Her thanks and, when She had him sitting on the floor, between Her legs, pleasuring Her, She said, “Careful, or I’m going to program you.” He couldn’t stop thinking about Her for days, of Her fingers tapping over his body, instilling code.

Every couple of weeks, She would ask at especially delicate moments whether he’d ever known as much pleasure as he did with Her, even if he didn’t come exactly when She did. It became easier and easier to talk about how consuming the pleasure was, how deep and satisfying and meaningful, about how much She meant to him. And each time, She’d talk about his debt to Her and he found himself agreeing more and more easily. Without even realizing it, the statements came to be true, and each time, when she said, “I’ve brought a check,” he found his pleasure reached a new height and a new level of intensity. The numbers seemed arbitrary. 200. 625. 415. They meant little, just numbers, and when She slid them into his hand, kissing his forehead lightly, She would always say, “You can hold on to this for now, can’t you?” he always answered yes.

Then the routine, irregular as it was, was broken. Then a week passed, and a second. She was busy. But not unthinking. He received a parcel with a pair of Her underwear, smelling faintly of Her perfume. They talked on the phone. She was simply busy, which he didn’t doubt: She was always there when he called, happy to hear from him, even if a little distracted. He was careful not to be pushy in saying how much he missed Her, careful not to be too pleading. Often She said only, “Hmm…” letting it dangle before reassuring him that She missed him also.

Despite the enforced hiatus, he found himself coming only to thoughts of Her. The blistering red nails of the woman who shared his table at Starbucks, even as she applied her lipstick – things that once would have consumed his erotic attention for days – were soon forgotten. When an attractive colleague at work (who had once filled many of his fantasies) dropped her cup of coffee on the floor he had been quick to help clean it up, but he’d barely noticed the color of her underwear as she squatted to clean it, as well.

Then another envelope with a note inside and another envelope, as well. The note was brief. “Please call me when you’ve received this, but wait to open the other envelope.” Excitedly, he picked up the phone and dialed, relieved to hear Her voice, which was warmer and fuller than it had been for weeks. She asked him to rub himself through his pants, asking that he hold back for now, and asking if he was free for dinner in a half hour. Of course he was, and She asked him to open the other envelope. Inside was a pair of Her underwear scented both by Her perfume and the scent of her mound, a scent he loved more than any in the world. Also in the envelope was another envelope, this one business size, with a single word inscribed on it: “Take me to dinner, unopened.”

The restaurant was quiet, the martinis were dry, the meal delicious, Her warmth and obvious pleasure in seeing him irresistible. As they swirled the cognac snifters and inhaled the fumes, She asked if he’d brought the other envelope. She slid closer to him, and brought Her lips to his when he said yes. She talked about missing him, about missing the intensity of their time alone together. Her hand slid to his crotch. He found himself saying all the things he’d said to Her when they were intimate. She asked about indebtedness and the checks and he said he’d forgotten about the latter. She kissed him deeply, her tongue forcing itself deep into his mouth. She asked if he liked the checks, Her hand taking the lower part of his crotch firmly. He stiffened more as he said, “Yes.”

She asked that he open the last envelope. He did, and he pulled out a check. It was different. It was an unsigned check of his, made out to Her, in the amount of $5,000.00. The memo line read, “Just the first.” She took his ear lobe between her teeth and said, in a clenched, slightly choked voice, “Make me come.” 

 

The next afternoon, when he answered the phone and heard Her voice, he sat up straighter in his chair, as if She could see him. “Thank you,” she said, “it’s never been that intense for me before. And do you know what I love most? There’s nothing you can do to change things.”

The line went silent. For a moment the room seemed to darken and then come into focus with a crystalline clarity.

There was nothing he could do to change things.

DELILAH

We all remember, don’t we, that Sampson fell in love with Delilah, who was bribed by Sampson’s enemies to find his weakness. Wary of her questions, he said first that if he were bound with bowstrings he would lose his supernatural strength. (Had you forgotten than he was into bondage?) So Delilah, clever girl that she is, waits for him to fall asleep and ties him up. He wakens and breaks the bindings. She asks again – uh, Sampson, think anything’s going on here? – and he says new ropes will do the trick. Again, she waits until he slumbers and practices a bit of bondage, and again he wakes, and breaks the ropes. Ever persistent, patient, and greedy for those thousand pieces of silver promised her by the Philistines, Delilah once again asks the question. Sampson, by now, weakened by his own love and lust for the Delilah, moves closer to the truth - that he will lose his strength if his hair, which truly is the source of his strength, is woven together. As he sleeps that night, she gives him a hair weave and ties him up, and the next morning, he awakes and unbraids his hair.

Not to be dissuaded from her potentially profitable enterprise, Delilah yet again asks Sampson the source of his strength. And poor, simple Sampson (he’s male, after all, and clearly had forgotten the story of Eve and the serpent), says that if his hair is shorn he will lose his strength. Sure enough, Delilah waits until he is asleep, and then with his head resting in her lap, she has a servant cut off his hair. His strength removed, Sampson is captured by the Philistines, turned into a slave, and, after his hair has grown back, brings down their temple and kills all those inside.

That Sampson. That Delilah. No photographers were there at the time to record the events and post them to Twitter, so artists – mostly men, of course – used their imaginations. But for the visually inclined, there are a couple of points of interest.

Point 1: Delilah is usually, though not always, shown clothed and Sampson unclothed, an early example of the CFNM (clothed female, naked man, for the fetistically illiterate) kink. (During the presumably suppressed Victorian period, women, too, were shown topless.)

Point 2: Sampson is slumbering, presumably in a post-coital state, which leads one to ask exactly when it was that Delilah cajoled his secret out of him. Just before she manipulated his secretions out, one might reasonably expect. Those among us who are moral know well that information divulged and promises made at the height of edgy arousal (promises erectus, in Latin) are less solid than the member of the person making the disclosures or vows. But some people – Delilah, you go, girl! – are a bit less moral.

Point 3: Sampson often has his head in Delilah’s lap. Let me think, where does one often see a sleeping male with his head in a woman’s lap? Why, at any event that goes on too long where a mother has brought her son! Interesting that artists associate this tender, maternal moment, normally associated with protection and comfort, with the story of a venal femme fatale, no?

Point 4: Sampson felt pretty silly when he woke up with his new hairdo. But Delilah thought it was just adorable!

Moral, for women: in his weakness there is our strength.

Moral, for men: never get an erection.

SHE WAS AS ONE WITH MOTHER. stories #2

Mother and daughter, stood facing each other. Mother in a black dress and Louboutin pumps; her blonde hair pulled up in a classic French pleat. She took her daughter's hand and there in the palm firmly placed the gold gun.


The daughter, a younger image of her mother: haughty, blonde, blue eyes,  lean and statuesque, slipped the gun down between her breasts, the barrel rubbing tight against the leather as she pulled the zipper up to her neck.  The soft leather catsuit was tight around her torso before flaring out at the leg over her favorite Louboutin biker boots.   She had been waiting for this moment--the opportunity to put all the training to good use.

They hugged, mother giving daughter a light kiss on the lips, before stepping back to watch her daughter take her leave out of the door.  It was time. 

The mother poured herself a drink, Macallan whisky, straight up, and sat down on the chair; two mobile phones were on the desk in front of her; she reached for the cheap throw away phone to make the call.

The man answered on the second ring.  No greeting, just a distinct and familiar voice brusquely  informing him a girl was on her way over. The phone disconnected before he could say one word. The call itself did not surprise him, but what did is that it was she who had made the call. She had always been obvious in her disdain for any contact with him. He grinned in the thought of her actually having to procure a girl for him. The usual arrangement was that some minion would arrange for a whore to come to his hotel. He had made no secret of his proclivity for certain sexual perversions, and one of the provisions when he was first  'turned' was that he would expect certain favours be granted him.  The exchange of documents and cash had taken place earlier that evening. Now he was wanting the whore.

The daughter pulled up her hair and slipped under the Arai full face helmet. Gloves on, she mounted her prized MV Agusta F4 1100 CC 315 km/h. 1.078 cc engine motorbike.  Kicking up the engine, she kept it purring through the back streets, until... out on the state road, she revved up and disappeared into the night...

Her pulse was steady, seeming in sync with the speedometer. She was completely focused as she executed each turn on the dark winding road.  She had always loved bikes, much to her mother's disapproval. It was the one defiant act she allowed herself. The vibrations were now having a distinctly pleasurable effect. She loved grinding hard into the seat, feeling the bike rewarding her effort with little  shock waves moving down her thighs. 

The secluded hotel was in view, the lights of the rooms twinkling through the branches of trees  Slowing the engine, she looked for the opening where she was to leave the bike, 200 yards from the Manor Hotel. There is was, the lights now in full view. She parked and climbed off the bike, removed the helmet, and checked the time on her Girard-Perregaux watch.  Dead... on schedule, she thought.

She quickly stripped out of the leather, smoothing out the long soft flowing red Valentino dress.  From the opened seat of the bike, she removed the black ankle strap stilettos and the small Chanel handbag. Quickly moving, it took all of 3 minutes to go from black to red. Slipping the gun into the Chanel bag, she made her way on to a gravel path. A security person had been persuaded to leave the fire exit door ajar before making himself scarce. She moved quietly around the side of the building, once in the door, she began climbing the stairs.  Tonight was for mother, and she would not let her down.

It had been her and mother since she was two years old.  Her father had accidentally and fatally shot himself while cleaning an antique rifle. Her own memories of him were vague and conversation regarding father had never been encouraged.  Mother had provided for them both a very privileged lifestyle, never wanting for anything.  But, while life was privileged, she had never been indulged or pampered. At the age of eight,  it was mother who taught her how to strip and clean a rifle before teaching her how to fire it.

She moved quickly through the fire exit door and entered the corridor of the 4^th floor. #410. She tapped lightly on the door.

An older portly man, in black satin robe, opened the door and she quickly brushed passed him. 

Once in the room, she took a quick look around. Nothing had changed from her prior surveillance, except the king size bed was now covered with various restraining devices, dildos, a leather mask, several whips, and... a schoolgirl outfit. She sat down on the sofa, eyes on her target.

His first thought was that she looked nothing like a whore.  The second thought was that she was too tall for the outfit he had for her.

She let him have his look before smiling and stating "you've been rather naughty, haven't you."

He was quick to correct her, "Oh, baby, you've been the naughty one, and daddy is gonna have to punish you."   He was breathing heavy with excitement as he moved towards the bed.

She reached in the handbag, still smiling. "Well, I have not been as naughty as I am going to be... "  He eyed up and down hungrily. 

"You see, daddy, you've become a liability; bad for business, and just... plain bad all around, really.”  She brought the gun out and aimed for his forehead. “You have to go. Mummy said so.”

The man froze in the sudden realization that this beautiful girl was not a hooker but the daughter of...

 Thud. The man fell backwards on the floor.
Her mind concentrated. Training took over. 

Slipping on the latex gloves, she rose and checked the pulse to make sure he was dead.  She moved quickly around the room, checking his clothing,  grabbing his phone, laptop, documents and cash from the briefcase. She gathered up what was on the bed and with the gun still warm stuffed everything into a large plastic garbage bag taken from her handbag. One more look around, she checked her watch.  One minute under. She stood, hand on the door handle surprised at just how easy it had been to pull the trigger and watch him fall. She looked back at him with disgust.  She knew his file; no one was going to miss him.

Down the stairs, out the door, she looked around to make sure no witnesses, including the paid security guard, needed to be dealt with. Back at the bike, she put the plastic bag under the seat, and zipped back in to the leather. Helmet on, she climbed on to the seat and gently stroked the engine to life. She turned the bike and headed back down the quiet road before moving into gear on the state road and entering the highway.

 The arranged drop  was a rest area, just a short run from where she entered the highway. She pulled in and saw the black Escalada parked at the far end. A man in a black suit stepped out as she pulled up close to him. Raising herself up and forward, he took the plastic bag, nodded and immediately drove out of the rest area.

The daughter waited until the vehicle was out of sight before removing the helmet and taking out her mobile. She had now completed her assignment, and everything, even the drop off, had been executed exactly as planned.  Mother will be happy.

She reached in the leather jacket and pulled out her mobile. "Mummy... ". She could just pick up a soft sigh of relief on the other end before hearing the dial tone. 

Now, euphoric adrenaline could kick in.  She was as one with the bike and as one with mother. She revved loudly, and spun the bike around and entered the highway. She was already grinding down hard as she roared up the ramp.


copyright Ms. Londoncalling.

FELINE FEMME FATALES

Just for a moment, let’s go beyond the primary layer of the seeming femininity of our furry friend, the cat, and its alternate name, the pussy. Yes, I know it’s difficult, asking you to go beyond your hypothalamus and your fight, flight, fear, and fuck impulses. Let’s move up a bit into your more, well, socially informed areas of your dopamined mind, yes?

Dogs, as we all know, are loyal, easily trainable, and need to please.

Cats, on the other hand,  are fickle, independent, and indifferent. So the stereotyping says. Let’s draw a parallel. What are some of the more common complaints men have about women, aside from being late? Well, one is that they’re unpredictable (read fickle). Another is that, despite all the media blather about women needing to communicate, they actually don’t, at least when it comes to their relationships with the opposite sex. And, well, what’s to say about indifference, particularly when a man really, truly wants something? The surest route to rejection, whether at a pick up spot or in the marital bed, is for the man to go down the path of being very clear about his hypothalamine desires. Swish of the tail, as she meanders away.  Reject, reject...

It’s just sooooo much fun being a Woman!

Seemingly so warm and cuddly, and then suddenly indifferent. Changeable. Yes, men do like to reduce it to hormones and menstrual cycles, which would seem to leave them off the hook: she can’t help it, she’s on the rag. Did I ever tell you about the time a man actually had the gall to say that to me? What a lovely evening that became. I seduced him, bound him, blindfolded him and had him open his mouth wide. And, can you – I mean, really, can you? – just take one little guess about what I popped in, followed by tape across his mouth? LOL. Honestly, I’m a very caring and compassionate person. Truly. But his remark was just so distasteful to me, and it seemed an important part of his education to learn just how distasteful I found it by having him experience that sensation of distastefulness. And so, as I straddled his crotch, with him straining against the slightly undersized briefs I enjoyed seeing him in, and removed the blindfold – visual contact is very important during training – I explained that the word “rag” in that context is entirely inappropriate. And I calmly, as I shifted my hips just a bit, explained that one of the most important part of our relationship, of the dynamic between us, is that if either of us ever felt we truly knew the other person, and their responses to things, and could anticipate that, it would be lovely… but it would come to feel stale and boring quite quickly – that should he feel that I was entirely predictable, he would be terribly disappointed. And, again, I reminded him of how distasteful the word “rag” is and went on to explain that my being capricious really had nothing to do with hormones – I could just as easily manipulate him into the very position he was in right now when I wasn’t having my period—on his back and rather helpless, though I’d need to find something equally distasteful for him to chew on.

Which, of course, I later did, merely to prove the point. He wasn’t a fan of Chopped Liver. Never did acquire a taste for it, despite my effort. Oh, well.

The point here, my dears, is that being unpredictable is a source of strength, and power. Yes, it’s the nimbleness and quickness of the cat that makes them so elusive to dogs, with their hunting instinct. And, yes, it’s the hiss and the arched back that warn dogs off. But it’s the sudden, entirely unexpected and unpredicted swipe of the claws across the snout that reinforces it.

Which is why, dear reader, Batman – the strong, mysterious male and his transparent ego – can never quite subdue Catwoman, and her feral understanding of arousal, desire, and manipulation. Sure, he’s stronger. And, he has all those nifty man toys at his disposal. But Catwoman is a continually elusive being, beyond his control.  (Like the man’s penis.)

Surely you don’t need proof, but let’s just consider something. What’s the best way to minimize and control something? To mock it, of course. Back in the repressed ‘50s, Catwomen were often flat out goofy – ineffectual little things that flocked around each other to no effect, a source of amusement and naughtiness.
Example: some fun films of that era:

CAT WOMEN OF THE MOON

CAT GIRL the UK film

CAT PEOPLE. Actually a fun film.

Later, as taboos lifted, Julie Newmar in the ‘60s Batman television series was more than naughty – she was bloody well hot.

Michelle Pfeiffer was hardly buttoned down, though her Catwoman was the polar opposite of the passive, mousey designer she was in her mortal life.

 Ditto for Halley Berry in Catwoman, who literally had no need for Batman: she was her own woman.

And now comes Anne Hathaway in the next installment of the Batman movies. Dark glasses, inscrutable, impenetrable leather skin.

When it comes to men, let me ask you this. Who needs claws, when there are so many other weapons at our disposal?

A Slice of Life...

It depends on who you ask, really. Take Caravaggio, for instance. When he showed the Biblical scene of Judith beheading Holofernes – the Syrian general who was about to attack her town – the expression on her face is most, well, expressive. “Nasty piece of business, this,” she seems to be thinking. Furrowed brow. The firm set of her lips. Yet she’s not grabbing his hair or slicing the sword through his neck at arm’s distance, is she? No, she’s stepped up and seems to be embracing the task. Grabbing his hair and pulling him towards the breast that he so desired.  And then – speaking of nasty – there are the – oops – jutting breasts-the femme weapon of subterfuge.
And certainly don’t focus on his expression. Or his exquisitely erect nipples. Surely, Caravaggio meant no connection between power and powerlessness, between desire and death. It’s not like she talked her way into his tent because he found her so fetching.

Oops, again. Yes, that’s exactly how she – a Jewish woman from the town about to be laid to waste – gets into his tent. We won’t go into the perils of letting desire into your tent at the moment since it’s so nicely illustrated here.

Then there’s Franz Stuck.

Where Caravaggio told the story in restrained, subtle ways, not so our boy Franz. Holofernes is prone, asleep, his arms raised as if in surrender after a rather, um, depleting intimacy with our girl Judith. (Go Judith!!!). She stands above him, a rather – rather – large sword as upright as a fully-fluffed, viagraed star of the slimy silver screen. 

As she stands there, what on earth could she be thinking? Of the sweet little lambs and piglets who will be spared because of the blow she is about to deliver? Her husband? Father, sister, mother, neighbor? The righteousness of her preemptive strike?

Hardly likely, little puppy. Her head tilted slightly back, eyes narrowed to serpentine slits (there’s that darned snake again; I wonder if she belongs to Slytherin), she is most clearly enjoying this tender, quite empowering moment in which his desire has left him not just weak but unconscious (a small death in itself). There’s not a shred of anger or rage or resentment to her expression. No. It’s just a satisfied calm and sense of entitled purpose.

Or maybe she’s musing on something. What she might say to the about to be expired Holofernes. “She who thrusts last thrusts best.”

This last doesn’t require much comment.  the Act completed,   Judith’s fingers as if in a death grip on the severed head of Mr. H, her dress half open, glittered, dazzling, and so very, very clearly in an extended erotic state. The nipple now soft and at rest as if acknowledging the trance-like state of Judith.

It’s all a bit gory, isn't it. Though I must say, I do enjoy a good conquest, whether in the end he’s kept his head or not.

Spies, Lies, and Anna Chapman

Sex, lies & female spies

By Gayle Schoales

July 18, 2010

Move over James Bond. It's out with shaken Martinis and in with Cosmos. Like suspected Russian spy Anna Chapman, 28, just under half of the UK's 3,500 'spooks' are women and, according to experts, it's feisty, fearless females who make the best spies. With pistols concealed in their designer handbags and lipsticks doubling as listening devices, women are putting their feminine skills to good use, forging careers in what has traditionally been a man's world.
"Female spies like Anna Chapman use their sexuality to their advantage," says Claire Thomas, co-author of Spooks: The Unofficial History of MI5. "An attractive, intelligent woman can ensnare a man and get him to lower his guard. She'll turn him into putty in her hands and get the information she needs. She doesn't have to use sex - but it's a powerful weapon."
While us girls might lack the physical strength of our male counterparts, in the world of spying, that's not a problem.
"Espionage is more about gathering intelligence than getting into Jason Bourne-style fist fights," explains Claire. "Male agents don't have an advantage. If anything, women are mentally much stronger than men. They can cope with pressure better, and the demands of leading a double life."
One German WW2 spy, code-named 'Mrs Amos', was so deep undercover in London, not even her husband of 20 years knew she was an agent. "Her cover story was that she worked in the War Office," says Claire. "She was an unassuming, middle-aged woman, yet she spied on people and gave information to the Nazis. She even recruited other women to the service. Her husband never suspected a thing."

The sexier the spy, the better

 As for Bond-girl looks, traffic-stopping beauty can actually be a hindrance rather than a help. "Depending on the mission, the agent might want to be unremarkable and fly under the radar," says Claire. "If it's a honey-trap however, the sexier the spy, the better."
When he founded the British Security Service (MI5) in 1909, Sir Vernon Kell stipulated that female agents had to be "well bred and have good legs". And in the '30s and '40s, MI5 spymaster Maxwell Knight recruited sexy women to go on missions to ensnare men with German or Russian links.
One of them was Olga Grey. A blonde bombshell codenamed 'Miss X', she infiltrated a spy ring in the Woolwich Arsenal during WW2. Despite falling in love with her communist target, Olga never abandoned her mission. "She'd sneak into his bathroom late at night and photograph his top-secret plans for weapons. He didn't suspect her and, after his arrest, he was devastated at her betrayal," says Claire.
Like Olga, Joan Miller used her sexuality as a weapon too. Another WW2 agent, glamorous Joan infiltrated a secret anti-Jewish society called the Right Club. Made up of everyone from politicians to the Fifth Duke of Wellington, the group met in the swish Russian Tea Rooms in London, where they drank vodka, ate caviar and discussed how to remove Jews from positions of power in politics and the press. By gaining their trust, Joan busted the ring.
"Once, Joan needed to get her apartment searched for taps," says Claire. "Special Branch officers said they couldn't do it, so she bribed them with a picture of herself in a bikini!"
But how do women get to work in the Secret Services in the first place? Everyone's heard the story about getting a tap on the shoulder, but MI5 started open recruitment 10 years ago. Gone are the days of being covertly approached and invited to apply, like Jennifer Garner's character in US TV series Alias.
The reality is less exciting. After completing a competency test, successful candidates embark on a series of interviews and vetting procedures. Interviewers delve into the backgrounds of family and friends, as well as their sex lives and personal relationships to ensure the credibility of would-be spies.
"Women are more likely to be sent on corporate missions these days, where they can get jobs in offices that allow them access to files, or have drinks with well-connected people," says Claire. "But the essence of their work is still the same.
"They can exploit men's vanity, seducing them into telling them what they want to know. Men don't suspect women asking strange questions in the same way they would a man."

Why women make better spies

"Women are used to taking on many roles - being one person at work, one with friends, and another with our bloke or kids," says psychologist
Dr Funke Baffour. "We manage these seamlessly and almost have 'double lives' already. Women are also better at lying and keeping secrets than men. We think through possible problems and outcomes before speaking, so are less likely to be caught out."

One who did get caught out is ANNA CHAPMAN, Russian Spy 2010

Anna Chapman was kinky and 'great in bed,' says ex husband Alex

BY LUKAS I. ALPERT

DAILY NEWS STAFF WRITER

Monday, July 05, 2010

She may have been a true Cold Warrior, but Anna Chapman is red-hot in the sheets.

The flame-haired Russian hottie accused of being a deep-cover mole in the U.S. was a wild woman in the sack, her ex-hubby says.

"Anya was great in bed and she knew exactly what to do," said Alex Chapman, who married the then-Anya Kushchenko in 2002. "The sex was great and she had this incredible body."

Chapman told the British newspaper News of the World that he met the stunning spook at a rave in England in 2001 and immediately fell in love.

"I hadn't met anybody like her before," he said. "I was infatuated with her."

They began a torrid affair, which Alex Chapman says quickly veered into kinky territory.

The randy Russian had a penchant for whips and nipple clamps and once joined him in a mile-high sex romp aboard a Moscow-bound flight, he said.

The poor hubby never thought he was married to a spy -- except for that one time a Persian prince got them into a nightclub, and now that you mention it, she was friends with a wealthy guy called Sergei who had a Green Card for no apparent reason. Other clues: Anna loved watching James Bond movies and Benny Hill. 
Apparently, Anna left Alex on account of her expensive tastes, picking some guy who could buy her a Cartier watch over him -- which perhaps explains the ultimate payback of him selling their sex pics to The News of the World.
How nice of him to release such intimate photos to the media.  Obviously, no ill-feeling on his part, just... GREED.   They had something in common, didn't they?

After the divorce, Anna moved to New York City and there ran a successful real estate company, living the high life and garnering some influential and rich Russian and International clients, as well as lovers.  
All was going well, until an undercover FBI agent attempted to draw her into a trap at a Manhattan Starbucks. The FBI agent offered Chapman a fake passport with the instructions to forward it to another spy. He asked, "are you ready for this step?", to which Chapman replied, "Of course." She accepted the passport. However, after making a series of phone calls to her father, Vasily Kushchenko, in Moscow, Chapman ended up heeding her father's advice and handed the passport in at a local police station, but was arrested shortly after. After her arrest by the FBI for her involvement with the Illegals Program, she was formally charged with nine other detainees and became part of a spy swap deal between the US and Russia.

Back in Russia, she has gained celebrity status and is seen more as  a heroine rather than a femme fatale. In the Russian edition of Maxim magazine in October, she stated: "Seduction, like love and friendship are the same everywhere," when asked which men are easier to seduce, Russians, British or Americans.
"Most men are divided in three categories: primitive, those that only want sex; smarter, those that want to be loved and [the] last group -- those that not only want to be loved, they also need that this love will be the biggest and most amazing feeling in your life," she said.
Chapman, who once claimed to be a wealthy realtor, has since been hired as an adviser to the president of FundServiceBank, an authorized bank of the Russian space agency, and hosts a TV show. 

And these photos might explain US Vice-President Joe Biden, when jokingly asked by Jay Leno on NBC's The Tonight Show with Jay Leno, "Do we have any spies that hot?", replied in a mock serious tone, "Let me be clear. It was not my idea to send her back."

For more in depth reading, just Google Anna Chapman.  

Film Review 1 - Matador

Matador, Directed by Pedro Almodovar

Stars: Assumpta Serna  Antonio Banderas  Nacho Martinez

Year: 1986.  Spanish with English subtitles
Purchase through  The Londoncalling Store link to Amazon on this blog.

What do a particular matador and a female sadist have in common?
Blood lust.

It isn’t everyone whose adrenal glands are so blocked that they need to ride roller coasters endlessly or sky dive without parachutes or whatever. But in this wicked and wickedly clever 1986 movie, viewers get to nuzzle up to the twisted inner workings of some characters I find quite lovely and charming.

A retired matador whose aged reflexes keep him out of the ring. And a quite fetching woman who, early on, wraps herself around her casual lover and leaves the most perfect, round lipstick imprint on the base of his neck. Having somewhat similar sympathies and a dislike of protracted agony without ecstasy, I’m quite glad that her hatpin is sharp as she imitates the ritual of life and death in the bullring with an estocada. The moment that she plunges the estoca in, the moment that he’s paralyzed, inflamed and erect and beyond reason – that final, fleeting gasp of breath – how priceless. It sends her quite over the edge.

I do admire a woman who knows what She wants.

Black comedy. Thriller.  Erotic.

Short Stories - 1 The Senator

Our femme fatale has been hired by a huge corporation.  Her mission is to lure a highly respected, straight-laced senator into such a compromising position, he will be forced into exercising his influence in getting a certain bill passed.

She has done her research, hacking into his personal laptop, obtaining his schedule of appearances.  She knows where he shops, his friends and family, and his daily routine.  All documentation gathered.  She is now in position to catch her prey.

________________________________

Time: 11.30 p.m.  Place: The Astoria Hotel, 7th floor.

Femme Fatale: Dressed in an ankle length fur coat with a shiny leather thigh high cocktail dress underneath, Large Designer sunglasses, black patent leather stiletto heels, a wide diamond choker,  black soft leather opera gloves and... a hotel room key card that just doesn't seem to be working...

Oh gosh, would you mind helping me, please.  I can't seem to make this card work.

The senator, moving towards her, on his way to his room, smiles and stops to aid the damsel in distress.  His smile seems to convey an open friendliness and at the same time a chauvinistic air.( She is blonde.)  He takes the key from her hand and slides it in the thin slit. Hearing the click, he releases the card and the turns the handle.

Oh, goodness, I feel so silly.  My only excuse is, I've had a few martinis in the bar.

The senator moves back and still smiling makes to turn away and head down the hallway.


No, please.  Wait a moment.  You are my knight! Please, let me at least give you a hug.

She moves in, the large fur collar brushes up against his lips and nose as she wraps her arms over his shoulders.  The senator, taken off guard, tries to pull back

That really is not necessary.  Please, madam, remove your..... arms..... and.....

 Her insistent hugging is having a very strange effect on the Senator and his tongue is beginning to feel numb.

Oh my, you do look a bit weak.  Gosh, I hope you aren't allergic to Mink.

The senator tries to answer but his tongue feels thick in his mouth and a numbing sensation is filling his cheeks and moving down his jaw.  He stumbles with words and movement.

Look, you must come in.  I insist.  Something is really wrong here.  Please, just lie down on the bed and just relax.  I'm sure it will pass.

The senator lays back, anxious of what is causing the acute and mysterious attack on his body.

Let me remove your jacket.  And, maybe loosen this tie, and undo these shirt buttons.  That's feels better, I'm sure. I'm really concerned.  Let me remove your shoes, socks, and... well, maybe the trousers are too tight.  I better just carry on and remove the underwear.   Feel better?   Your  body can breath now.

The senator feels a numbness in his feet and hands.  He looks up at the woman, imploring with his eyes for her to call and get help.

Relax, senator.  Yes, I know who you are, and you are going to be fine.  I've watched you, you know, on  TV.  I've always thought you hot.  Just looking at your naked body now is actually making me very hot. Let me take off this fur coat.. I think it's done it's work, anyway.

I'm going to turn on the video camera now.  You see, senator, we're going to have sex, and well... there are certain people who want to make sure you play ball with them.   I can be honest with you because the sound isn't on.  I think just the visual will be more than enough.
Now, just enjoy it.  Honestly, I want you to.  I'm going to stroke you now.  Even though your extremities are numb, your penis isn't and... we need to get that nice and hard.  Oh, look... it is getting hard!

The senator watches as her soft leather clad hand strokes the shaft.  He cannot help but respond to the sensation of  her touch, and the visual of her outfit and curves and sensuous red lips. He can't help but think under far different circumstances she would be his fantasy woman, but what the hell does she mean... play ball?  Is she an assassin?  Is this an elaborate frame?

As if reading the senator's mind, she smiles and there's a kindness in her eyes.

I promise you, this is going to be pleasurable, and all mobility will return to you, and you will walk out that door on both two legs.  You know, senator, i knew you would be a darling boy. You see,  I saw on your home computer that you like to look at domination sites.  Yes, I was thrilled... pleasantly surprised... that the straight-laced senator, who does so much in his church community, was actually hooked on porn.  And that is such a turn-on for me.  Really.  We have something in common.

The Senator's mind reels at this information, as he tries to separate the fear and anger from the stirrings of arousal her hand is inducing.  He's used to fighting and winning.  He cannot believe the absurdity of the situation.

She leans over and kisses his inner thighs, slides her tongue up over his stomach, and moves up to his nipples and gently bites.  She smiles as she moves back and lifts the hem of the black shiny cocktail dress to reveal the wide band of her black nylons and a large black shiny dildo hanging between her thighs..

It's okay, darling, I'm going to be gentle.  I promise it will make you cum really hard.  And see, you're already rock hard.   Do you know, I sometimes masturbated while watching you on TV?  Yes, really.   I fantasized about mounting you and taking your cock inside me.  Of us making love, endlessly.  Through the TV you gave me many orgasms.  I just knew... underneath that aloof conservative stance, there had to be a hot lover.  Maybe another time, when I'm not working, we can hook up and explore that.  Would you like that, darling boy? 

With her words swirling around in his head, the senator stares at the black shiny dildo strapped between her thighs.  He never imagined those images on the Internet would ever be his reality.  The senator's finding it more and more difficult  to hold on to any cohesive thought.  The feeling of arousal  overtaking anger and humiliation.  She's so beautiful, so powerful...

Now, I'll just push myself in between your legs and curl them around me. That's better.  Look into my eyes, darling boy.   There... slowly sliding in.  A little deeper now.  Just moving nice and slow, in and out.  Your cock is hard.  That's going to be your downfall, you know.  Not that you can do anything about it.  You find me just as attractive as I do you.  Pushing in... that's right, darling, I can feel you trying to lift up towards me. Responding unconditionally.   Harder now... harder... deeper...  all the way in now.  I do find you so very sexy, you know.  And, I wish, really wish, you could be making love to me, that I could enjoy your hands on me,  but this way, it's more... in-forcible, if you understand what I mean. 


Aaaaah....    Mmmmmmmmmmm........    Yes, yes.... yes....

She rolls her head back, softly moaning, as her vaginal spasms quicken to an orgasmic crescendo.  Stroking harder and faster on the shaft as if masturbating herself with it, the cock pulsates uncontrollably, helplessly, in the palm of her tightly squeezing  hand.  The senator, too weak now to fight the inevitable climax of burgeoning pleasure,  watches as his ejaculate spurts out over the black leather gloved hand...   Both now breathing in unison, as the internal ebbing rhythms still move in their bodies.

Oh, so good.  Sooooo good, darling.  You came hard, didn't you.  Me too. I know your lips are still numb, but I do so want to kiss you.  Plus... it'll look good.

After a long and gentle kiss on the senator's lips, she slides away and climbs off the bed.  She peels off the gloves, one of which is soaked with the senator's semen.  She turns off the camera; packing it away; removing the dildo, she slips it in to plastic bag, along with the gloves.  She smiles down at the senator as she smooths out the dress, and slips the fur coat over her shoulders.  Looking around the room for anything she might have left....

Senator, in about fifteen minutes from now, all feeling will be back in your extremities.  You'll be just fine. The toxin on my coat collar will leave no trace in your body, and only has a limited period of effectiveness.  I'm sorry I had to use it on you, and  I'm sorry I can't give you my number, but don't worry--I'll find you, darling.  You will receive instructions, through a third party, on a certain bill that needs to get passed.  It's been wonderful, and I've really enjoyed you, but now I really must go. 

She exits the hotel room door, and the senator waits for the return of movement, knowing... his life as he knew it, will never return.  The real absurdity, he realizes, is that he hopes she does find him.

Disclaimer:  I don't actually believe in wearing the fur of any animal.
The idea, for this story came about through a fantasy conversation with a man.  He was the senator.  I, of course, The Femme Fatale.
 
copyright Ms. Londoncalling.