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Spy Games
Chapter 1
Moscow. Eighteen years ago.
I didn’t go to college. I also didn’t go to high school or grade school. Because I didn’t exist… at least not in the normal sense. Sure, I had the standard official documents that identified me as a human being: birth certificate, driver’s license, passport, social security card. In fact, I had several… of each. Most from the US, but some from other countries. That’s what happens when your parents are spies.
My childhood was far from conventional. I was raised by nannies and educated by tutors. I never stepped foot in a traditional classroom with people my age. When other kids learned their native language, I was taught four — English, Russian, Spanish and Chinese — each of which I could speak like a native. While other boys played soccer with their friends, I sparred with a Korean martial arts master. My version of a video game was a nine-millimeter pistol shooting popup targets on a tactical range. And when other young adults left their parent’s nest for college, I had already lived on five different continents and, thanks to the best private tutors money could buy, could easily pass the final exams of most Ivy League undergraduate programs at the young age of eighteen.
So, I’m not impressed by formal education. And the “college experience” thing… it’s highly overrated. My peers spent four years going to bars and fraternity parties, trying to figure out the best way to steal a girl’s virginity.
I had Mrs. Bancroft.
We were living in Moscow at the time. I’d just turned eighteen when my father introduced me to Mrs. Bancroft.
“She will help improve your social skills”, he told me.
At the time, I thought she was just another in what had been a long line of paid tutors/companions my parents thrust upon me to make up for my lack of friends. In retrospect, I was right… sort of.
Mrs. Bancroft didn’t make a great first impression, at least not on me. She was dressed in a knee length skirt and matching blazer with a cream-colored blouse buttoned all the way up to her chin. Her hair was done up in a bun on top of her head and she spoke with an overly educated New England accent. In other words, she looked like a great majority of my other tutors.
I guessed her age to be in the mid-thirtyish range which, in the eyes of a teenager, was one step from the old folk’s home. Because of her boring appearance and advanced years, I immediately ignored all other aspects of the woman. If removed from the room and given a pop quiz ten minutes after she first shook my hand, I would have been unable to identify her as tall or short, fat or thin, pretty or plain.
Due to a shortage of acceptable apartments in suburban Moscow, Mrs. Bancroft temporarily moved into our spare bedroom… the room I had previously claimed as my personal play/study/do-whatever-I-wanted space. I spent the rest of that morning moving my crap out and the afternoon carrying Mrs. Bancroft’s possessions up the three flights of stairs… into what used to be my private domain.
After my third or fourth trip it occurred to me that… “if she is called Mrs. Bancroft there must be a Mr. Bancroft. Where the hell is he, why doesn’t she live with him and why isn’t he carrying all these damn suitcases?”
That was my first question to the woman, although I spoke it better than I thought it.
“Don’t be fooled or impressed by titles,” she said. “Dr. Jones may have never attended medical school and Mrs. Smith could be a stranger to the wedding chapel. Now go wash up for dinner. Afterwards, I will expect you to help me unpack.”
Great. My new tutor likes to speak in riddles and thinks I’m her servant. I give her a week before we kick her ass out on the streets.
Because of their unusual occupations, Mom and Dad would brief me on proper topics of conversation whenever we were around strangers. Even the most innocent mention of where we spent a summer vacation or who had come to dinner the previous week might come back to haunt them if the wrong person heard it.
Nannies and tutors were usually a different story. They had all gone through background checks, and we could trust them to not repeat what they heard in our house. But those checks took time. Dad took me aside before Mrs. Bancroft arrived and said, “Your new tutor is still being vetted by The Company. We’ll have to treat her like an outsider for a week or two, so watch what you say to her.”
Dinner that evening was a quiet affair, unusual for our house. It was normally a time to share the events of our days and discuss plans for the future. But Mrs. Bancroft’s presence limited the topics of conversation to the weather and my schooling. That’s not to say I didn’t enjoy the meal.
Mrs. Bancroft apparently believed in dressing for dinner. When she descended the stairs to join us, her boring business suit was replaced by an elegant scoop necked dress that made me literally sit up and take notice. Mrs. B has boobs. Not the humongous melons of an artificially endowed porn star, but nicely sized breasts that a well-constructed brassiere pushed up and nearly out of her dress.
While the adults politely discussed the advantages of home tutoring, I spent the entire meal, from the Caesar salad to the chocolate mousse, staring at her tits. I marveled at her near flawless lily-white skin, wondering if they had ever been exposed to the sun. Looking at the thin piece of material that separated my eyes from the unseen portions of her bosom, I speculated as to where the white ended, and her areolas began. It could have been my imagination, but as the meal progressed, I thought I saw just the hint of a nipple trying to poke through her bra. And the coup-de-grace, the climax of the meal, was when Mrs. Bancroft stood up, bent over the table, and ladled whipped cream onto my mousse… giving me even further proof that her boobs had to be the seventh and eighth wonders of the world.
“Hello. Are you with us son?” It was Dad’s voice, slowly drawing me back to reality.
“Uh, yeah?”
“Where’ve you been boy? Mrs. Bancroft asked you a question.”
“I’m sorry, I was thinking about… uh… never mind.”
“Like we were saying,” Mom said to Mrs. B. “He seems to get easily distracted as of late. That’s one of the things we were hoping you could help him with.”
“I wouldn’t be concerned,” Mrs. B answered. “What you’re describing is extremely common among young men his age. In fact, I’d be concerned if his mind didn’t wander off from time to time. An active imagination is the first step towards greatness.
“Now, young man,” she said to me. “Unless you have other duties, would you mind following me upstairs? I will need your assistance hoisting my heavier possessions to the upper closet shelf.”
Walking behind Mrs. B was almost as enjoyable as looking down her dress. Once my eyes weren’t laser focused on her boobs, I noticed that her waist curved in nicely and her ass pleasantly swayed as her shapely legs climbed the stairs. Without realizing it, she had already taught me a valuable lesson.
Don’t trust your first impression of a woman.
Entering her temporary bedroom, I expected to see piles of her belongings laying on the floor and bed… the stuff I was to help her put in the closet. To my surprise, the room was clutter free. Every box and suitcase I had delivered earlier in the day was unpacked and put in its place.
“Close the door,” she said.
I complied.
“It is time you and I came to an understanding. Your behavior at dinner was completely unacceptable.” She turned her back towards me. “What color are my eyes?”
“Blue?” I guessed.
She turned around and stared at me with chocolate brown eyes. “Starting today, you will look everybody you meet in the eyes. In case you don’t know, they are located just above the nose, not below the neck. Whenever you meet a woman, I expect you to memorize not only the color of her eyes, but also the color and style of her hair, her jewelry and what she has on her feet. You may make a cursory assessment of her figure whilst transitioning from hair to shoes, but do not let your peepers linger on her cleavage. Do you understand my instructions?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Let’s try it again.”
“Uh, okay. Your eyes are brown and your hair –”
“No. We will start from the beginning. Leave the room. Close the door behind you. Count to fifty, silently. And then knock. When I give you permission to enter, I want you to pretend we are meeting for the first time.”
Right. Nice tits and ass. But she’s got a least a dozen screws loose. What the hell was Dad thinking when he hired this psycho?
Despite my concerns about her sanity, I did what she said and felt sort of silly when, a minute later, I knocked on her door.
“Please come in,” she called through the closed door.
“Good evening young man. I am Mrs. Bancroft your new tutor,” she said as I entered.
This time I really tried to look her in the eyes, and I did for a few seconds. But when she walked towards me with her hand extended, my eyes naturally glanced downwards and discovered she had removed her bra.
Yes. I stared. At her tits. Again. Not two minutes after she told me not to. But she wasn’t playing fair. Not only did she take her bra off, she also purposely leaned forward, so I could see all the way down her dress to her navel.
“Are my breasts going to be a stumbling block in your education?” she asked. “They’re permanently attached, so you will have to either get used to them or find another tutor.”
Mrs. Bancroft paused in serious thought for a few seconds and then a hint of a smile came across her face.
“I wasn’t planning on getting to this particular lesson so soon but, considering your debilitation, I see no alternative.”
She turned her back towards me and told me to remove her dress.
“Ma’am?”
“You heard me. Pull down the zipper and remove the dress from my body.”