From Russia with Hate

As if instantly raised on the crest of a tsunami, the psychic command to wake swept John Harris from deep sleep into sharp and utter wakefulness.

He sat up and saw his small red silk-clad wife silhouetted in the bathroom doorway.

“Megan?” he said.

“Husband,” she said in a voice that sounded like Megan’s, yet awkwardly different, “stand up. I wish to take a look at you.”

An irresistible, invisible force jerked Harris out of the bed, setting him on his feet at almost military-style attention in his sleeveless white undershirt and loose gray pajama trousers.

“What the hell, Megan?” he shouted. “I thought you said —”

“Shut up,” the woman replied. Harris’ mouth clamped firmly shut. His well-muscled arms twitched as he struggled against the force that held him standing immobilized.

The small female approached him in the darkened room.

“I am not your wife,” she said. “I am your master. But don’t worry. Your wife is safe and sound in here.” The woman touched her forehead.

“She can see and hear and feel everything, so let’s give her a show she can enjoy, eh?”

Melnikova gently ran Megan’s fingers down Harris’ trembling bicep. He would have flinched if he could have.

“You are big strong handsome man,” she said. Melnikova put Megan’s fingers on Harris’ chest. “But your heart is beating so fast,” she said. “You are frightened of little girl, perhaps? Sit on bed.”

Harris dropped obediently to the bed, sitting bolt upright.

Melnikova put Megan’s trim body beside his, and nestled it up to him. With Megan’s hand, she stroked the side of his face. Then on her knees, she raised up and softly kissed his cheek.

“I will love you the way Melnikova was loved,” she said. “By all the big strong handsome men who came ... after.” She savagely backhanded Harris in the face, flattening him onto the bed. He glared at her, unable to move.

“You wish to fight me, little man?” she asked. “I release you.”

Harris groaned and rolled to his side, his skull ringing from the blow. He could feel the eye swelling. He swung his legs off the other side of the bed, stood and backed away.

Melnikova laughed with Megan’s voice. “You cannot harm me. Even if you could you would not. You would only hurt your own wife.”

“What — what do you want?” Harris asked, still struggling with the concept that this cruel, terrifying and obviously dangerous little creature looked exactly and sounded somewhat like his wife. “Who are you?”

He rubbed the side of his face gingerly.

“I am Melnikova,” she muttered. “I have much to make up for. Get on the bed.”

With a small, casual gesture, she literally flung the big man back onto the bed, face down, arms by his sides. He tried to look up, his body pinned as effectively as a butterfly on a collector’s board.

“Why are you doing this?” he yelled.

“Pants down!” she cried. Harris’ gray pajama bottoms bunched up and pulled down to his ankles, leaving him nude from waist to ankles.

“Do you know how they made love to Melnikova?” she snarled. “The big strong men? Like this!”

She gestured and Harris moaned with pain.

“I was just little girl.” She gestured again. He gasped with the impact.

“Hah!” She laughed. “Now over!”

Unseen force flipped the helpless man onto his back, arms out from his body. He raised his head to look at her.

“Please,” he said. “Bring Megan back. I’ll give you anything.”

“I’ll take it for myself,” she said. “But what is this? The sight of your own wife does not excite you? I fix.”

She laughed with Megan’s voice, and Harris stared in horror at his growing, involuntary erection. Megan’s body levitated over him and descended, knees bent, no part of her touching the bed.

The unseen force of Melnikova’s will in control of Megan’s abilities arched Harris up and into Megan. His own body jerked involuntarily in and out of her, and she rode him, like he was a mechanical bull, laughing without joy.

Harris gasped again, through clenched teeth. His muscles trembled as they fought in vain against the irresistible mental force exerted by his small oppressor.

She worked him relentlessly, small and feminine, but utterly unopposable. When he came, she forced the blood into his organ to keep it large and hard.

“Put your hands on me,” she said.

“No!” he moaned, but his large strong, construction-worker’s hands, no longer his to command, placed themselves on her thighs.

“Squeeze,” she commanded. “Harder!” Harris cried in pain as an inhuman force crushed his hands into her invulnerable thighs.

Climaxing again, in pain, fear, rage and humiliation, Harris cried out again, but still she worked him.

“Enough,” she said. “I am bored by this.” Megan’s body rose off him, and set down softly on the beige carpet of the darkened room. Harris contracted into fetal position on the bed, contused hands shaking.

Melnikova lifted Megan’s body into the air, and drifted into the bathroom.

“I must clean your scum out of me,” she called back to the barely conscious Harris. “Stay there. In a minute we will have some really fun games.”

As the bathroom door shut, Harris pulled himself to the bedside table and clutched the smart phone. He prayed he could hit the right link.

He heard a ring.

“Help,” he croaked, not even knowing if anyone had picked up. Before he could say the word a second time, an unseen force grabbed him like an angry child seizing a rag doll, and bounced him off the bedroom wall. He crumpled, insensible as Melnikova returning from the bathroom, glared at him through Megan’s eyes.

She was too late.

In her short-sleeved, mid-thigh gray flannel nightgown with the pale blue satin trim, and Pooh-Bear insignia over the heart, Trish stood between Harris and his possessed wife.