"Well? I know you are awake, Iron Klaus," an all-too-familiar voice said, the words slurred out in a thick Russian accent. "There is no point in play acting."

Klaus's eyes snapped open. Misha the Cub! He'd been in the middle of a simple pickup, a job the greenest rookie could've managed. It was a job that would've gone to one of his subordinates -- most likely Z, if that one hadn't been involved in his first major undercover case, one for which Klaus himself had been ineligible because he was supposedly too recognizable. The rest of his Alphabet had been sent out on various assignments, most of them trying to track the movements of one former Olympic gold medalist.

That had left Klaus to pick up the microfilm -- an innocent-looking pack of cigarettes, *accidentally* left in a phone booth by an undercover NATO agent. He'd checked the area, gone into the phone booth...

and then...

and then...

"How the mighty have fallen," Misha continued, beaming proudly. "You were so intent on your nicotine, you didn't even see the hunters closing in on you. Catching you, Iron Klaus, was as easy as taking candy from the proverbial baby. I might have told you that vice would be your undoing some day."

"You hit me," Klaus remarked, impassive expression hiding the racing of his mind. There had to be a way out of this! And the cigarettes... the cigarettes were still in his pocket! Did they know?

The room was nothing special; it was nothing more than a cell with a barred window in the door, a lidless toilet in one corner and a sink built into the wall beside it, a tiny grate built into the floor so the whole room could easily be hosed down. The only difference from a standard prison cell was the size of the bed on which Klaus lay -- no mere cot, but a full-sized bed with a firm mattress, which left barely enough floor space for Misha to pace by his bedside. Klaus's wrists and ankles were cuffed; if they hadn't noticed his cigarette pack or the ball-point pen in his breast pocket, he'd be able to pick his way free in no time.

"So kind of you to notice. I trust you enjoyed your little nap?"

"You're getting lax," Klaus said. "That blow didn't have nearly as much power as the last one."

"Yet it was still sufficient to render you unconscious," Misha pointed out, still smiling.

"I was tired."

"Yes. A fatigue brought on by the blow of a former Olympic gold medalist."

"So what do you plan from here?" Klaus asked irritably. "Torture? Electric current? I won't talk."

"Electric current?" Misha laughed. "No, my dear Major. Something worse than that, I think." With that, he snapped his fingers, and a pair of men rushed in, one of them bearing a syringe. It took all three of the Russians to hold Klaus down long enough to loosen his trousers, yank them down just far enough to bare part of his right hip, and empty the needle into the thick muscle. Hampered as he was by the cuffs and the Russians' hands on him, Klaus still managed to give one of Misha's lackeys a black eye and the other one a fat lip, all the while delivering a string of profanity -- in Russian -- fit to blister their ears.

"Your command of my language is impressive, Iron Klaus," Misha said, raising an eyebrow calmly as his two subordinates hurried back out.

"I wanted to learn enough Russian so the next time I saw you I could tell you what a fucking pathetic excuse for a man you are in your own tongue," Klaus spat, tossing his head to get the long dark strands of his hair out of his eyes. ["Son of a genital louse!"]

"You'll regret those words soon enough," Misha replied. "Aren't you the least bit curious to know what you've been injected with?"

"Truth serum, no doubt. I still won't talk."

Misha laughed. "No. Something worse, I think, in your estimation. An aphrodisiac."

"You're joking."

"Not at all. It's not just any aphrodisiac, either, my dear Major. You should begin feeling its effects soon. First it will seem just the shadow of warmth, the slightest hint of the comfort to be had in the arms of another. Then the heat will grow, until you burn with it. And unless you find satisfaction, you will burn with it until it drives you mad."

"There's no such thing as an aphrodisiac that works that way," Klaus snapped, his face flushing with fury... or so he told himself.

"You underestimate the ingenuity of Soviet scientists," Misha replied, beaming again. /Ah, Iron Klaus! I have finally hit upon your weak spot!/

"Ingenuity? Scientists who waste their time trying to perfect love potions," Klaus scoffed. "I wouldn't expect better from your organization."

"You will see," Misha said confidently. "You will plead with me to put you out of your misery, Iron Klaus. And I will make you eat each one of those words."

"If you so much as *think* about touching me, you fucking-"

"Do not concern yourself," Misha said with a wave of one hand. "You misunderstand my intentions. I do not intend to make use of your body. I intend to watch as the serum drives you insane. A fitting end, don't you think, for the great Iron Klaus? Done in by his own desires. I look forward to the sight of you maddened by your own repressed needs, Major. I think I'll give you a few hours to realize what I mean."

["Go play on your own leather flute!"]

Misha laughed as he left the cell and the door closed behind him with a dreadfully final-sounding clank. Klaus wondered briefly whether he'd mis spoken the Russian insult, but it didn't really matter. As soon as the door was shut, he gave the room a quick once-over. There didn't appear to be any monitoring devices... He quickly pulled out his ball-point pen and unscrewed its case; inside, a lock-pick rested beside the ink cartridge. He made quick work of both sets of cuffs and stuffed them in his pockets; one never knew when such things might be handy.

He was just getting ready to pick the lock to the cell door when it hit him, hard. He'd never felt anything quite like it; it was nothing like simple healthy lust. This was a heated storm that swept over him and left him breathless, shaking from its suddenness, hard and wanting. His heart pounded, and his body was overtaken with the ache of unfulfilled desire.

He couldn't go out like this, flushed and hungry, with that oft-neglected part of his body standing proudly upright as if to announce the ingenuity of Russian scientists. He'd never be able to look that bastard Misha in the face again!

Luckily, Iron Klaus knew how to deal with an unwanted erection. He was only sorry that there wasn't room to run laps, or even floor space enough for what he had to do. He threw himself on the bed and began doing push-ups, determined to sweat the foreign drug out of his system.

He knew the technique for the failure it was when he found himself grinding his hips against the mattress, moaning softly under his breath. Misha had been right, damn him to Hell! There wasn't anything else for it; Klaus climbed in under the blanket and opened his trousers. There had better not be any surveillance cameras in the fucking cell...

He groaned as his fingers wrapped around the desperate hot length and began pumping urgently, determined to reach a quick, necessary release and then get the fuck out of Misha's stronghold. The touch of his own hand wasn't enough, and he gripped tighter, smearing the dribble of fluid from the tip to make the glide of flesh against flesh easier...

Fifteen minutes later he had to force himself to stop, to pull his hand away. He lay, breathing harshly as though he *had* run several laps around Schloss Eberbach; his balls ached with the need for a release he couldn't reach, and his cock, completely unsatisfied, twitched like a live animal as the blanket slid over sensitive flesh teasingly. He moaned, and arched up to that phantom touch, and wondered how long it would take before he *did* go mad.

He burned.

He burned, and there was nothing he could do about it...

"Dorian," he whispered into the darkness, and almost as if on cue, the cell door clanked and then creaked open. Klaus peered at the newcomer, eyes widening slightly in surprise as the man with the fat lip sneaked in and closed the door securely behind him.

"Herr Z," he whispered in sudden comprehension; his underling had done such a good disguise job, Klaus hadn't even recognized him! With the dark hair color and contact lenses, and the deft use of a little makeup, Z had given himself a completely new look.

"Major, I'm so sorry..." Z whispered, crossing the tiny floor space to lean over Klaus, his wide eyes earnest. "Please forgive me. I had no choice but to give you the shot, it would have blown my cover if I'd refused."

"Z, get out of here at once," Klaus said, and his voice was somewhere between a whisper and a moan.

"Major, my mission was a success. Our people will be here within the hour; we have only that much time-" Z cut off as Klaus abruptly grabbed a fistful of his shirt front and pulled him in close, taking the surprised agent's mouth in a kiss that was both desperate and demanding. It wasn't quite the brutal kiss that Z would have expected, but it was thorough and not gentle; Klaus tasted of cigarettes and coffee. The Major suddenly pushed him away, and he was panting, his eyes smoky green, needy and pleading.

"Z... forgive me... you must get out of here now. I can't control myself... you'll have to lock the door and leave me until the drug burns itself out."

"Major," Z said, reaching out to him, and Klaus shied away from the touch violently.

"Don't touch me!" he hissed. "You don't understand!"

"I understand better than you do," Z answered simply, and while Klaus was stilled in momentary, furious shock by the sudden show of insubordination, Z climbed onto the bed and placed his hand over the bulge the bulky blanket hadn't been able to hide. Klaus whimpered, and Z leaned in to kiss him, stealing the sound from his lips.

"It must be this way," he whispered, beginning to stroke gently and holding his breath as the Iron Major slowly began to arch up to meet his hand. "You won't be able to satisfy yourself, and there is no one else here who can do this for you. Please forgive me, Major... please believe that if there had been any other way..."

"Z..." Klaus began, but with that teasing bit of pressure he was beyond words, his eyelids squeezing shut, cheeks flushed in sheer humiliation.

"Allow me to do this much, to make it up to you." Z pulled the blanket back enough that he was able to burrow under it; he knew that the Major, always so Puritanically chaste, would not -- could not -- tolerate being exposed.

The air under the blanket was scarce, and heated, and filled with the scent of the Major's arousal. Z wrapped his fingers around the Major's cock and then took it in his mouth, oblivious to Klaus's harsh cry of surprise; he concentrated instead on giving the Major the pleasure he needed, on the musky scent and sharp bitter-salty tang of his flesh, and the feel of it in his mouth, like wet silk wrapped around steel. As he worked, carefully keeping his teeth away from sensitive flesh, he shimmied out of his KGB-issued trousers; when he had them down to his ankles, he engulfed Klaus's manhood completely and swallowed around the thick shaft.

Klaus bit his lip, hard, and felt the release wash over him at last, and the relief was so intense he could almost have fainted from it...

...and then he felt it rising again, that inexorable tide of heat. He moaned in shame and self-loathing, and felt Z sliding out from under the blanket. His subordinate had a tiny trickle of fluid on his chin; Klaus did not have to wonder what had happened to the rest of it, because Z quickly straddled him and lowered himself onto the Major's rising shaft, and Klaus felt himself gripped in tight, slick heat.

"Don't..." he whimpered, and turned his face away, and allowed Z to ride him because they both knew he had no choice, and it was good, it was too good, the feeling of that tight muscle clamping around him, milking a second orgasm from him, and before he knew it he was gripping Z's hips with iron-strong fingers, ramming up into him hard enough to shake the bed, driving as far as he could go, and Z cried out, pained or passionate, and it was that sound that drove Klaus over the edge again.

In the ebb, the shame was unbearable; the only thing that helped was seeing the sticky track of Z's seed across his belly, because it meant that the younger agent's cry had not -- or, at least not entirely -- been one of pain...

"Make it stop..." Klaus whispered, blinking back tears as it started yet again. Z had slumped to the bed beside him, panting and wild-eyed and exhausted; he reached out and stroked Klaus, a little wearily, until the German came again.

"I can't..." Klaus whispered, and grabbed a double fistful of his own hair, in a vain attempt to distract himself from the painful rally as his manhood rose yet again.

"Good God, Major," Z murmured.

"I can't stop..." Klaus whispered, his whole body beginning to tremble.

"Good God... I didn't think they could... I'm so sorry, Major," Z said. "There's only one way..."

"NO!" The cry was definite, and desperate or not, Klaus was still able to muster enough commanding presence that Z froze with his fingers barely extended toward Klaus's body. "No!" he repeated, quieter but with just as much conviction.

"Major..."

"I said *no,* Z," Klaus said, brows drawing together in an ominous frown. "You've done all you could, now... obey my orders and... stop that..."

It was like trying to carry on a conversation with Eroica! Z appeared to be listening, but his clever fingers were already wrapped around Klaus, sliding urgently up and down, and Klaus couldn't bring himself to pull away from that insistent grip. He barely noticed when the slick fingers of Z's other hand slowly began to penetrate him, one at a time, stretching him carefully; he was caught on the knife-edge of pleasure, arching helplessly forward into that tight grip and backward onto the fingers that impaled him.

"Gott... no..." he growled, but Z was already sliding into him, and he was torn between pleasure and pleasure, spread open and vulnerable to an intensity of feeling he'd never known. He bit his lip to stifle a whimper, and clamped down on the hard shaft invading him. Z slowly started to move, drawing back and then driving carefully forward, and that was when the blunt head of his cock first brushed over the bundle of nerves that set Klaus off. Pleasure tore through him like wildfire, electrifying every nerve ending and leaving him trembling in the aftershocks, little spasms of lingering thrills shuddering through his frame as Z continued thrusting, deliberately aiming for that one pleasure spot until Klaus was weak from it.

Z drove into him one last time, and collapsed on top of him, sweating and limp with exhaustion, and this time the agonizing need did not return.

"Z..." Klaus whispered, and he didn't know what he would say next, only that he must say *something*, and then a voice from the hallway intervened.

"He must be somewhere in this area! Search every room!"

It was Eroica, bless and curse him. Klaus could never tell if the man's timing was excellent or diabolical, but he was willing to bet on the latter. Quick as a flash, Z struggled to his knees and the two of them pulled their clothing together; they even had time to make use of the sink to wash the worst of the incriminating evidence away and put themselves to rights before a pair of wide blue eyes appeared in the window of the cell.

"Oh, Major!" Eroica said. "I'm so glad to see you're all right!"

It took Dorian all of two seconds to break through the door, and less time than that for him to see through the disguise that had fooled Klaus.

"Herr Z," Dorian said pleasantly. "I hadn't expected to find you as well, but there's always room for one more work of art when Eroica goes shopping."

"Thieving," Klaus corrected, looking and sounding much like his old self; it seemed to Z that he must be the only one to notice the faint difference. Perhaps it was that Misha's potion had forced Klaus to do something his pride would never have endured otherwise, or perhaps it was Eroica's presence in the same room where Iron Klaus had been brought low, but the Major seemed just the tiniest bit subdued and ill-at-ease.

"Yes, well, since in this instance the idea is to steal you away from those nasty Russians, I was hoping you'd cooperate like a good work of art," Dorian said, smiling brilliantly and pretending he wasn't standing in a room that reeked of sex with a guilty-looking Z and a rumpled-looking Klaus trying to act as though nothing had happened.

"Not only will I cooperate, I'll find a way to have NATO pay you for your work," Klaus said.

"I thought you'd see things my way, Darling," Dorian said.

"Got a cigarette?"

"You have a whole pack in your pocket."

"I don't want them. I want one of yours." Dorian sighed and handed over a cigarette, and watched as Klaus lit it and drew a huge drag.

"Can we go now?" Dorian asked impatiently.

"Yes. Z, come along."

"Yes, Major," Z replied, with precisely the same courtesy and respect as ever.

"Well, Darling?" Dorian asked, once they were safely on their way.

"Well, what?"

"You look as though there might be something you want to tell me."

"Yeah."

"Well?"

"Your cigarettes still taste like plain paper."

"Herr Z?" A asked, laying a hesitant hand on his shoulder and leaning in confidentially. "What happened in there?"

Z looked over at the Major, who, despite all that had happened, was still the indomitable spirit he had always been. "Mission accomplished," he replied simply. After all, a man didn't make it into NATO if he couldn't keep a secret, and this was a secret Z intended to take to his grave -- and he suspected that the Major would do the same! And if, on dark and lonely Alaskan nights, he pulled the memory out of hiding to relive it... well, he could hardly be blamed for that, could he?

"Nothing out of the ordinary?" A asked.

"Nothing to report."

"Ah. Then I guess there's nothing to be learned from the surveillance tapes the Russians were taking on the Major's cell."

"WHAT?!?!?!?!"