Sophia's Confession

1.

Another hot day in the outskirts of Rome. Sofia Rossi's villa stood on a high hill among olive groves and cypress trees, far from the city bustle. The second-floor veranda was her favorite place: a wicker chair, a small table, a view of the garden with a fountain and the path to the gates. The air was heavy with the scent of jasmine and cigarette smoke.

Sofia sat relaxed, her legs crossed in black stockings with a wide lace band. She wore an elegant businesswoman's suit: a short light-green miniskirt hugged her hips, a jacket of the same color was unbuttoned, revealing a thin blouse without a bra—her nipples slightly visible through the fabric. Under the skirt, there was

nothing. She loved this feeling of freedom and the light breeze between her legs when she was alone.

In her left hand—a half-empty wine glass, in her right—a thin cigarette. Sofia lazily exhaled smoke, glancing at the road. She was waiting for a package: officially—a new catalog from a Milan fashion house, in reality—encrypted data for another deal. Servants were bustling somewhere in the house, but she was in no hurry.

Finally, the gate bell rang below. A courier car had arrived. There were two employees: a tall man in a dark suit and a woman in tight leather pants and a black blouse. The man carried a small package, the woman held a tablet for signing. They walked through the garden without delay—the security let them through easily.

Sofia didn't even stand up, just slightly spread her legs, enjoying her usual control over the situation.

— Buongiorno, signora Rossi, — the man said with a slight American accent, approaching the balcony. — A package for you.

Sofia squinted but reached for the package. At that moment, the woman—Elizabeth—quickly moved around the chair and stood behind her, placing her hands on the backrest, effectively blocking any retreat. The man—Mike—didn't hand over the package but placed it on the table next to fashion magazines and an ashtray.

— Sign here, — he said calmly, but his voice no longer held the courier's politeness.

Sofia frowned, sensing a trap.

— Who are you? — she asked in Italian, then switched to English. — Giovanni! Mario! — she shouted toward the house.

Elizabeth leaned closer, her leather pants creaking softly. She gently but firmly placed a palm on Sofia's shoulder, preventing her from standing.

— Don't bother, Sofia, — Elizabeth said softly. — Your servants are currently... resting. We paid them generously for a little time off. The Federal Bureau of Investigation knows how to be persuasive.

Mike took off his dark glasses and sat on the edge of the table, completely blocking Sofia's path to the door.

— Sofia Rossi, — he said formally. — We know about the galleries in Milan, the port of Gioia Tauro, the accounts in Liechtenstein. We need the details. Names, amounts, routes.

Sofia tried to stand, but Elizabeth pressed a little harder on her shoulder, forcing her to stay in the chair. With her free hand, Sofia tried to adjust her skirt, but the fabric only rode up higher, revealing the smooth skin of her thighs.

— You're insane, — she hissed. — This is Italy. One call and you'll be found in a ditch.

Mike smiled coldly.

— You don't have a phone at hand, Sofia. And there will be no calls. We can do this the easy way: you tell us everything voluntarily right now. Full cooperation—and you get witness protection, complete anonymity. Without... complications.

Elizabeth leaned even closer, her breath touching Sofia's ear.

— Or we move to less pleasant methods, — she whispered. — You're a smart woman. Why complicate things?

Sofia looked at them defiantly, but inside she already felt control slipping away. She reached for her glass, buying time, but her hand trembled slightly. The breeze touched her bare skin between her legs again, and she involuntarily squeezed her thighs.

— Go to hell, — she said quietly but firmly. — I won't say anything.

Mike and Elizabeth sighed. Elizabeth took a small black case from her bag and placed it on the table.

— Pity, — said Mike. — Then we'll start differently.

2.

Sofia leaned back in the wicker chair, crossing her legs as best she could, but still exposing the lace band of her stockings and a hint of smooth skin above. She finished her wine, trying to maintain an appearance of control, but her fingers trembled slightly around the glass.

— Go to hell, — she repeated, louder now, with a contemptuous smirk. — I won't say anything. Not now, not later. Leave while you can.

Mike and Elizabeth exchanged glances. The silence, however, lasted only a second—just long enough for a decision to be made.

— Alright, — Mike said quietly, standing up from the table. His voice was even, professional, without malice. — Then differently.

Elizabeth reacted instantly: her palm, resting on Sofia's shoulder, slid down, grasping the woman's left wrist—the one holding the glass. With her other hand, she firmly pressed Sofia's other shoulder against the back of the chair. As it turned out, Elizabeth's grip was ironclad. Sofia flinched, trying to break free, but Elizabeth leaned her weight in, pinning her to the chair.

— Don't struggle, dear, — Elizabeth whispered in her ear, so close that Sofia felt the warmth of her breath on her neck. — This is just the beginning.

Mike walked around the chair from behind. The decorative wrought-iron balcony railing—black, with an intricate grapevine pattern—ran right behind the chair's back. He took handcuffs from his jacket's inner pocket. The metal gleamed coldly in the sun.

Sofia tried to stand, but Elizabeth held her, grabbing one wrist with one hand and pressing on her chest with the other, right between the unbuttoned jacket. Lisa's fingers lightly touched the bare skin under the blouse—not a caress, but a warning.

— Giovanni! — Sofia shouted louder, her voice breaking. — Aiuto!

— Don't struggle, — Elizabeth said, releasing her and stepping back to admire the result. — No one will hear anything here. The villa is large, the servants are far away, and the nearest neighbors are two kilometers over the hill. Scream all you want. No one will come.

Sofia jerked her arm—the handcuff chain rattled against the metal railing but held fast. She tried to bring her knees together, but the position was awkward: one leg dangled from the chair, the other was planted on the floor. With her free hand, she instinctively reached to cover herself, but Elizabeth intercepted that wrist too, gently but inexorably pulling the woman's arm aside.

Mike opened the black case on the table. Inside, on black foam—a vacuum pump: a transparent plastic cylinder with a black bulb and a thin hose. He took it out, holding it up to the light so Sofia could see.

— Know what this is? — he asked calmly.

Sofia remained silent, breathing heavily. Her eyes were fixed on the device. She knew. Or guessed.

Elizabeth leaned down, ran her fingertips along the inside of Sofia's thigh—from the knee upward, stopping dangerously close.

Sofia swallowed, trying to keep defiance in her eyes, but fear and something else, still unclear, flickered in them.

— You're... insane, — she exhaled.

Mike put on thin latex gloves, snapping the elastic.

— Last chance, Sofia, — he said. — Tell us everything now. Or we begin.

3.

Sofia sat in the wicker chair, her body tense as a bowstring. Her right hand was cuffed behind her head to the wrought-iron railing—elbow bent, hand pressed against the cold metal, the chain quietly jingling with every movement. The miniskirt had ridden up to her waist, exposing everything: the smooth skin of her thighs, the lace band of her stockings, and her intimate area, already slightly moist from a mix of fear and unexpected arousal. The jacket was unbuttoned, the blouse clung to her chest with sweat. The sun beat down mercilessly, but a breeze from the garden brought coolness, caressing the bare skin between her legs.

Mike knelt before her on one knee, his latex gloves gleaming. He carefully, professionally applied the transparent pump cylinder to Sofia's vulva—the cylinder perfectly cupped her lips, clitoris, the entire sensitive area. The woman instinctively squeezed her thighs, but Mike firmly spread them with his knee, locking her in position.

— Relax, — he said calmly, without emotion. — This is just the beginning.

He squeezed the bulb for the first time. A quiet hissing sound—air escaped, creating a slight vacuum. Sofia flinched: the sensation was strange, pulling, as if the tender flesh was being drawn into the cylinder. Blood rushed in, her lips slightly swollen, becoming more sensitive.

— No... — she exhaled, trying to shift her hips. With her free left hand, she reached down, instinctively trying to push the device away.

Elizabeth reacted instantly: she sat on the armrest of the chair from the side, grabbing Sofia's left wrist. The grip was strong but not rough—her fingers dug into the skin just enough so Sofia couldn't move her hand. Elizabeth pulled her arm aside, pressed it against Sofia's own thigh, not letting it near the pump.

Mike squeezed the bulb a second time, a third. The vacuum increased—slowly, methodically. The cylinder fit snugly, inside Sofia's vulva could be seen swelling: her lips became plump, pink, her clitoris slightly protruding, reacting to the blood flow. The sensation shifted from strange to intense—a light tingling, warmth, growing sensitivity. Sofia involuntarily arched, her breathing became ragged.

— Tell us about the accounts in Liechtenstein, Sofia, — Elizabeth asked quietly, not releasing her hand. Her thumb lightly stroked the inside of Sofia's wrist—not a caress, but control. — Numbers, amounts, who manages them. Just words—and we'll stop at this level.

Sofia shook her head, her lips pressed into a stubborn line.

— Never... — she hissed through her teeth.

Mike continued: two more squeezes. The vacuum deepened. Now the pressure was distinct—pulling, pulsating. The vulva inside the cylinder had clearly enlarged, becoming hypersensitive. Every light breeze, every movement of air intensified the sensations. Sofia moaned quietly for the first time—not from pain, but from an unexpected wave of warmth spreading through her lower abdomen.

— The port of Gioia Tauro, — Elizabeth continued in the same calm tone, eye to eye with Sofia. — The last shipment. Date, route, contact at the port. You know what I'm talking about.

Sofia jerked her cuffed hand—the chain rattled. With her free hand, she tried to break free from Lisa's grip, her fingers reaching down, but Elizabeth held firm, pressing Sofia's palm against her own thigh.

— Won't work, — Elizabeth whispered. — Look how beautifully it's swelling. A little more and you won't be able to think of anything else.

Mike paused, observing. Sofia was breathing heavily, her thighs trembling slightly. Her eyes were glazing over, but defiance still burned in them.

— I... won't... say anything, — she exhaled, but her voice was already less confident.

Mike squeezed the bulb again. The vacuum intensified. Sofia gasped, her body arching in the chair. The first real wave of pleasure-discomfort washed over her, forcing her thighs to spread wider against her will. Elizabeth smiled at the corner of her lips, not releasing her hand.

— We'll continue the questions, — she said. — You still have time.

4.

Sofia was no longer sitting upright—her body arched in the wicker chair, her back pressed against the backrest, her thighs spread wider than she wanted. Her right hand remained cuffed to the wrought-iron railing behind her head, the chain taut, the metal digging into her skin with every jerk. Her left hand was still in Lisa's grip—the agent sat on the armrest, firmly holding Sofia's wrist, pressing it against her own thigh in leather pants. Lisa's fingers occasionally lightly stroked Sofia's skin—not tenderly, but calculatedly, increasing the tension.

Her vulva inside the transparent cylinder was noticeably swollen: her lips had become plump, dark pink, her clitoris protruded, pulsing in time with her heartbeat. The vacuum held steady, but the sensation remained constant—pulling, hot, making every cell down there respond to the slightest movement of air. Sweat trickled down the inside of her thighs, her blouse clung to her chest, her nipples hardened under the thin fabric.

— Names in Milan, — Elizabeth said quietly, leaning closer. Her free hand finally went down—her fingertips slid along the inside of Sofia's thigh, moving higher, but not touching the cylinder. — Who ran the galleries? Who signed the papers? Tell us—and we'll give you a break.

Sofia shook her head, her lips trembling.

— Go to... hell... both of you... — she exhaled brokenly, but her voice already broke into a moan.

Mike didn't answer—just squeezed the bulb once more, then released the valve for a second, allowing a slight influx of air, then created the vacuum again. Pulsation: intensification—relief—intensification. It was maddening. Sofia writhed, her thighs trying to close, but Mike kept them spread with his knee. Her free hand in Lisa's grip twitched, her fingers clutching at the fabric of the agent's leather pants.

Elizabeth finally touched—not the cylinder, but the skin around it. A light, tracing motion around the contours of the cylinder. Sofia shuddered all over, a moan escaping louder.

Lisa's finger teased Sofia's skin a little more and was now replaced by two fingers, sliding along the edge of the cylinder, slightly vibrating. Mike synchronously added vacuum—two more squeezes. The vulva inside the cylinder was now enormous, dark burgundy, every vein visible, the clitoris sticking out like a small swollen nub. The sensation was overwhelming: heat, pressure, unbearable sensitivity. Sofia jerked her cuffed hand—the chain rang loudly against the railing, like a bell.

— No... ah... no! — she cried out, but the cry turned into a drawn-out moan.

Elizabeth quickened her finger movements—around the cylinder, in circles, rhythmically. Mike maintained the vacuum pulsation: squeeze—pause—squeeze. Waves of pleasure rolled over her one after another, Sofia's body betrayed her—her thighs trembled, her stomach sucked in, her chest heaved convulsively.

The first orgasm came suddenly: Sofia arched like a bow, her head thrown back, eyes rolling. Moans turned into a hoarse cry, her body shook with convulsions. The vulva inside the cylinder pulsated visibly, contracting and relaxing. Moisture ran down her thighs, dripping onto the wicker seat of the chair.

Elizabeth didn't stop—her fingers continued to caress the woman, Mike kept the vacuum at its peak. The orgasm washed over in a wave, leaving Sofia trembling, gasping.

— Bravi... bastardi... — she muttered through moans, tears glistening in the corners of her eyes. — I... won't... say anything...

But her voice was already weak, broken. Her eyes half-closed, her body relaxed for a moment—only to prepare for the next wave. Elizabeth and Mike exchanged glances: she was still holding on, but the cracks in her armor were already visible.

— We'll continue, — Mike said quietly, squeezing the bulb again.

5.

Sofia went limp in the chair after the first orgasm—her body trembled, her chest heaved heavily, sweat streamed down her temples and neck