Bring down Sex slave ring

The girls guide him downstairs to the luggage room, where he immediately trips nearly hitting one of them, but he bumps into a suitcase, apologizes to it, then apologizes again when he realizes it’s not alive.

The blonde agent clears her throat. “All right, rookie. Mission briefing. A royal family member has been kidnapped by a criminal underworld syndicate. Very dramatic. Very inconvenient. We know want to make her, prized sex slave at auction.”

The Asian agent nods. “You’re going to win her back in a high‑stakes card game. Once you’re inside, we can dismantle the entire operation. Complication: their facility uses a biometric security system that targets unauthorized intruders, females. Female agents can bypass it, but only if we register our DNA with a man except we will have strong desire to be drawn to him and his mere touch can make us have sexual release.”

He pushes his glasses up with a trembling finger. “C‑c‑c‑compromised… h‑h‑how?”

The blonde and the platinum‑blonde exchange a look.

The blonde says, “You don’t have the clearance level for that information.”

He blinks. “O‑oh. S‑sorry.”

The platinum‑blonde agent steps forward. “So! We need to sync our DNA to yours. That way the enemy system thinks we’re already assigned to an authorized handler. They can’t reroute us, tag us, or recruit us into whatever nonsense they’re running. They’ll have to fight us directly. Which is fine, one of us is basically a ninja, and the other can shoot the wings off a mosquito at fifty meters.”

He nods, then immediately nods too hard and smacks his forehead on a luggage rack.

The Asian agent lowers her voice. “It is a great risk for you. Mostly because you trip over everything.”

The women fasten sleek metallic collars around their necks—standard issue for the prototype system. A soft chime sounds as the devices sync there DNA's to him. The blonde gives him a reassuring smile. “I’ll also be your translator. You’ll need to impress some very shady men before you can buy into the card game. Try not to sneeze on them.”

When she insult him, she gives out a moan.

They head back to their seats before landing in Russia. The only difference now is that every time he accidentally bumps into one of them—usually because he’s tripping over his own shoelaces—the collars spark faintly, and the agents jolt like someone poked them with a static balloon.

He winces. “S‑s‑sorry! I d‑didn’t mean—oh no, I stepped on my own coat—!”

The agents exchange a long, silent look.

This mission is going to be… something.

The two agents guide him back upstairs from the luggage room, where he has somehow managed to get a suitcase zipper stuck to his sleeve again. The blonde frees him with the weary precision of someone who has accepted her fate.

The blonde straightens her jacket. “All right, rookie. When the plane lands, we meet their money men. They control the buy‑ins for the card game.”

The Asian agent adds, “We were supposed to arrive a week ago. They are… not thrilled. We will stand with you when you hand them the money. You will not speak unless spoken to. Preferably not even then.”

He nods nervously, then immediately nods too hard and smacks his forehead on the overhead bin.

The blonde pats his shoulder. “After that, we head to your uncle’s house in Russia. He has gadgets for you. Very experimental. Very unsafe. Very… uncle‑like.”

He pushes his glasses up. “W‑w‑why d‑didn’t he g‑give them to m‑me b‑before?”

Both agents answer in perfect unison:

“You don’t have the clearance level.”

He freezes, nods, and pretends he understands. He does not.

The Asian agent continues, “Your uncle says the gadgets will increase your luck and cure your clumsiness. Or at least redirect it away from innocent bystanders.”

The blonde adds, “Last time someone tested one, they became the luckiest person alive for three minutes. Then a ceiling fan fell on them.”

He squeaks.

The agents fasten their metallic collars again, syncing to his ID badge with a soft chime. Every time he bumps into one of them—usually because he’s tripping over his own shoelaces—the collars spark faintly, and the agents jolt like someone poked them with a static balloon.

He winces. “S‑s‑sorry! I d‑didn’t mean—oh no, I stepped on my own coat—!”

The two agents exchange a long, silent look that says: We are absolutely not getting paid enough for this.

The agents give out another moan, as both of them sitting next to him. The ladies feel both of there bodies getting aroused. The nipples are getting harder and there pussy becoming wet. Both of them, try to not embrace him, they have him by the arms which makes both of them arroused.

The plane begins its descent into Russia.