Chapter One

“You sure this is the place?” Sergeant Tassia Ivanova asked her partner. “Sasha, this is a hotel. Are we looking for a tourist?”

Sasha scratched his bushy moustache, staring out the windshield with his customary scowl. Built like a granite slab, the Senior Sergeant possessed all the emotional range of one, too.

The Tigre de Cristal Hotel and Resort was the newest addition to the integrated gambling primorye, surrounded by picturesque hills and a lake on the Ussuriyskiy Bay coast. It boasted a Сasino, three restaurants, two spas, luxurious amenities, and top-tier security for its high-roller clientelle.

Presently, the tall steel gates stood closed. The parking area lay empty except for a luxury town car parked before the ornately gilded entrance.

“Not sure.” Sasha squinted at the guard booth beside the gate. Also empty. “There’s a new player stirring up trouble with Shura’s operations. Got a tip they might be staying here—someone who arrived in the last few days. He wants them checked out, discreetly. Maybe leaned on, if they don’t seem too well-connected.”

It was Tassia's turn to grimace.

Shura “The Shark” Sabanov was the worst breed of criminal scum. A festering cancer left over from the Soviet days–a vicious old warhorse who profited from human misery and believed violence solved every problem.

Drugs, prostitution, theft, extortion–nothing was below the old monster and his cohort of thugs. Bribery was the least of his offenses.

And the sergeant was squarely in his pocket.

It didn’t bother her overly much. Half the department was on the take. The other half were busy running their own racquets. It was the way of the world. You were in, or you were out.

And out was a lonely place to be when you were the only one there.

Tassia checked the browser on her phone. “Says here the resort is closed for renovations. Strange. It only opened last year.”

“You see any construction crews or equipment?” Sasha huffed, unbuckling his seatbelt. “Lights are on, so someone’s inside. Let’s go. With luck, this turns out to be a dead end, and we can tell that withered old prick to fuck himself.”

Despite his gruff exterior, Tassia liked the senior sergeant. She had no idea how much Sabanov was paying him and would never ask, but the man was as solid and reliable as the rock he resembled.

They stepped out of the patrol car, buttoned their PPS-emblazoned coats against the cold, and trudged toward the intercom beside the vacated guard booth.

Sasha loomed a full head above her five-foot-ten height, lumbering like a bear to jab the call button with a sausage-sized finger.

It buzzed, then they waited.

Tassia hoped nobody would answer. Then they could leave and…

The intercom crackled back to life with two short bursts and a single cut-off syllable.

Bzzzt!

“Hey–”

Bzzzt!

Static followed.

She and Sasha glanced at each other before he pressed the call button again.

“This is the Politsiya.” He spoke slowly, annunciating each word carefully. “Open the gate. We would speak to whoever is in charge. This is an official inquiry.”

They waited.

The intercom buzzed three more times before the voice on the other end replied in English.

“Gosh, this thingy is, like, super duper complicated. Am I pushing the right button? Can you hear me?”

They giggled, undeniably female, and, Tassia suspected, none too smart.

“Fucking Amerikos.” Her Senior Sergeant muttered, switching to his limited secondary school English. “Yes, we hear. This is police. Open gate.”

The line stayed open. Static crackled, but no one released the button. Tassia rolled her eyes.

“Dolly, what are you doing?” A second feminine voice cut in, sounding irritated. “Don’t play with that.”

“But this weird box started ringing, and I got, like, super curious.” The first voice replied brightly. “I was totally gonna ignore it, but then it started talking and said it’s the fuzz. What a trip!”

More airy, vapid giggling followed. The two officers exchanged a knowing look that needed no words—typical brainless Westerners.

“Cops? Dammit. Get out of the way.”

“No, I—”

The line went silent for a few seconds. When the second voice returned, it was noticeably more composed and professional.

“The Tigre de Cristal Hotel and Resort is presently closed for renovations. We apologize for any inconvenience. Please direct any complaints to our—”

“We are police,” Sasha growled, glaring directly into the intercom camera. “Open gate, or we open for you.”

“Well, that’s not very friendly–” The first voice began, but the second voice shushed them.

“One moment, please.” It said.

Another buzz sounded, followed by the heavy rattle of the gates grinding open along their icy tracks.

“What do you think?’ Tassia asked as they trudged up the cement drive.

“I think I need new boots. My feet are fucking freezing.” Sasha groused, sidestepping a slush puddle. “I also think a couple of girls couldn’t stop my babushka if she demanded entry. No sign of additional security, but keep an eye out.”

Tassia nodded her agreement.

The numbers weren’t adding up on this one. Something was off.

Curving slate steps framed by intricate ironwork railings led to a spacious patio furnished with stylish seating arrangements, perfect for enjoying the afternoon sun, which reflected off the mirrored glass facade. Manicured green lawns flank either side, interspersed with neatly arranged stone accents and small fur trees, adding to the serene ambiance.

She didn’t trust a bit of it.

Two sets of glass double doors insulated the interior from the outside weather. They wasted no time pushing through them to escape the biting chill.

“Oro…” Sasha muttered, surprised. “Very swanky.”

If anything, the lobby was more richly appointed than the exterior.

The floor was a geometric pattern of brown and white marble tiles, buffed to a bright sheen. A large, dark wood reception desk with a wavy design carved into the front extended a full sixty feet beneath a high vaulted ceiling studded with lights that twinkled like stars in the heavens.

The walls were carpeted in a rose maroon–presumably to mute the noise of guests and staff going about their business–dotted with abstract art in gilded frames. A brass luggage cart gathered dust beside a potted palm, which added a touch of nature to the sheer, unapologetic opulence.

Large analogue clocks were mounted in a row above the reception desk, their hands denoting different time zones and major financial centers. Metropolitan giants like Russia, Beijing, London, New York, Tokyo, Dubai, Paris, Singapore, and Mumbai were all present, with poor ol’ Vladivostok stuck in the middle.

Everything gleamed, oozing decadence and the promise of wealth. But most eye-catching of all were the two young women engaged in a hushed conversation by the desk.

“–your trap shut and let me do the talking.”

“I was, like, totally gonna. You don’t have to be mean about it.”

Their urgent whispers carried through the unoccupied lobby. Tassia immediately assigned faces to the voices from the intercom.

The first girl Sasha had spoken with was actually Asian, not Caucasian as they originally suspected. Almond-shaped eyes, elegant cheekbones, and exceptionally pale porcelain skin set her apart from the Chinese rabble so prevalent in Vladivostok.

She looked like a Korean pop star with a few distinct exceptions.

Namely, her perpetually pouting, filler-bloated lips, and silicone-stuffed tits. A tangle of comically large pacifiers dangling on cords around her neck.

Her slim yet outrageously top-heavy figure was squeezed into a pastel pink-and-blue sailor costume. The short, pleated skirt—complete with frilly petticoats—barely reached the tops of her smooth thighs. A cropped, puffy-sleeved blouse with a knotted tie hugged her massively overinflated chest, leaving her flat midriff completely exposed.

Lacy white stockings, topped with tiny pink bows, graced her slender, ballet-dancer legs. Fuchsia platform ankle boots added three inches to her diminutive height.

Blue scrunchies bound her glossy tresses into two voluminous ponytails—twin waterfalls of straight strawberry-blonde hair cascaded all the way to her waspish waist.

She caught Tassia staring and waved cheerfully with a big, vapid smile. It seemed like she could stay like that all day, utterly untroubled by a single thought.

Her companion was no less eye-catching, though a lot more intense.

She approached, outfitted in a fetishized parody of a black and white French maid uniform–all frills and bows that covered little with the requisite hosiery, garters, and black pumps–lush curves swaying with every sauntering step.

Her straight, glossy hair was secured by a white, ruffled headpiece, hanging like an obsidian curtain past her shoulders. Her olive skin and strikingly angular features possibly stemmed from Mediterranean roots.

Or, more likely, Tassia guessed, from Mexico.

“Sergeants. Welcome to The Tigre de Cristal Hotel and Resort.” She bowed formally and, miracle of miracles, didn’t spill free of the scooped neckline. “My name is Kitten. That is Dolly–”

“Hi hi!” The smiling and waving continued unabated.

Kitten… Dolly?

Tassia glanced sideways at Sasha, only to find him openly staring down the aforementioned neckline, transfixed by the maid’s admittedly impressive tits.

“We are pleased to assist the authorities in any reasonable way,” Kitten said smoothly, straightening up to Sasha’s visible disappointment. “May we take your coats? Offer you something to drink?”

Without waiting for an answer, she clapped her hands twice. “Gopher!”

The call summoned a bellhop as though by magic.

A man who was sixty if he was a day, with a leathery face that looked like forty miles of rough road, trotted up in a crisp burgundy jacket trimmed in gold frogging and a matching pillbox hat. His brass buttons and leather shoes were smartly polished, and the crease in his ironed slacks could have made a drill instructor proud.

Pink cheeks and a nick on his chin indicated the man had shaved recently, probably a beard he’d kept for years, given the way his pale cheeks clashed with his tanned forehead.

“Gospozha?” The man inquired politely, also bowing.

Except, he didn’t rise–just stayed here, bent parallel to the ground.

Tassia was seized by an odd sense of foreboding. She nudged Sasha, who had torn his gaze away from Kitten’s chest only to fix it on the motionless bellhop to meet her eyes with a frown.

He sensed something too.

“Do I know you?” Sasha asked the man, suspicious.

“Oh, Gopher is nobody important,” Kitten replied dismissively, stepping forward to unbutton Sasha’s coat. “Just an old wretch our Master took pity on. Pay him no mind. Here, you won’t need this—”

“Do not touch me!” Sasha snarled, moving to knock her hands aside.

Kitten dodged the blow with effortless grace, not a single frill or hair out of place.

The old bellhop remained frozen in his sweeping bow like a statue.

Dolly giggled—a light, innocent sound that sent an inexplicable chill down Tassia’s spine despite the warm air blowing from the vents.

Sasha’s face had turned a dangerous shade of red, a thick vein pulsing at his temple. His usual stony composure was cracking.

“Who… is Master?” He growled. “We are Politsiya. This is… investigation. We have questions. He must answer.”

“Mather ith the mather.” Dolly slurred happily around the thumb-shaped pacifier stoppering her puffy lips.

“He is currently occupied with important business,” Kitten stated blithely. “But I’ve already informed him and the Mistress of your arrival. They invite you to enjoy our hospitality or tour the facilities until they can receive you personally.” She tilted her head, her expression one of genuine concern. “Are you feeling alright, Sergeant? You look flushed. Are you sure we can’t take your coat? You’ll feel much more comfortable without it.”

Tassia nodded in agreement, wiping a sheen of sweat from her forehead. She was suddenly sweltering in her heavy jacket.

The foreigners kept the thermostat turned up far too high—no doubt necessary, given their ridiculously skimpy fashion choices.

“Da. Very well.” Sasha conceded, working on his own buttons. Relieved, Tassia followed suit. “I wait here for this… master. My partner take tour.”

He shot her a meaningful look. The unspoken message was clear.

Case the joint.

“Wonderful. I’m certain the Master and Mistress shan’t be long. How about a drink while you wait?” She took their coats, draping them over the unmoving bellhop’s back. “Dolly will show your partner around.”

Hi there! If you are enjoying my silly smut, why not support my writing aspirations by joining my Patreon? All subscriptions go towards purchasing high-octane coffee to keep me writing and treats for my two adorable furballs. Patreon members get early access to stories like this one (and more) on my exclusive Discord server.