Totally Spies Flash Story

Posted in Fiction on May 10, 2013 by Dashiell Barlow

Author’s Note: I’ve said this before, I may as well repeat myself. If you can’t separate fiction from reality, don’t read this stuff, because I don’t want to be the inspiration for dark shit like this becoming reality.

Also, I hated the show I’m writing about, so call this satire, if you so desire.


Part 1: The Beginning

It was not an abnormal mission for the three friends Alex, Sam and Clover. These young spies were investigating some boring plot by LAMOS again. Unfortunately, they were succeeding, and unfortunately, it made a difference to more than just Terry and his ne’er-do-wells this time.

In a hidden room filled with security feed monitors, the Captain (a code name, of course, but it was what Terry knew him by), sighed and put down his yet half-full glass of scotch. He pushed the visor on his helmet fully down, and shrugged his leather gloves on.

“Terry, I am disappointed,” he says in his deep, calm voice. “I will be taking my leave of you now.” As Terry stuttered about the plan, the Captain got up and brushed past him, his motorcycle helmet showing no emotion. His long black trench coat swished behind him, and then he was gone.

His boots echoed down the stairs as the Captain mused internally about the WOOHP trio. He had a rule, you see; if someone interferes in his business, there are consequences for those individuals, and for their organization, if they happen to have one. But what should those consequences be in this case? They had completely ruined a joint operation with the altogether unreliable – but somewhat connected – LAMOS organization. Still, he had time. Right now there was a warning to deliver and a grand exit to make.

The Captain exited the stair well, all in black, riot gear and combat boots under his helmet, trench and gloves. His coat blew in the wind from a gaping hole in the factory wall, the three spies arrayed before him.

“Who are you?” the one in green yelled out. That would be Samantha, according to the intel.

The initial response was merely a slow chuckle. “I am a problem for you,” he finally announced. “I have no intention of letting slip my name, or any important information. I am running a business, after all, and I do prefer it to stay profitable–”

“–Well, if it wasn’t illegal–” that was the one in red, Clover. He countered her interruption with another of his own.

“– I am not here to discuss with you, nor to fight. Not today. I am here to warn you that you have interfered in and destroyed an operation of mine. This was a joint venture with LAMOS, I don’t care about them. Terry is upstairs, you may take him into custody, but there are no documents and the computers are useless for data recovery, having burned completely by now. However, I must return to my point. You have now interfered with my organization. There will be consequences. For you three individuals, as well as for your pitiable W O O H P nonsense. You will regret this day. I must now take my leave. Farewell.”

And as quickly as that, a flash, and there was a raging, heavily smoking line of fire in between the spies and the helmetted man. When they rushed through, he was gone with no indication of his exit.

Part 2: Jerry & The Ultimatum

The girls returned from an assignment a few days later to WOOHP headquarters. The scene they find shocks them all into silence. Jerry, their beloved handler, the found and administrator of the organization that they serve, the keystone of everything that organization does, was tied, kneeling, in the center of the WOOHP logo. His throat had been cut and his head tied back – his tongue was pulled through the wound in a classic Colombian Necktie. There was no blood – his skin, the floor, his suit, were all completely pristine.

Tears, screaming, and then arguments followed. The girls were at a complete loss as to what to do next. There was no note, no indication of what to do, of who was responsible. Once they had become quiet, the voice of the mysterious motorcycle helmeted man that they had encountered a few days ago came from the PA system, and his helmet showed up on several screens around the room.

“Hello girls,” he says. “Hold your words – I’m afraid I would be unable to hear them anyway. You might have some interest in what I have to say, anyway. So, you remember our encounter before, of course. You’d be terrible agents if you did not. I’m the ‘one you let slip,’ so naturally you committed my face and voice to memory.

“I have an ultimatum for you. If you do not follow it to the letter, the consequences will continue to escalate, until you have nothing and no one in your corner. Your lives will be ruined, in every facet and every way. If you wish to spare me the trouble of reducing the three of you to nothing, well, it’s not all that much trouble. However, you may return to the pile of still smoking rubble where you met me. No gadgets, no communication, no backup, no possessions. Not even your cell phones. If you are all there in six hours and ready and willing to acquiesce to my demands, then I shall leave your lives the way they are…. and things like these won’t show up in places they shouldn’t….”

His face on the screen is replaced by a rapid series of images. The three of them, in various sexual, nude, or otherwise embarassing situations, their WOOHP personnel files, love letters they had written to various partners…. all in all, a huge assortment of ruinous material flashing across the screen piece by piece.

“Good bye girls. Choose well…” A soft cackle and the screens and PA turn off. The girls race to search the building, but it is completely empty. No staff and certainly no trespassers are present. Eventually they give up, and return to their lives. They assume that WOOHP will assign them a new handler in time and that they can then track down the man who murdered Jerry.

Part 3 – Ruin & Submission

Unfortunately for the girls, things did not go as they assumed. Within a week, without Jerry’s guiding hand, WOOHP fell apart from the inside out and completely ceased to exist, except as a media circus, where the organization was lambasted for several weeks as a terrible failure. They began to lose their friends as, one by one, the other students at the school received emails or letters or phone messages cunningly crafted to the individual to show the three girls as wanton, diseased, untrustworthy, whorish, or otherwise unsupportable people.

They began to fall into the cruel whirlpool of depression, each quickly losing all of their friends. When there were no friends left, they were expelled from the school, on charges of having had sex on school grounds with eachother and with other, unnamed students. That night, when each went home, they went to a cold, unfeeling family who shunned them. The blackmail had spread to every sector of their lives, and even their families rejected them. They had nothing. They met a few days later in the park to discuss things. After a few minutes of commiserating, their cell phones rang, and for each it was the same call – the man with the helmet again.

“Girls, I once again will not be able to hear you. I don’t really care to, though, so that’s alright with me. I have proven my ultimatum true and I have ruined you. You are no long spies. You are no long high school students. Your families are about to send you texts letting you know that you are not welcome back in their homes.

I am not unfeeling, however. I don’t want to see you sleeping on the streets, being raped by drunk homeless men, perhaps even murdered. No, that would be an unfortunate end to our little play. So I have something else to offer you. Come and join my very small, very elite organization. Your lives will have meaning again; you’ll be fighting for a greater cause, and your needs will -all- be taken care of. If you accept, I expect to see you where we first met, in the rubble. You have forty-eight hours, and there is a transport outside the park that will take you there. Come with the clothes on your back, nothing more.” The calls all hang up with a simultaneous click.

The girls look at each-other, and each of them begins to quietly cry, knowing they have nowhere else to turn, that they must come crawling and beg to an enemy that has bested them. They stand up, leaving their backpacks, wallets, and phones in a pile on the park bench. A helicopter touches down, all in black, and they walk toward it slowly, shamed and cowed.

They pile in and they make the trip in silence. The helicopter drops them off in the rubble of the destroyed factory, and they sit on a piece of sheet metal, huddled against each-other in the cold wind. The man in the helmet and coat walks up slowly and proudly. He chuckles softly, standing in front of them, watching them carefully.

“Well, girls,” he says slowly. “You will call me Captain. There are a few requirements of employment with me. You obey unquestioningly, in the field and out of it. You have no rights unless I specifically spell them out. You are bodyguards and you are concubines and you are slaves; but you are not, and you will never be people again. Do you understand?” The three of them nodded, crying silently. “Get up and strip. Now.”

Alex and Sam got up and began to undo their clothing, but Clover went beet red. She sputtered and forced out: “You said this was employment! I won’t degrade myself like that!”

Captain pulled an M1911 and shot her point blank in the gut. “Are there any other objections?” He asked, looking at Alex and Sam. They shook their heads and finished disrobing. He spoke into a radio and stepped toward the girls, running a hand down Alex’s belly to finger her clit gently. “You made a good call, you two, and you’re good girls. Don’t worry, you’ll soon enjoy this, and Clover will pay the price for her disobedience. An SUV pulled up, a suited man behind the wheel. Captain pointed at it, and Alex and Sam grabbed the still-bleeding Clover and pulled her inside with them as Captain climbed into the front.

There was a surgeon in the back who field-treated Clover. He also cut out Clover’s tongue, and then Alex’s and Sam’s. After this was done, and all three were field-stabilized, he began the hypnotic training of Alex and Sam with VR goggles and headphones, tying their limbs down into seats. Clover would not get any such training.

It took several hours to arrive at Captain’s modest, non-descript headquarters complex. They all piled out, the girls were placed on stretchers and taken to the medical facility to continue with their mental and physical transformations.

Part 4 — Epilogue – Happiness Is Found In Strange Places

Several weeks later, Alex and Sam were finally finishing their programming and Clover was done with her own modifications. It was finally time to be presented to their new owner Captain. The tears were gone, replaced with the mindset of a slave who would give her life to protect her owner. They were put in a room, nude as always now. Alex and Sam were put on their knees, a leash between their welded collars connecting each-other. Off to the other side, Clover lay on the floor, panting softly with her very short tongue stump. She had the programming of a dog, and her limbs had been cut down to just before where her elbows and knees had been. Such was her punishment for disobedience.

Captain stepped into the room. “Perfection,” he says in his deep voice, and removes his helmet to show his face – a fellow student from the high school that they all had known in their previous lives. “Come to your master, girls, greet me well…”

The girls lived happily ever after. Nude assassins, bodyguards, and sex slaves, they were fulfilled by their life, and were kept pregnant to provide their owner with a next generation of replacements from which to pick the best. Clover was also kept pregnant, but she was her owner’s favorite, a sexy puppy girl always full of his seed.


MineCraft Journal Story 1

Posted in Fiction on April 4, 2011 by Dashiell Barlow

Now, I had an idea while playing MineCraft… Journals, from the single player character’s point of view, driven by what actually happens during a play session.

(If you’re curious — I found a cobblestone/moss stone chamber with a chest (which had the named contents) and a firy moss block.)

Here’s my first effort in this vein. Yes, it is a little weird, but it’s the only way I can think of to explain what I found.

I’d like comments on this, of course.

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The Cold Dark

Posted in Fiction on February 4, 2011 by Dashiell Barlow

The man in black paused from his typing, swiveled his chair over to the side. He unclipped a CB-type microphone from a 2 way radio box, and brought it to his face. After a short pause, he thumbed the button on the device.

“Ranger One, Ranger One, come in. This is Alpha Base. Ranger One, you were due for status contact seventeen minutes ago. Ranger One, Come in. Alpha Base out.”

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Posted in Fiction on January 7, 2011 by Dashiell Barlow

A/N: Not sure if I’m going to write the story that this was supposed to be the prologue for. In any case, enjoy this little piece..

She clutched the slightly charred letter to her chest and sobbed. It was the last piece of him she had anymore. The last piece of him she’d ever touch. The tears wouldn’t stop.

She’d managed to hold them in when the current, massive war had taken their only son. She’d managed to hold them in after their house burned. She’d managed to hold them in when he died. She’d managed to hold them in through his funeral.

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Recurring characters?

Posted in Questions on November 8, 2010 by Dashiell Barlow

I want some indication as to the question of recurring characters from my reader base, please. I’m thinking of protagonists more than anything else.

Please send me a line. Comments, twitter, email are all fine.

The Torturer and the Torturee

Posted in Fiction on October 16, 2010 by Dashiell Barlow


1 -Yeah, I’m well aware the whole premise is technically impossible. It’s sf, of course.

2 – Also, this one is shorter than most (I’m not holding to any part-length requirement here).

3 – Oh, and enjoy.

Part I

She didn’t know how long she’d been kept, or how long since the tortures had started. She could barely remember her life before; could barely remember being captured.

She opened her eyes. The memory of the last “session”, as he called them, was still fresh, and a shudder ran down her spine, wracking her wet, nude form. She was beautiful, sitting there in the slime….

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Love & Death

Posted in Fiction on April 12, 2010 by Dashiell Barlow

Part I

He fell.

He fell in conflict, protecting His own. This was His time, and His place to fall, and He did not regret. His girls were protected, thanks to His actions.

His fight done, He passed His last breath, smiling at His girls, who knelt by Him. They wept, their lives torn out from under him, as He passed with peace from this life.

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