Chapter 1: Operation Handjob Impossible
# Chapter 1: Operation Handjob Impossible
My name is Elliot Winkler.
Code name at the agency: Agent Shit-face.
Not a joke. That’s literally on my badge because HR says “Chaos God” is “unprofessional.”
Today was supposed to be simple: infiltrate the five-star Taj Mahal Palace in Mumbai, plant a bug in the Russian oligarch’s suite, extract without anyone noticing
Instead I’m naked except for one sock, handcuffed to a chandelier, covered in strawberry lube, my cock still half-hard and glistening from the chaos, while a raccoon in a tiny tuxedo films me on an iPhone.
Let me back up.
**07:00 a.m.**
I land in Mumbai wearing the world’s worst disguise: a fake moustache that looks like a dead caterpillar having an orgasm. My handler, Major Kaur, briefs me over WhatsApp voice note.
“Winkler, the Russian likes Instagram models with daddy issues. Your cover is ‘Elliot Wanker,’ famous male cam-star from Delhi. Room 1808 is booked under your porn name. Do NOT fuck this up.”
I salute my phone. “Ma’am, my entire life is fucking this up. I’m basically a professional.”
**10:30 a.m.**
Check-in at the Taj. The receptionist takes one look at my moustache, then at my passport that literally says “Elliot Wanker – Occupation: Content Creator,” and just hands me the key without blinking. India is beautiful.
**11:15 a.m.**
I’m in the suite, setting up. I brought the agency-issued spy kit: listening device the size of a condom, one smoke grenade, and (because budget cuts) a bottle of strawberry-flavoured lubricant “for emergency slippage.”
I strip down to test the cam-star vibe—just in case anyone bursts in—running my hands over my body, feeling the familiar rush as I imagine an audience watching. My fingers trail lower, stroking myself slowly, building that teasing tension I’m supposedly famous for. The lube comes in handy even now, slick and sweet-smelling as I coat my shaft, pumping lazily while I scout the room for the best bug placement. A low groan escapes me; gotta stay in character, right?
That’s when the raccoon walks in.
Not a metaphor. An actual masked bandit wearing a bellboy uniform two sizes too small, tail poking out the back like a furry butt plug.
He looks at me—hand still wrapped around my throbbing cock. I freeze mid-stroke.
“Room service,” he says in perfect English with a South Delhi accent. “You ordered the extra-large chaos with side of regret?”
I reach for my gun with my free hand. He reaches into his tiny vest and pulls out a GoPro.
“Relax, bro. I’m Lieutenant Fluffernutter. Retired. Now I run a premium Snapchat. Don’t stop on my account—that’s gold content right there.”
Before I can scream (or finish), he presses a button. The lights dim, “Baby Shark remix (porn edition)” starts playing, and the handcuffs click around my wrists—snapping me up to the chandelier while I’m still slick and exposed, cock bobbing helplessly in the air.
Fluffernutter hops closer, tiny paws surprisingly deft as he squirts more lube over my chest and down my abs, letting it drip lower. “For the shine,” he smirks, giving my shaft a quick, teasing stroke that makes me gasp. “Viewers love the details.”
**12:05 p.m.**
Door opens again. The Russian oligarch walks in with two Instagram supermodels—@PoutyPriya69 and her equally stunning friend. They freeze when they see me dangling there, naked, lubed, and undeniably aroused.
Priya tilts her head, eyes widening with hunger. “Is this the surprise you promised, daddy? Because... damn.”
The Russian shrugs, already loosening his tie. “I ordered dominatrix, not discount Tom Cruise with a boner. But this works.”
Priya doesn’t wait. She saunters over, phone out for selfies, but her free hand trails up my thigh, fingers brushing my slick length. “Mind if I...?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, wrapping her manicured hand around me, stroking slow and firm while her friend giggles and joins in, tongue flicking out to taste the strawberry glaze on my skin.
The Russian watches, grinning, as Priya drops to her knees—mouth hot and eager, taking me deep while her friend grinds against my leg, whispering filthy encouragements.
Fluffernutter jumps on the bed, clapping tiny paws. “Perfect! Everyone, act natural. We’re live in 3… 2…”
I try the only move left in the Chaos God playbook—thrashing just enough to grab the strawberry lube, squirting it like a fire extinguisher straight into the smoke grenade pin (don’t ask why it was in the same pocket), and yanking.
POOF.
The entire suite fills with pink smoke that smells like a stripper’s birthday party.
Coughing, screaming, raccoon laughter—and the wet, obscene sounds of interrupted pleasure.
When the smoke clears ten seconds later:
- The Russian is face-down in the mini-bar, snoring, pants around his ankles.
- Priya is on the floor, lips swollen and shiny, filming me on her own phone, shouting “Collab?! Tag me!” while her friend adjusts her disheveled dress.
- Fluffernutter is counting cash tips from the hotel security who came to watch (and apparently join the show briefly).
- And I’m still handcuffed to the chandelier, one sock mysteriously gone, dripping lube and the remnants of Priya’s attention like a broken soft-serve machine.
My earpiece crackles. Major Kaur’s voice, deadly calm:
“Winkler… explain.”
I look straight into the raccoon’s GoPro, give my most professional smile, and say the only honest thing I can:
“Ma’am, the raccoon started it.”
To be continued….
(Next chapter: “The Great Bollywood Orgy Heist” – coming as soon as I find my other sock)
