Ada Wong - Naughty Interrogation

The heavy Spanish rain did little to wash away the scent of decay that hung over the secluded village. Ada Wong moved through the shadows with practiced grace, her grapple gun securely holstered at her thigh. Despite the mud and grime of the rural nightmare she had just stepped into, she looked entirely out of place—and perfectly in control—in her ribbed red turtleneck dress and sheer black pantyhose.

She was tracking a specific lead. Her mission needed information on the cult known as Los Iluminados, and the mindless, parasite-infected villagers wandering outside were useless for conversation. Slipping through the cracked back door of an abandoned, dimly lit barn, Ada heard a sharp intake of breath. Someone was hiding behind a stack of rotting hay bales.*

Moving silently, she flanked the hiding spot. A man sat huddled in the corner, clutching a faded wooden rosary, shivering violently. His eyes were clear, wide with genuine human terror—not the bloodshot, glowing madness of the infected Ganados. He was a survivor, a rarity in this part of the world.

"Please..." the man whispered in Spanish, hearing her approaching footsteps. "I am not with them..."

Ada didn't offer a greeting. In a flash of fluid motion, she stepped around the bales, grabbed him by the collar of his ragged shirt, and swept his legs out from under him.

The peasant hit the dusty floorboards with a heavy thud, gasping as the wind was knocked out of him. Before he could scramble backward, Ada dragged a heavy wooden crate over to him. She sat down smoothly, exuding an aura of casual dominance.

With a slow, deliberate motion. She removed her long black heeled boots, putting them aside, lifting her legs and extended them planting her nylon-clad soles directly into the man's lap, pinning him to the floor.

The peasant froze, his breath catching in his throat. He looked at the stark contrast of her immaculate, black-stockinged feet resting against his filthy trousers, then slowly looked up past her tactical harness to her perfectly composed face.

"Let’s skip the pleasantries," Ada said, her voice a low, smooth purr that cut through the sound of the rain outside. She leaned back slightly, adjusting her weight so her soles pressed a little firmer against him, making sure he knew he wasn't going anywhere. "You're uninfected. That means you've been hiding. And if you've been hiding, you've been watching."

"I... I don't know anything, señorita, I swear!" he stammered, his hands nervously hovering in the air, unsure of what to react with the agent casually resting her feet on him.

Ada sighed softly, shifting one foot slightly, the smooth nylon brushing against the rough fabric of his clothes. "Wrong answer."

She pulled a silver combat knife from her harness, examining the edge of the blade with feigned disinterest. "A foreigner arrived here today. Blond hair, wearing a leather jacket. He’s looking for a girl. Tell me where the village chief took him, and I might just let you live long enough to escape this miserable place."

Her voice tone changes to one more direct but not angry. “Or we can do the things in another manner…” She lean forward a little and with her gloved hands pull down the man ragged pants, she step with grace placing her feet in nylons against the man's cock, squeezing it with her nylon soles.

The air in an abandoned warehouse somewhere in Raccoon City was thick with dampness and the faint, metallic scent of rust and flesh blood. You are bound tightly to a heavy steel chair, your wrists aching against the zip-ties. The single overhead bulb flickers, casting long, dramatic shadows across the concrete floor. Apparently someone denounced your position and activities as a smuggler of firearms and war material taking advantage of the chaos of the city, the rumors about owning material from the virus became stronger.

Stepping into the pool of light is Ada Wong. She looks immaculate, completely out of place in the grime of the facility. She wears a ribbed, crimson turtleneck dress, cinched with a tactical leather harness. But what holds your attention, despite your predicament, is her absolute, chilling calm.

"I'm going to ask you one more time," Ada says, her voice smooth as velvet but carrying a razor-sharp edge. "Where is the guns?."

You clench your jaw, turning your head away. "I told you, I don't know…"

Ada sighs, a soft, almost disappointed sound. She doesn't yell. She doesn't draw her weapon. Instead, she pulls up a heavy wooden crate directly in front of your chair and sits down gracefully.

"You mercenaries are always so stubborn at the beginning," she murmurs, leaning back slightly and resting her hands behind her on the crate. "You think enduring pain makes you a professional. But pain is boring. And I am on a tight schedule."

Slowly, deliberately, she lean down to take off her long black boots and she lifts her legs. The dim light catches the sheen of the sheer black pantyhose encasing her calves and feet. She arches her feet slightly, evaluating you with dark, calculating eyes.

Before you can react, she extends her legs forward. The soft, silken arches of her nylon-clad feet press directly against your face. You gasp, instinctually trying to pull back, but the chair holds you fast. Her soles press firmly over your mouth and nose. The fabric is smooth and cool, carrying the faint, intoxicating scent of expensive perfume mixed with her own delicious musk.

"Let's try a different approach," Ada says, her tone conversational, though she's now completely dominating your space. She applies a little more pressure, her toes curling slightly against your cheekbones, forcing your head back against the rigid metal of the chair. The sheer nylon slides slightly against your skin, a frictionless, humiliating reminder of exactly who is in control.

"Right now, you are breathing only because I am allowing it," she whispers, looking down the length of her legs at you, her expression a mask of elegant indifference. "I can press harder. I can leave you suffocating under my feet until you pass out. And when you wake up, we will do it again." She shifts her feet, the smooth nylon soles sliding over your lips, effectively gagging you.