As my body and mind matured, so did what I was tasked with. No longer did I play the sobbing child, tugging at the heart strings, I played the femme fatale, toying with hearts. I became temptation embodied, simpering smirks, lacquered lips and lustrous looks. It's a curious thing, power. It comes in many forms. Political, social, economical and sexual. Yet, in this misogynistic world, no one ever suspects power lingers beneath a guise of curves and long flowing hair. 

I saw the way they looked at me in my sheer night gown and lacy lingerie: hungered, savage, lustful. They looked like they wanted to devour me whole. And they looked down on me, objectified me and most importantly underestimated me. Men, so convinced they had the all power in their hands, certain they're the ones using me, when all along it's me using them. They don't suspect the strong, agile and intelligent foe lurking under the demeaned exterior. In their minds their isn't such a thing as a pretty face coupled with the adept mind. 

My body became the battleground and I was almost always unarmed - you understand that it's hard to hide guns or knives stripped down to undergarments. My arsenal became bullets of blood red lipstick, grenades of knock-out perfume and my utility belt became garters. I was armed to seduce. Lust is the down-fall of the human race. 

So often I played the crooning kitten, allured by filthy power barons, acting as their fuck-toy. I'd prowl, coo, flip my hair and giggle. I'd turn on the charm, stalk around them and sway my hips hypnotically. 

I had to build walls, detach myself from the gut-churning things I had to so to get the job done. At night I'd have to try and bury those memories of wrinkly old men with their sagging bodies, crinkled faces and decaying teeth. I'd have memories of their harsh hands groping me, sanding my skin with their rough scaly texture. I'd remember the stench of their breath, the feeling of their craggy slobbery lips. 

But it wasn't as if I had any choice. 

The KGB were the metaphorical gun to the back of my head. Every passing moment I was just dancing in the gallows, feet skating the trapdoor that could open and send me choking to death any second. To the KGB, we weren't human beings, we were statistics; expendable figures on a page. 

At least I finally understood why they removed my womb all that time ago. In a way it was a kindness.

The bar was a dimly lit place, a sort of hellfire club for randy hellions; where escorts loitered at in every corner. Filthy rich Russian power barons and political figureheads of all kinds would go there to grab a drink and grab a girl. It was a given that our communist leaders were corrupt, but when corruption reached a degree of capitalism, it was our duty to intervene.

I felt exposed in the dress, my skin bristling with goosebumps from the draught of the Russian winter. My skin was bared, and I felt like a vulnerable animal; a knife or bullet could carve through me if I lost my wits for a second. The dress was inhibiting, it's length easily making a number of moves in my roster impossible. And beneath the caked face, the pinned and curled hair and the flowing evening gown, I was tangled in restrictive raunchy undergarments.

I had no choice but to put all my faith in the three men escorting me — two of whom I knew nothing of, one who I knew everything about, and mistrusted him accordingly.

Every languid step was accentuated by a swing of my hips; I kept my back straight and my chin raised like a sovereign. I slinked over to the bar and perched myself on a stool, not far from the man I knew to be my target and crossed my legs, so the sheer material was hiked up to bare some of my slender, porcelain, hairless leg.

"A drink for madam?" Asked a young bartender, polishing a cocktail shaker. The dishrag looked tatty in his hand.

"A cocktail..."  I shrugged aloofly, keeping my eyes pinned to my prey.

"Anything in particular?" He placed down the metal canister and straightened his bow tie, his eyes tracing my curves and straying in the most privacy infringing places.

I exchanged eye-contact with James across the bar, who was smirking appreciatively at me in the figure-hugging fabric. "Something bitter," I said sourly, gritting my jaw.

The man I was after, Anton Vanko, had allegedly been working with one of the greasy yanks, and here he was, in all his merriment, downing shots of the finest Russian Vodka with women on either arm. I supposed it was lucrative work he had done with this 'Stark', seeing such prestigious liquor being thrown back like water, and with two prostitutes pawing at him; gold diggers, the both of them. As much as I detested their demeaning manner, and their continuation of the weak-female archetype, I admired how they manipulated it. Vanko none-the-wiser, was buying them the most expensive drinks on the lounge menu, and all they did was flirt a little and cheer every time he managed another shot of hard alcohol.

A crystalline plinking sound snapped me out of my daze as my drink arrived.

"One margarita, a drink fit for a princess, yes?" He winked at me, ironic he didn't know how right he was.

I angled my chest forwards and propped myself up against the bar. "How much will that cost me?" I batted my eyelashes and swilled a red glossy nail in the drink. Giving him a longing lusty look, I stirring up the drink and put the digit to my mouth, licking it clean with a smile.

His eyes climbed from my chest to my finger, and I watched him swallow hard. "For you, my princess — it will cost nothing... Have it on me..."  He tugged at his collar and seethed in a deep breath. It was only a matter of seconds before another patron called for his attention.

Vanko was an older man, late forties, with a wispy greying sideburns and a moustache sitting on his upper lip. He had the look of an academic. His clothes spoke volumes, a personally tailored suit, a loud red tie and black leather shoes with the extortionate price labels still on the bottom. He even sported a guilt pocket-watch and chain. Every inch the walking cliché. But what I was most interested in was the briefcase he was carrying around with him.

I smothered him with attention, giving him an unwavering look from across the bar. Clearly feeling the heat of my staring, his eyes departed from the exposed cleavages of the girls he had, and walked to me.

I'd learnt on that night with James how men preferred their presents gift wrapped, not all on show. James had made a meal of undressing me. The girls hovering around Vanko like flies to shit were supremely underdressed, too obvious.

But once I had Vanko's attention, I diverted all thoughts to me.

The edge of the margarita glass was laced with salt. With one fluid movement, I drew my tongue around the lip of the glass, sweeping it onto my tongue, my eyes not leaving his; I watched his mouth fall open. I took a small sip at the drink and gave him a wicked smile; I watched him swallow hard. To finish off my performance, a droplet spilled from my bright red lips: with a finger, a swooped it up and returned it to my mouth; I watch his breathing catch. I sucked obscenely, making an unabashed face of pleasure at the taste, my eyes rolling back in my skull; I watched him palm at his pants. With an ostentatious drag, I fished the finger from my lips and opened my eyes. I looked him up and down with my head cocked to the side.

I saw him blurt rushed apologies at the two escorts that had latched onto him, slipping free of their ensnaring arms. It was with an awkward walk that he hot-footed it over to me, grabbing his briefcase with him.

With his cheeks flushed and at a slight loss of breath, he blurted "Name your price for the night."

Forward, but I could work with it. That night was going to be easier than I thought. I placed my hand high up on his thigh, giving him a squeeze. I leaned in close "How much have you got, big boy?" my lips brushed the shell of his ear and I felt him shiver.

I could see the other whores giving me snotty glares, but snappily moving on to the next nicely-dressed man.

"For you, any price. You charge five thousand ruble an hour? The same as the rest of the girls? Let's call it fifty-thousand ruble for the night."  He seemed in a rush to get us alone. I slipped my hand against his inner thigh.

"I like my money upfront," I crooned, flipping my hair over my shoulders, baring more of my throat and collarbones.

"If you wish it..." He dragged the briefcase into his lap and spun the digits on the lock, not even making sure I couldn't see — apparently women have no memories or no understanding of locks — the ignorance! And then... wedges of ruble bills, packeted with rubber bands around the middle; just a portion of what he'd earned selling out our country to the American. He'd equipped himself with enough money to have some fun that evening.

Vanko snatched my hand soon after, and started dragging me through the crowds like a bitch on a leash. I made eye contact with James, Alexi and the new recruit — what was his name again? — blinked twice and then was dragged out of the bar and away. He wasn't even going to be using the booths they supplied.

His step was fast on the icy pavement as he trailed me disrespectfully back to the hotel. I could see my three men flanking me as I was guided back to his locked room unarmed. It was through the lobby, up the stairs, and then a keycard to the lock.

Vanko dumped the briefcase by the door and made for the bed, whilst I loitered by the doorway.

The room was luxurious, the best money could buy — guilt fittings, mahogany wood dressers, armoire and drawers, a four poster bed with red satin trims. The bed had stacks of feather pillows and cushions. He had remnants of room service floating around; fine-bone china plates and a steak knife. While so much of the USSR suffered in poverty, it made me sick to my stomach that men like these luxuriated.

"If I am paying you good money, will you put a nice show on for me, gorgeous?" He flopped onto the kingsize bed, yanked off his blazer and started unbuttoning his top.

"Of course..." with that, I slowly undressed myself, stalking towards him with a coy smile. I slipped the material off either shoulder and let the dress slide down over my bust, revealing my skin and lingerie, inch by inch.

I could see his excitement from his trousers alone.

The dress slithered around my waist, until it was bunched up around my middle and my stomach and hip-bones were revealed.

He was humming with appreciation, unravelling himself from his shirt and discarding the tie.

I let it drop off my middle and reveal my stockings and garters, and the miles of legs they clung to.

"Beautiful..." His eyes went to his flies as he unbuttoned his trousers. His attention removed from me for a second, I snatched the steak knife off the table as I passed and tucked it into the back of a stocking.

As I carried on stalking towards him, I could feel the point of the knife digging into the back of my thigh, but I didn't let that show on my face. As I trod closer and closer he reclined further back, aloof and welcoming.

I traipsed my hand along the carved wooden arched of the footboard as I slipped by and sashayed around the bed, and then slowly clambered onto the bed of linen, feathers and foam.

"Come to me," he beseeched in a reverent voice. "Take off my trousers..."

I crawled up the bed like a tigress, making sure he couldn't see the weapon strapped to the back oh my leg, and I clambered up into his lap. As I sat down, he attached his craggy lips to mine. I let it happen, I parted my lips for him. His hands possessively grasped my hips and he rocked me in his lap.

He pulled me toward him and I fell atop of him, my body flat against his. With a flick of the wrist, I withdrew the knife from the stocking and pressed it to his throat. Still straddling him, I pinned him down.

"Okay, Vanko... The game is up. Where are the documents you gave to Stark?" I pressed the serrated edge against his throat, hearing him sputter and seeing the shock written across his face.

"What?! I have no idea what you're talking about!" he cried, trying to wriggle free.

I pressed him down into the bed, my hand on his sternum and dug the knife in deeper, dragging it slightly and letting him feel the sharp edge. He choked out a nervous splutter.

"Don't play games with me, I won't hesitate to kill you — believe me. What was it that you gave to Stark?!" I yelled down at him, seeing his wide manic eyes.

"I didn't give him anything!" he cawed like a raven, hands up in a pitiful surrender.

"So you do know who I'm talking about!" I gave him the first genuine smile all evening. "Tell me which documents you gave to him, Vanko!"

"I can't tell you! I can't!" He writhed underneath me, trying to throw me off of him.

I changed tactics, I pinned him to the headboard with my hand, and put the knife to his crotch. "For every lie you tell me, I will cut higher up your thigh..."

"It wasn't important! It wasn't, I swear!" Vanko sputtered.

"Oh dear, it appears you've lied to me..." I stabbed the knife into his thigh and carved apart the flesh — what do you know? — just like a cut of meat.

He roared in agony, thrashing and tossing his head back, still gutting around the hand around his throat.

"You're going to have to keep it down, mister Vanko, we don't want any complaints..." I said calmly, I could feel his blood trickling down my thigh. "Tell me what you were doing with Stark!" I hissed.

"Please! The Americans will deport me if I tell you!" He breathed harshly, his body juddering with pain.

"I will kill you if you don't!" To make an example of it, I plunged the blade into his thigh again and sliced it open, a notch higher than the previous incision. "This knife isn't clean, mister Vanko; I really wouldn't risk it."

He bellowed out another shriek of agony and tossed and turned beneath me, gasping for air. He tried to wriggle away; I admonished him by bashing his head into the headboard. "Please!" He screwed his eyes shut. "I have a son!" He sobbed out. "And a wife!" He opened his dark eyes, tear-glazed. "We needed to the money! We needed the money! We were suffering; just like everyone else!" An array of tears started to drip down his cheeks.

"You're cheating scum..." I stabbed him higher in the thigh, just for his disloyalty, and he twitched and screamed. "And if you're family are truly suffering, why are you prancing around in these ridiculous clothes and buying prostitutes?" I dug it in deeper for good measure. "This will all end if you just tell me, mister Vanko."

"The arc reactor! Howard-" He choked on a sniffling sob. "Howard and I are working on the arc reactor..." He lay lamely, giving into the pain, no longer fighting.

"Tell me what it is!" I hissed.

"A new type of energy. Clean energy... Infinite energy... The most powerful kind..." The middle-aged man was weeping like a toddler.

"For what?" I twisted the blade, keeping my voice down.

He mewled like an injured pup, still crying selfishly. "Weapons!" he yelped, seizing up at the sting of the knife. "It's for weapons!"

"Are there any plans for these developments? Papers? Prototypes?" I slowly dragged the knife out of his thigh and he whined and sobbed.

"Papers! Just papers..!" He babbled. "It's all hypothetical! There's no way we'll be able to develop this technology this side of the millennium!" He gasped as I finally drew the point of the blade out of him.

"Last question: where are the papers?"

"Then you'll let me go?" he pleaded, finally opening his wrinkle-framed eyes.

"If you tell me the truth, maybe." I kept my promises ambiguous and my expression cold.

"Stark. He has them. All of them. I sold every last scrap to him. That's where I got the money. Now, please-"

"One last thing, mister Vanko..." I had to tell him. I knew what it was like to lose someone important. To lose a father. Or to be on the receiving end of misogyny. "Your son needs a father, and the poor woman whose married to you; deserves more respect. If I find you in a place like this again, I will sever you cock from your body. Understand?"

He nodded frantically. "Good." Using his neck for leverage, I smacked his head into the headboard with just enough force to knock him out cold.

I chucked away the knife and untangled my debauched body from his. I picked up my dress as I reached the door, and slipped it on over my head. Snatching the case, I opened the door and rejoined my male comrades.

"Well done, Natalie..." I heard Alexi compliment.

"Beautiful work as always..." James grunted possessively, gritting his jaw at the other man. He threw his arm around my waist and we made our way out.

A/N - I actually really enjoyed writing this chapter. Strong Natasha is my favourite Natasha; AmIRight? I wanted to give y'all a bit of insight into her day-job now and how she felt about it. Also, how she's learning how to use her charms to manipulate men.

Also, I've just started watching 'Daredevil' - it's better than 'Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D'! I love it. And Matt Murdock can kiss me any time.

The image in the multimedia is of Anton Vanko in 'Agent Carter', but this is set quite a few years after that; so imagine him a bit older with me, yes?

Dedication goes to Legolas____! x