Patty – Junior CIA Analyst

A peek inside of the dumpster showed it mostly empty. The majority of the trash was sticky trash that had permanently attached itself to the dumpster. The overhead shaking of the garbage truck didn't release the syrup soaked newspaper sheets. Other clumps of odd things had deformed into something unrecognizable that had been in there for months. A few squeaky clean white and neatly tight of kitchen bags had been added since the morning, when the garbage removal was. There was plenty of space to stand on the grimy floor of the dumpster.

Patty imagined herself actually standing on the just nasty bits of the dumpster and opening the few trash packs carefully with her finger tips. At least, it wasn't a half filled dumpster that would have required her to actually get half immersed in the trash. If she simply moved slowly and delicately enough, she would avoid getting filthy. And, then she could proof herself to her boss. She would be able to call on her victory to get something special. It was doable and the prize would be sweet, as long as she went slow, delicately, and carefully.

She got ready to do it. She stepped up. She surveyed the top edge of the dumpster. There was enough clean space. The edge had only broken paint and rust. There were no slimy things stuck to the lid. People pretty much lobbed everything over the edge. She place her hands carefully down. She bent her knees a little, jumped her. With her elbows straight from her physical CIA training, her head was hovering over the sea of banana peels, coffee grounds, and takeout boxes that had gotten stuck to the inside walls.

However, she couldn't move her knees. The pencil skirt kept her knees together. She lowered herself down. Her mind was action oriented. She just needed to hike up her skirt to the hip for a moment. No problem. She peered out of the alley to the sidewalk. She waited for people to leave. She felt awkward standing in a business suit next to a dumpster. However, there was nothing to change. She just had to make herself breath deep and long and wait.

The sidewalk was clear. She pulled up her pencil skirt. The fabric was tight and next to her thigh. Her green panties were exposed in the fresh air. She felt her panties exposed to the whole wide alley, the big space, the big air. It was breathtakingly daring. She jumped up on her locked elbows. She swung her legs across the edge. The metal sounded empty, when her heels hit the metal floor. She quickly pulled down her pencil skirt to her knees.

Her hands were shaking. She had made it in. Now, the faster she found that phone record, she would be over this. This was more a trial than actual hard work. She carefully squatted next to a clean white kitchen bag with a red pull string. Her knees were neatly together. She had to balance on her high heels.

Pinched finger tips pulled the bag opening apart. The draw string receded into the compartment in the bag. A pair of pinched fingers moved to the bottom corner. The white bag was shaken. The contents spilled out easy as pie. There wasn't actually much inside. The cereal cartons and fruit plastic containers were uncrushed and took up a lot of space. Half of the trash looked neat and fresh from the grocery store. The other half were tea bags and food leftovers that had quickly turned into gooey, moldy masses that had broken and stained much of the clean stuff.

A tooth brush with worn bristles was a lucky find as a poker. Patty stirred the trash with it to see all the pieces. And, thus the pretty, neat, business suit dressed girl was in the filthiest of all places falling into a happy working rhythm. The smell of the place had an intense emotional factor: The stench caused a strong emotional repulsive feeling. The heightened emotion only made her more sensitive to the other smells, like fruits, misty deodorants, sweaty clothing. Smell is such an intimate touch. It can't be shut out like sight. It's not intellectual like sound. It is almost animalistic in how it affects emotions.

The worst part was identifying papers. Paper had the habit of being folded, semi-wet, which required careful unfolding. The bottom of the dumpster slowly filled up with her spread out garbage. Patty realized that this was a mistake. It left her with no space for her feet. She should have concentrated the trash and started layering. So, she started moving the trash with her tooth brush stoker. She carefully dribbled trash pieces like a soccer player, while her high-heeled feet made little side steps, and her business suit butt scooted a few inches above the grimy dumpster floor.

So familiar with trash layout in the dumpster, she moved backward without looking in her little dribbling steps. She shrieked, paused, hyper ventilated. A cold wet dime sized something was touching her right next to her vagina outside her panties on the naked thigh. The touch was on her intimate space, where only a very few young men had ever touched her. She was startled.

Very slowly and carefully to avoid the thing touching her skirt, she rose up. She looked down. A yellow McDonald's burger wrapper had been bunched up and expanded on its own. The tip of the wrapper was standing up. Apparently, it had just managed to slip up her skirt the right way. A red dot was smeared on the tip of the yellow wrapped. Someone had dripped ketchup.

She shuddered at the though or a red ketchup spot discarded McDonald's from some fat boy was high up on the inside of her thighs. She reached with her finger under her skirt and wiped it off. She wiped the finger on the side of the dumpster. The clean looking dumpster inside started seeming clean to her.

The initial revulsion to getting in contact with garbage diminished over time: "Oh, that accidental touch wasn't as bad as the one before." She explained to herself that she would simply wash her hands later. So, she needn't worry about her hands. Her shins collected scuff marks. Her face got a few dabs of garbage paint transferred on her face by habitual touches. She had given up on her suit half way through.

In the end, she walked down the streets of NYC with the phone records in her hand: "Apartment 1B – R. Robertson." Her head was held up high for the proud victory. All the ruffled looks of pedestrians heading home only raised her victory, while she walked back to the office like a filthy skank, a homeless street walker that lived in alleys.

On the way up to the office, she imagined the big looks from everyone for stepping up and proofing herself. It was going to be like birthday and Christmas together. Her mind couldn't think of anything else. Her imagined first step into the office played over and over in her mind.

When the moment came, Patty stood in the door in all the beauty of her garbage filth holding up the paper. Angela smirked double wide. Angela always had perfect posture. And, even in the evening, her make up as much as it was make-up-by-the-numbers, it had been perfectly re-applied all day to avoid it getting smudgy from normal slight sweat and skin oils.

"Patty, while you went on your little excursion on town, which I am sure was very entertaining, I did a little real CIA work. I called apartment 1B. I extracted enough information to call the phone company. Combined with a little Internet research, I had enough personal details to make the phone company e-mail me her phone records. But, you little missy are too good for phone work."

And, Angela actually stuck her tongue out a little bit.

Patty could only feel a deep punch in her stomach. Her whole inner parade of a marching band playing in her head and the feeling or riding in on a stallion decked out with banners imploded to leave her feeling little, stupid, and duped.

Grenoble sent them home. On the way out, Sandy whispered into Patty's ear: "Angela is an uppity bitch. Don't let it get you down."

Late at night after a very long and steamy hot shower with multiple soap scrubs, Patty was lying in bed. Her butt was covered in fresh new panties with little children like symbols of straw berries and coins. The combed cotton felt snug and soft against her skin. A thick cotton band ran around her thighs and belly that snapped tightly against her body. It gave her a sensation of being held in. A big section of her butt was exposed by the panties. That was warmly caressed by the warm flannel bedding embracing her back.

She wore a tank top that exposed her belly and back. The breasts were firm in place from her young age and without a bra. She snuggled deeper into her pillow and a comfort position. A tear ran down across her temple. Work had been so mean.

She had imagined the CIA work as glorious. She had imagined her co-workers to grow a close bond of a tight nit operations team. She felt alone. She felt strung out. She felt hopeless about her work. Work seemed like an endless doom of forcing her mind and body to do things against her will. Work was a machine that that mercilessly forced her to do things. And, the worst part is that unlike a straight out torture session or rape, she had to make her do those things. It wasn't like a man forcing her. Under the specter of getting fired, she had to make herself do whatever it took. And, in the end? In the end, there would be a pension for a used up and discarded woman.

Her body shuddered with tears. Her pretty face was pulled into a mourning grimace. She longed for a touch, for love, to be held. Hearing that 'it will all be okay' was her deepest yearning. For a strong, confident, successful man, who knew about the world, to tell her that she would be fine. And, she would believe him. And, her heart would be touched to release. And, she melt with her head lying on his lap. Exhaustion took over and sent her into deep, black sleep.

The next morning in office, a g-string lay placed across her keyboard. The backside was a quarter inch cotton band. The front was a small triangle. A happy font read, "I am saving it for Jesus." Beneath it, right above where the clitoris would be, was the stencil print of a bearded Jesus.

Patty looked around the room. Angela beamed with the happy shiny face of a morning newscaster, "It's a gift. Keeping your virginity is so important. I know being out of the academy, we have to face so many temptations."

Sandy picked up her panty gift, stretched one end on a finger. With the g-string taut, she aimed at Angela and released the g-string. The g-string hit Angela straight into the face. A quiet "whoops" escaped her mouth. With more thought, she added with a cheery voice, "Oh, it mustn't have been your size. My bad."

Grenoble knocked on her desk, "Enough child's play. Patty, I hope you learned your lesson yesterday. However, you proofed yourself. I have a little trial for you. And, you two back on telemarketing duty."

Both women were sitting again in the spacious black CIA SUV. They drove down the streets to an unknown destination. Grenoble wouldn't talk. Patty didn't dare talking. Patty watched the passing people in the street, running to work, juggling coffee cups and briefcases, waving for cabs. A certain comfort set in. It was calming to observe. The black leather seats felt reassuring. She was in a real CIA undercover SUV. She was on an excited unknown mission. The mystery made her happy.

Big eyed, she followed Grenoble into a five star hotel lobby. Grenoble walked purposeful with fast strides across the lobby. She had aimed her gait perfectly at a destination that Patty excitedly looked forward to. The lobby hall was full of pillars, chandelier, giant oil paintings, people in expensive suits, uniformed bell hops, and a poodle with a designer hair cut and pink bow.

In the far end of the lobby was a little coffee area. A host with a tall hat and golden cords running across the front of this jacket opened the velvet rope for the two women. The chairs looked Victorian with velvet upholstery. The table had a gold rim and white porcelain paintings on the center. The waitress had a maid uniform: black dress, white apron in front, and a white head dress. She carried a serving plate with gold handles in both hands. A delicate long noosed tea kettle was in the center and delicate, gold rimmed cups, and under cups.

Within a minute, they were sitting in an exclusive tea ceremony place and sipping tea. Patty said, 'wow.' And, Grenoble raised her finger and blew air through her mouth to tell Patty to be quiet without ever looking at Patty. Grenoble was scanning the lobby area.

"Do you see the curly haired woman coming in?"

Patty attempted to turn around. Yet, Grenoble stopped her with a soft, yet precise tap on patty's knee, "Use your spoon." The silver spoon was so polished that it was like a mirror. The room behind her was distorted from the curvature of the spoon. There was only one woman among the workers and business men. "Yes."

"The first part of your mission is to determine her panties. You have to precisely identify her panties."

"How am I going to see her panties in public?"

"Go. Don't plan. Improvise. She is on the way to the bathroom."

Patty turned around and got up in one motion. She tripped on the edge of a thick carpet and kept going. Her mark quickly entered a hallway with mirrors, paintings, and elaborate lighting. A few turns drew them deeper into the hotel building past kitchen doors, storage rooms, and waiting serving rollers. At last, the symbol of a female body on the door indicated the bathroom. Her mark absent mindedly smiled at Patty, as she held the door open.

With the first step into the bathroom, Patty inhaled the smell of tropical flowers. It was one of those luxurious bathrooms that made you feel happy. The bathroom was beautifully decorated with bamboo. Exotic humming birds were singing on an endless loop through speakers. Next to each sink were individually folded cotton hand towels. A side table was filled with deodorants, hair sprays, and other beauty supply that a woman might need.

Her mark was behind a locked stall door. A zipper announced the dropping of pants. A thud marked the sit down. The pause before the peeing was a thick pause. The moment the pee started hissing, Patty's brain snapped into panic. If she didn't do something now, the moment of opportunity would be over. Patty didn't have a plan, but she needed to open the door.

Patty got a quarter out. She turned the lock open from the outside. She pushed open the door. How would she explain what she had done? The woman in front of her looked like an exhausted house wife without the bravado of her dress and the confident gait. One hand was holding a slip of toilet paper at the read to wipe of the last drops. Her panties were stretched between her calves. They were richly purple lace panties. Patty kept staring at them.

"Have you gotten a good eyeful?"

Patty kept staring at the panties. She tried to remember exactly, the half circles in the lace, the particular color, and the shape.

"Would you mind closing the door?"

Patty snapped into action, "Sorry, wrong door." She closed the door. She went into the next stall and locked the door. She was too embarrassed to be seen by that woman again. Her mind repeated the image of the panty. With each repetition more of the whole image sank into her consciousness, the middle aged woman with her bare bottom and the stream of urine shooting out. Behind it all was the cheery and warm lighting of the luxury bathroom.

When the bathroom door shut closed, Patty got out of the stall and returned to Grenoble. She sat down happily with an extra swing and bounced her butt down so much that her feet lifted of the ground: "I could draw a portrait, so well do I remember her panties.

"You didn't graduate art school. You are a spy. Part two of your mission is to purchase a duplicate pair."

"But, there are millions of stores and web sites selling purple lace panties!"

"You better catch her before she leaves and ask her, where she bought 'em. Hurry, little rascal!"

Patty lurched off her seat in panic. Her wide steps to get off the ground made her almost fall. Her mark was peeling away from an acquaintance, whom she had been talking to. The exit was only a few steps away. Patty reached her right in front of the door, which was held open by a smiling, white-gloved bellhop. Patty poked her mark on the shoulder.

Her mark turned around, "ah, the bathroom intruder."

"I-I really like your panties. Where did you get them?" Patty stuttered and spoke like a doofus teenage girl. The act had been unintentional, yet worked to paint her as a silly young girl that one had to simply put up with.

While walking away, her mark yelled out "Friedrick's of Hollywood" without even turning her head. Patty stood a little left like a homeless puppy on the marble steps of the hotel entrance.

Grenoble who had stayed in the background, yet in earshot, walked past Patty, "I'll give you a ride to the store. The valet brought their black SUV back. Silence was again in the SUV. Patty kind of liked it that way. She was struggling with the turmoil of emotion inside of her, the effort that it needed to get herself psyched up and the effort that was required to keep her blushing in check. And, a little golden feeling in the center shown to mark her unacknowledged success.

The SUV idled right in front of the lingerie store. Patty hopped out and came back in with the right panty in all conceivable sizes. She sheepishly announced, "I didn't know the size. So, I got them all." Her smart thinking was answered with, "The CIA has approved only one panty. You have to pay for the excess with your own money." Patty was upset for the drive. Her upset feeling kept her from thinking anything else. Her thoughts centered around that evil boss bitch and wishes for slavery, so that it would be legitimate for her to slay her evil owner.

She didn't realize that the care was stopped in front of the downtown YMCA. The YMCA was a light gray stone building in between modern high rises. The sidewalks were crowded with workers on early lunch break hurrying to get food.

"Your mark is visiting the YMCA every Tuesday during lunch. Your job is to sew a bug into your duplicate panty. Then, you will go inside and switch the panties, while she is taking a swim. The bug and hand sewing case are in the glove compartment."

There was also a Glock handgun in the glove compartment. The lace made it easy to embed the black rice grain sized bug into the seam. A stream of people crossed the street in front and behind them. Yet, the tinted windows gave them a sense of privacy, like being invisible in a big crowd.

Without warning, Grenoble started counting "3 – 2 – 1 – Get out now." Patty stumbled outside. The moment that she stepped past the wide, thick SUV door, she saw her mark right in front of her – the curly haired woman. She slammed the door closed. She followed her mark through the sidewalk full of pedestrians. Her eyes were trained on the back of her marks head, while her peripheral vision helped her find little open canals in the crowd and side step people.

The moment, she entered the YMCA, the smell of chlorine hit her. If it weren't for the chlorine, the place would have smelled out, because it looked aged. A round reception area in the middle stopped Patty. Her mark waved a badge and continued without stopping. Patty hastily pulled a twenty out of her wallet: "Here, keep the rest. I am on a short lunch break."

"There is no rest. It's twenty dollars entrance fee. Let me get you a locker key."

"It's okay. I don't need one."

"Miss, I don't know who you are, but you aren't going to swim in your clothes or get to throw your clothes in a corner." The big woman squarely aimed her eyes at Patty to seize her up. "Oh, yes of course. I forgot. I am just so in a rush."

"Here you go, lady."

With a key on a spiral chain in hand, Patty stormed on. The locker room had been built in old times without enough ventilation. The warm water droplets stood in the air and immediately started collecting on her face. Mirrors were fogged up with circles rubbed clear with towels. Women stood in their bras in front of lockers. Stockings were being rolled down. White head towels throned on top of heads. Purses were piled on benches in the middle of the locker rows.