Amanda, CIA Agent Ch. 01

He looked at her sternly. "Amanda, I told you. For female NCS candidates, physical attractiveness is the primary qualification. I offered you a more conventional position, but you declined it. Are you having second thoughts?"

Oh, no, she thought, he's right. "I apologize. Becoming a sex object is new territory for me. I need to get more comfortable with it."

"I agree, and quickly," he said as he crouched behind her. "This is a very proper skirt," he said as he tugged on it. "Tomorrow's skirt should hit you here." He ran his finger across the front of her leg, halfway up her thigh. "And choose a tighter, thinner one, to show off your ass." He punctuated his demand by slapping her bottom.

Amanda jumped and exclaimed, "Oh!" as her face reddened in outrage. He just sexually assaulted me! she thought. But what recourse did she have? She had just signed up for exactly this kind of treatment.

Richards did not wait for her to recover. "Your calves have a bit of color." He pinched the front hem of her skirt again and abruptly jerked it upward.

Her eyes widened, and she clutched at the material. Her hem's upward travel halted just below the center panel of her panties. "What are you doing?"

He ignored her protest. "My god, your legs go on for miles! They're so well-toned. You must exercise a lot?"

She struggled to process his question. "Yes, I run three times a week," she choked out.

As he held her hem perilously high, she maintained downward pressure on both sides of her skirt. He couldn't quite see her panties, but he was seeing more of her legs than she wanted.

"Your thighs are nicely sculpted, but they're pale. I'd tell you to get some sun, but there isn't time. So, wear some stockings. Black thigh-highs with a lacy pattern would be best."

How typical, she thought. She nodded.

"Put your hands on your waist."

He hadn't released the hem of her skirt. The consequences would be mortifying. She must have misunderstood. "Wait, what?"

"You heard me."

Her heart pounded. "Let go of my skirt first."

He stood up but didn't release her hem. "This is not a negotiation. If you don't want my help, you can leave now."

Amanda waffled. So far, she didn't like his suggestions, but she sensed their importance. This was not the time to alienate him. However, she had no intention of letting him look under her skirt.

A moment later, he slackened the tension on her hem, and she felt a flood of relief. However, his fist still gripped a handful of fabric.

"Are you going to pull it up when I let go?"

He gave her a sharp look, then sighed in annoyance as he relented. "OK, not yet."

Her hands trembled as she lifted them. He didn't move. She flattened her palms against her hips.

"Amanda, I'm trying to help you. Let me see."

She looked away, her eyes brimming.

"Come on now, don't be silly! Let me see," he repeated.

She couldn't imagine why he needed to see underneath her skirt, but she had to admit that there was a certain logic to his previous direction. If her own modesty caused her to fail, she would never forgive herself. She gave a single nod.

Richards slowly began to raise her skirt.

Amanda pressed her palms harder against her hips. When her hem reached her crotch, she let out a small cry. He was about to expose her underwear.

He patted the back of her shoulder with his free hand. "Relax, it's only your panties!" He raised her hem to her waist. "Plain white cotton briefs, really?" he scoffed.

She stared at the wall, to avoid thinking about where his gaze was fixed. Still, she was peeved at his implication that her panties were frumpy. "They're not full briefs, they're hipsters," she corrected defensively. "They don't, um... they're more comfortable," she finished.

With self-disgust, she felt herself starting to get wet. Unbidden came the mental image of his gaze fixed on the bulging outline of her vulva, visible through the thin material. Equally unwelcome was the term men used for it. She chastised herself for recalling that vulgarity.

She felt humiliated by this exposure, and so naughty for permitting it, but that only added further to her excitement. He was not even that attractive, but that did little to diminish her response. She hoped her dampness wasn't visible.

After another moment, he finally released her skirt. "No doubt," he allowed. "Less chance of bunching up." He grinned.

She refused to react, determined to deny him the satisfaction.

He continued. "Tomorrow, wear bikini panties, some that match your bra. Even better if the waistband shows through your skirt."

With her skirt back in place, she breathed more easily, but still she worried. What type of bikini panties? How provocative should they be? Who would see them? She knew more about lingerie than she would admit.

Richards had mentioned a comprehensive physical, which meant removal of clothing, but presumably the disrobing would take place in private. Even if the doctor were to see her in her panties, his professional detachment should make the particular style irrelevant. She didn't see the need for bikini panties. Furthermore, she didn't like the message they'd send. Normally, she'd have chosen the plainest, most modest panties she owned. She'd have to mull this decision later.

"Wear some pumps with at least three-inch heels, to draw the eye to your long legs and give greater definition to your calves. Four inches would be better, if you can manage. And wear perfume."

Incredulous, she asked, "Is tomorrow an assessment or a date?"

He grinned. "It's a little of both."

* * *

The next morning, the guard at the gate directed Amanda to the New Headquarters Building. As she crossed the visitors' parking lot, taking care not to scuff the immaculate red soles of her new Louboutin heels, she attracted attention.

It's because of my skirt, she thought. Its shortness was not the only problem. The unlined cotton garment's printed floral pattern had appeared opaque the night before, but today's bright sun revealed the shadows of her thighs.

Mindful of Richards' sartorial advice, she'd visited the local mall, but now she regretted her choices. She'd allowed her fear of being judged dowdy and puritanical to overrule her sense of propriety. At least she'd found a blazer to cover her blouse, whose thin fabric stretched so snugly that it only highlighted the texture of the pink lace bra beneath.

As she crossed the polished marble floor to the security desk, a stout, well-dressed man addressed the guard. "I'm expecting a tall brunette named Stevens. Call me when she...."

He heard the clack of her heels and turned to watch her approach. "Hi! Fred Gordon, Director of Security. You must be Amanda." As she shook his hand, he leered at her. "I'll show you to the waiting area."

She sat, but he soon returned, stealing a glance down her jacket while offering coffee. She declined, more sharply than she intended. After he stormed off, she admired the breathtaking view of the Old Headquarters Building across the way.

A pretty blonde sat down nearby. Heavy makeup emphasized her emerald eyes, whose same shade was echoed in her skimpy satin blouse. Her plunging neckline bared the inner curves of her breasts.

The blonde tracked Amanda's eyes to her own cleavage. "Yeah, my blouse is over the top. So to speak." She grinned. "It's a trashy look, isn't it, with the edges of my bra showing? My recruiter suggested it." She extended her hand. "Megan Lindstrom. Are you an NCS candidate too?"

"Yes. I'm Amanda Stevens." She shook Megan's hand. "My recruiter gave similar advice." She snorted as she pointed at the lower edge of her skirt.

"Yep, that skirt's pretty short, and thin besides. But mine's not much better." She lifted the folder in her lap to show an expanse of her well-tanned thighs. "What about your top? He didn't say to wear that blazer, did he?"

Amanda looked away.

Megan nodded at the single button. "Show me."

Amanda winced. "I can't. It's thin, and my bra shows through." She colored as she tilted her head towards Mr. Gordon, who eyed her from the security desk.

Megan nodded. "I get it. You're trying to keep it on."

"As long as I can."

"You know what's coming? They'll embarrass and humiliate us. My guy said they'll escalate until we break. Like they do with the SEALs."

"I'll never quit." Her eyes blazed.

Megan shook her head. "Me either."

A CIA staffer approached Amanda. "I'm Wayne Rogers."

Amanda said goodbye to Megan and followed him to an alcove with a table and chairs. She was about to sit down when Wayne stepped behind her. She flinched as his hand touch her shoulder, then slid through her hair.

"Take off your jacket."

So much for that strategy, she thought. She hadn't even managed to remain covered for 30 minutes. She pinked as she unfastened the button and shrugged off the blazer.

Again she began to sit, but Rogers grabbed her shoulder and turned her. She moved to cover her chest, but he roughly caught her wrists. "My god, that's a tight blouse!"

"It's new," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. Rogers' hold on her wrists was disconcerting. "It's a cotton-spandex blend. Mr. Richards said I should wear something tight," she prattled.

"Let's get some better light on you." He spun her to face the window. "That was daring to choose a textured bra that shows through so well." He rubbed his chin as he stared. "Raise your hands. C'mon, up-up-up!"

After a moment's hesitation, she complied, blushing, afraid to look down to see how much this pose raised and thrust out her breasts.

"Holy fuck." He shook his head. "You have the most unbelievable tits."

Her jaw dropped. "No need to be so juvenile," she huffed. "They're called breasts."

Another man approached, and Rogers nodded to him. "Amanda, this is Dr. Dirk Miller. He'll lead your assessment and physical exam."

Amanda had uncertainly kept her arms raised high, but she lowered them to shake Miller's hand, noticing his powerful build, square jaw, aquiline nose, and sandy blond hair.

Rogers spoke to Miller. "For future reference: Amanda prefers we refer to her amazing tits as amazing breasts instead." He cackled and clapped his hands together.

She dropped her smile. "Truth be told, I'd prefer you keep such comments to yourself."

Rogers smirked. "That's a little disingenuous, coming from a woman with an epic rack who wears a lacy bra under a transparent blouse. Your clothes say, check out this magnificent pair of tits, but your words say, oh no, don't you dare mention them. Which is it?"

She saw his point. Her choice of blouse was not Rogers' fault. And more to the point, Richards had warned her they'd be assessing her body. Angry responses to their entirely predictable comments would not help her case. She resolved to be more thick-skinned.

As Amanda mulled these issues, Miller led her down a stairway and a long hallway to the Medical department. He showed her to a chair and sat down behind his desk.

As she crossed her legs, Amanda noted Miller's medical license and degrees from two Ivy League universities, set in simple black frames on the wall behind him. His B.S. degree showed a 1980 date, which made him about 48, old enough to be her father. What did it say about her that she found him so devastatingly attractive?

A larger color photo in a more elaborate gold frame showed Miller, dashing in his dress blues, standing at attention as a smiling President Bush pinned a medal to his chest. When he noticed Amanda studying the picture, Miller swelled with pride and sat taller in his chair. "That medal was for finding proof of Weapons of Mass Destruction in Iraq."

Amanda was taken aback. She'd seen extensive press coverage stating such evidence didn't exist and suggesting what passed for proof may have been fabricated. In fact, Amanda recalled her own outrage when the Bush Administration had publicly exposed Valerie Plame's identity as a CIA operations officer, in retaliation for her husband's newspaper article revealing this fabrication.

Amanda had idolized Plame. Anyone who participated in that plot must be lacking in integrity, she reasoned. However, she intuited it would be unwise to confront Miller on this point, particularly since he was so proud of his own accomplishment.

Thankfully, Miller changed the subject. "So, how has everything gone so far?"

"Fine."

"Frankly, I was afraid someone took the way you're dressed as an invitation to behave improperly."

Oh boy, she thought, this is tricky. She also didn't like his description of her attire, since she'd followed Richards' recommendations.

"It's ok, Amanda. You can tell me."

"A few men have been inappropriate. But it's really no big deal. I don't want to get anyone in trouble."

"Why don't you tell me what happened. We can discuss it and decide together. Was there more than one incident?"

Amanda was still wary, but somewhat reassured by his sincerity. "First, in the parking lot this morning, a man loitered nearby, watching me. Someone whistled a catcall."

Miller nodded. "In the visitor's lot. What time?"

"8:15."

"I'll get the video from that lot." Miller made a note. "What was the next one?"

"I met Fred Gordon, the Director of Security. When I walked in, he was talking about me. He stared at my chest, and he looked down my blouse."

"Fred's not as polite as he should be." Miller glanced at her chest. "You're pretty well covered with that jacket. You're well endowed, but you're not spilling out of your top." He made another note. "What else?"

Amanda bristled at the suggestion she'd invited Fred's attention. She also didn't like Miller's comment about the size of her bust. Had she misread his sincerity? She responded with an edge. "When I met with Wayne Rogers a few minutes ago, he touched my hair! And you heard his crude remarks about my body."

"Yes." Milled nodded. "And yesterday, with Jack Richards? Any issues there?"

Amanda replayed her interview in her head. Richards too had noticed her face and body, but initially his words had been respectful. Later he'd crossed the line, but only after she brought up her breasts. She berated herself again for her mistake. He'd made her uncomfortable again during the waiver signing, but he was only following procedure and she could hardly complain.

"You've grown quiet. Did something happen with Jack?"

Amanda thought back to the final part of her visit, when Richards had coached her on her appearance. His behavior had unnerved her, but he'd been trying to help her. It seemed churlish to report him.

"Amanda?"

"He looked up my skirt. And he slapped my butt."

"How did you respond? How much did he see? Did you show him your panties?"

Her anger spiked. "No, I didn't 'show' him anything!"

"All right. No need to raise your voice."

She realized yesterday's events were not Dr. Miller's doing, and she calmed herself. "He grabbed the hem of my skirt and pulled it up. I held it down as best I could."

She knew this wasn't the whole truth.

"And?"

"He saw my upper thighs, but not my panties." But she knew she shouldn't withhold the rest of the story. Miller would find out later, and then he'd be unhappy.

"At least, not initially. But then I...." She couldn't say it.

"You what?"

"I gave him permission." She blushed fiercely.

"Permission for what?"

"To raise my skirt." Ashamed, she looked at her shoes.

"I see. Apparently, he did so. How high did it go?"

She kept her eyes down, unable to look at him.

"How high?" he repeated.

She forced herself to meet his eye. "To my waist." She felt so humiliated.

"So, he did see your panties. After you invited him to lift your skirt. You can hardly blame him for looking. What did he say?"

Her shoulders sagged. "To wear different panties."

He looked perplexed.

She sighed. "Bikini panties instead of hipsters."

"So, he was coaching you, to help you make a good impression. You should thank him for that."

She just nodded.

"And then he slapped your ass. Why?"

She sighed and brushed her hair away. "That was actually earlier. I think he got a little excited."

"Did it hurt really bad or leave a mark?"

"That's completely not the point!" she sputtered. "He touched my butt!"

"One of the waivers you signed might apply, but I'll have to follow up." He made another note. "Any others?"

"No." Why did I bring this up? she wondered. He only seemed interested in blaming the victim.

"Let's move on to your polygraph." He opened a cabinet and took out several sensors with wires attached. "Lean forward, arms out to the sides." He wrapped a strap around her chest, above her breasts, and another around her waist. He placed a blood pressure cuff around her arm, and clipped smaller sensors to three fingers. He plugged the leads into his PC.

As he wired her up, Amanda noticed a large photo atop his desk, showing Miller in a black tuxedo. In his arms he held a stunning blonde in a white bridal gown. They gazed into each other's eyes as Miller's eyes crinkled in amusement. The bride's mouth was open in laughter, revealing a dazzling smile. Her low neckline called attention to her impressive chest. She could not have been much more than 20.

"That's a lovely wedding portrait. How long have you been married?"

"Thank you." He sat down behind his desk. "Fourteen months." He saw Amanda continued to study the picture. "Her name's Michelle. She's beautiful, isn't she?"

"Yes." Amanda considered herself decidedly heterosexual, but she found herself captivated. "What does she do?"

"Sorry, I can't say."

Oops, thought Amanda, I shouldn't have been so nosy. But the implication was not lost on her: She was an Agency employee. Amanda wondered if she'd been an NCS candidate like herself. The more disturbing issue was that Miller had to be nearly 30 years older than his new wife.

Miller took initial readings from his instruments. "Amanda, your heart rate and respiration are a little elevated. Are you nervous about the questions?"

"Oh, no, I'm fine." She gave him a friendly smile. As she refocused on the polygraph, she reminded herself she had nothing to hide, and she calmed herself.

"Ok, that looks better." From his monitor, Miller then read a series of questions: her name, address, birthdate, and other verifiable information. He watched his screen, posing follow up questions.

Next came questions about her parents, their life histories and circumstances of their deaths. He quizzed her about her own life, from her first memory forward. He delved further when needed, but the questions were not unpleasant.

After an hour, he leaned back and stretched. "How are you doing so far?"

"I'm fine. Are we done?"

He shook his head. "Not yet. Now we'll turn to your personal life. These answers will be in longer narrative form rather than a simple yes or no. As before, your responses must be as truthful and complete as possible. My software is very sensitive. Failing the polygraph will end your assessment and bar you from government employment. Understood?"

"Yes."

"What's your sexual history?"

She was unprepared for the question. "I'm actually not very experienced," she stammered. "I'm Catholic, and under our doctrine, extramarital sex is a sin."

"Oh. That's a show-stopper." He shook his head in dismay. "We can't have your first sexual experience take place during your training program. I'm afraid I have to call a halt to this test." He rose from his seat.

"Wait." She sat a moment, at war with herself. She didn't want to admit what she'd done. She'd never confessed it to her priest, and she'd never done penance. She'd never even told her best friend. But she had no choice.

"I may not have been clear. I'm actually not a virgin." Her chest heaved, and she felt heat on her face.