Amanda, CIA Agent Ch. 04

The man cleared his throat loudly.

As he stepped aside, she carefully lowered her head and shoulders and backed up again, until her bottom encountered his knee.

"Put your head down," he said in English, with a heavy Arabic accent. When she failed to move, he lifted his foot and put it between her shoulder blades.

He shifted his weight, and her cheek sank into the deep pile of the richly patterned carpet. Clutching the sensor in her palm, she felt the hem of her skirt slide further up the backs of her thighs and the thin fabric stretch tighter across the roundness of her bottom. She heard stitches pop, and her face flushed.

"Please, sir, let me up."

After a long moment, the pressure on her back eased. She raised her head and sat back on her haunches. The top of her head aligned with his belt buckle.

Anxiety welled up within her. How long would he overlook her clenched hand? Where could she conceal the sensor? Her eyes searched the surrounding area in vain.

She tilted her head back, and took in the scar across his cheek. There was no mistaking it. She was looking at Farooq Akhtar. She shivered involuntarily.

Her partially open blouse soon achieved its objective. He trained his gaze on her cleavage. Shoulders up, she reminded herself. Let him look.

As she watched, he became visibly erect.

She felt extreme unease at her submissive position, kneeling at his feet, her face just inches from his trousers. But with his reputation for brutal violence, she couldn't risk antagonizing him. Burying her face to the carpet with her butt in the air might be the least of her worries. She let out a long breath.

"This place is closed. Why are you here?"

"I'm thinking of returning later with a friend, and I wanted to see the view."

He snorted. "Hands behind your back."

When she complied, he wrapped his large hand around both her narrow wrists and roughly yanked them upward. When she cried out, he snapped on a pair of steel handcuffs. Lifting her to her feet, he hustled her through a swinging door, across the kitchen, past a row of men in aprons preparing seafood, and into a small office.

He sat down at the desk and reached for a keyboard. "Name?"

She recalled the false name under which she had registered as she tried to still the shaking in her legs. "Alison Hamilton."

He typed her name and glanced at the monitor. "Room 1426. Who are Trevor Giles and Eleanor Perrin?"

"My friends." Her chin quivered.

"And Trevor is a man."

"Yes," she admitted, then provided Tyler's cover story. "He works for Globalnav. He's here to negotiate an affreightment contract for crude oil transport."

He stood up. "You're an eahira!"

She recognized the Arabic word for whore. She reddened but didn't respond.

"You're Trevor's dirty slut. You lie in his bed." He wagged his finger in her face.

"No. He's just my friend." She cast her eyes to the floor as she shook her head. But even as she did so, it occurred to her that Farooq's initial conclusion might be preferable to any suspicion of her true purpose.

"You suck his dick," he sneered.

She forced herself to hold his gaze. When he spit on the floor, spattering her shoes, she turned her face away, then met his eyes again.

"Now you will suck my dick." He stepped forward and reached out to take her breast in his hand, roughly squeezing it between his thumb and fingers. She fought the urge to pull back.

He released her to adjust his grip, then tightened his hand around the fullest part of her breast. She drew in her breath, and felt her nipples harden. He's going to make me, she thought.

He shifted his grip to her slender neck, pressing his thumb against her carotid artery, and she immediately felt dizzy. Her legs weakened, and he pushed her to her knees. He pulled at his belt, and his pants fell to the floor with a thud. His jutting erection deformed his knit briefs like a flagpole.

Reaching down, he pulled the middle of her blouse away from her body. His fingers unfastened the remaining buttons and yanked the garment down her arms. Bending her forward, he slid his hand down her back, unhooked her bra, and pushed the straps off her shoulders. The cups fell away from her breasts.

Amanda's habituation sessions had done nothing to diminish her embarrassment about exposing her bare breasts. And she had grown particularly selfconscious about the extent to which her nipples protruded when she became aroused. Now she longed to cover herself with her fingers, but when she tugged at her wrists, the cuffs only racheted tighter. She bit her lip.

Farooq tugged town his briefs, freeing his cock, and Amanda did a double take. His was the first uncircumsized cock she'd seen.

He put his hand on the back of her neck and thrust his hips forward until he pressed against her lips. "Open," he commanded. A sweaty locker-room odor assailed her nostrils.

When she didn't immediately obey, he slapped her, reddening her cheek. His next two slaps fell on the side of her breast. "Open," he repeated.

Her face stung and her breast throbbed. Reluctantly, she opened her mouth and leaned forward to take him in.

"Suck," he told her, with another slap to her breast. After a moment, she used her lips to push back his foreskin and began to alternately lick and suck the head of his dick.

He gave a sigh. As she continued, his midsection trembled, and he pulled at her shoulders. When she lifted her chin and ran her tongue along the underside from his balls to the tip, he put his hand behind her head, guiding her lips until she engulfed his knob again. He thrust his hips forward, surprising her, and when his tip touched the back of her mouth, she gagged and sat back on her heels, gulping.

"Put it back," he said, and after a moment, she raised up onto her knees, taking him into her mouth again. He reached down to take her breast in his hand, squeezing her nipple, and she surprised herself by making a wet humming sound of pleasure around his dick.

When he thrust forward, she sat back again, and he swore in Arabic. He took her head in both hands and thrust his cock deep, making her choke, and she twisted her head and used her weight to free herself. When his cock was out of her mouth, she coughed and panted to catch her breath.

"No," he said, pausing to control his own breathing. "My dick stays in your mouth. Do not swallow the spit, let it come out."

That is so not happening, she thought. She shook her head slowly.

He pressed two fingers to her lips. "Open."

After a beat, she lowered her jaw a fraction. His fingertips bumped over her lower lip, slid across her tongue, and kept coming. When they reached the back of her throat, they activated her gag reflex again, and her jaw opened wide to expel a bit of saliva.

He withdrew his fingers. "My dick goes to the back. To your throat. I will stay there. You will cough and have no breath. You will feel helpless. Or," he said, "I'll take you into the kitchen, and pull up your little skirt, and take down your panties, and we'll find out how many dicks you can take."

* * *

Later, after she'd swallowed two loads from Farooq and patiently but unsuccessfully tried to get him hard for a third time, he finally let her rise from her knees, locking her inside the office while he visited the men's room and made some phone calls.

She took stock of the remains of her clothing. Her tattered blouse hung behind her, dangling from her forearms, a couple of its buttons missing. Her pretty pale blue underwire bra, purchased new only last week, lay beneath his desk, amid scattered detritus, its straps torn away. Emma's skirt now featured a ripped seam, down the length of her hip, through which the waistband of her panties was visible.

While she waited, she heard the growing murmur of voices from the dining room as guests arrived for lunch. Amir would have arrived by now, and Emma would attempt to seduce him any minute. She doubted either Emma or Tyler had noticed her absence.

She wished she had more confidence in Emma. No matter how hard she tried, she just couldn't believe Amir would have any interest. His new wife and girlfriends were all so much more desirable, each one stunning in her own way. Moreover, Farooq could provide a new woman whenever he grew bored.

The metal cuffs abraded her wrists, and she tried to slide them further down, but that only made it worse. She realized that keeping her hands clenched made the cuffs feel tighter, but she didn't dare relax her grip on the sensor. If Farooq spotted it, he'd know she was a spy, and he'd quickly determine she was under NOC. She'd be tortured, or worse.

With no avengement of her father's death, and for no constructive purpose. And risk of significant embarrassment to her country, and further damage to its relationships with the Arab world. She couldn't let that happen.

She spotted the chrome legs of the desk. The sensor wasn't a perfect fit, but might be unobtrusive enough. She knelt down and backed up to the desk until she could attach it to the back of a leg, facing the wall.

A moment later, Farooq's key slid into the lock. She struggled to her feet as the door swung open.

He grasped her by her bare breast and slammed her back into the wall, knocking a hanging calendar to the floor. He shifted his hand to her throat, and she felt her feet lifted off the carpet.

He loomed in, his nose only an inch from her own. "What were you doing?" His eyes swept the room.

She looked at him, her eyes wide. "Nothing, I swear it," she croaked. "Just resting. I didn't dare to sit in your chair."

He stared at her intensely for a long moment, then eased his grip, allowing her to regain her footing. As she caught her breath, her chest heaved, and he smiled and reached out to fondle her breasts again.

"You're too pretty to be the whore of a little oil tanker dealer. A man of so little importance. You should instead belong to a great man. A man of large appetites, who can buy you jewels. And better clothing." He curled his lip as he swatted at Emma's inexpensive skirt with the back of his fingers.

She swallowed. He was about to sell her to Amir. This was simultaneously thrilling and terrifying.

He released her breast and slid his hand down her side, tracing the edges of the torn seam on her hip. "My cousin Amir has finished his meal. He will go to the pool for his daily swim, and you will meet him there." As he spoke, he wormed his finger through the gap in the seam and toyed with the elastic of her panties.

Her heart pounded. The pool deck was large, and very public. Did Farooq plan to lead her there in handcuffs? Would he let her cover her exposed breasts first? Even her too-tight blouse and too-short skirt were wildly inappropriate for the hotel lobby.

What about Tyler? Sooner or later, he would miss her, and deduce that she'd been detained. Would he react in time to obtain compromising video of their meeting at the pool? The logistics were daunting. In any case, Amir was not stupid, and he was unlikely to indulge in any untoward behavior in such a public setting, no matter how secure he felt.

She had to be realistic. Engaging with Amir at the pool wouldn't be sufficient. Somehow she needed to get him back to her room, where the sensors were already in place. Even if Tyler wasn't paying attention, the high definition video feeds were already active, ready to document his infidelity.

However, if the recording were to be worthy of serious blackmail, it would have to be quite explicit. She would have to show everything, and do everything. No half measures would be adequate. Her own performance would have to be equally debauched. She shuddered.

Too bad she couldn't kill Amir afterwards. He wasn't even a terrorist. Early on, she'd imagined that when she gave all of herself to a target, it would be as a precursor to murder. Since then, she'd learned she'd have to accommodate a man or two (or six or eight) to fully prepare herself for that critical moment when she'd finally taste sweet revenge. Now, she saw that even more patience and sacrifice would be required.

While she'd mulled these considerations, Farooq had left the room again, and now he returned and dropped a bathing suit atop the desk. "Put it on," he commanded.

After a beat, Amanda turned to show him the handcuffs still fastened to her wrists, and he used his key to unlock them. She pulled the remains of her blouse back over her shoulders, clasping the edges together with one hand as she spread the suit over the desktop.

It was a beautiful bikini, she had to admit, even if it was far more daring than she would have chosen. This particular shade of magenta would contrast nicely with her pale skin, and harmonize well with her dark hair. It was a fashionable brand, and it still bore the tags from an expensive boutique in the atrium. However, the unlined fabric was too thin to fully conceal her areolae, nor would it completely hide the outline of her vulva. In back, the suit was a thong, with no coverage.

But the worst problem was the string ties at the nape and back, and at either hip. She'd seen swimsuits with this configuration many times before, but would never consider wearing one, even if it had more coverage. The string ties were undeniably sexy, emphasizing the ease with which they could be unfastened, but they made her too nervous.

As she studied the suit critically, Farooq became impatient. He grasped the edge of the split in her skirt and jerked it sharply.

Amanda heard the sound of the seam ripping further, but the skirt's waistband still held fast. She hurried to unfasten it, then let her blouse join it on the floor. With teeth clenched, she quickly pulled her panties down and off, turning away to hide herself from his view.

Sensing Farooq's rising temper, and eager to restore some fragment of modesty, she rushed to put on her bikini bottoms. It took both hands to fasten the side ties, and she was forced to leave her front exposed while she knotted the left side ties. Then fastening the right side was much easier. She made a mental note for next time to knot the ties first before putting the suit on.

Applying that lesson to her bikini top made the process faster. She checked the fit and was dismayed to see how little coverage it provided. It seemed designed for a woman with smaller breasts, but she'd confirmed the sizes were correct. She didn't dare look at her backside. She turned to face Farooq, submitting to his inspection as she tried to hide her embarrassment.

He gave her bottom a squeeze. His mood had improved considerably. "Amir's already at the pool. Let's go." He walked to the door and held it open.

Amanda started forward, then turned. "Wait. I don't have a cover up. Is there a robe?"

He snorted and shook his head.

Amanda huffed and waved her arms in exasperation. Even in an American hotel, she wouldn't leave her room in just her bathing suit, and certainly not in such a revealing bikini. In Dubai, her outfit was much more controversial, and foregoing a cover up was tempting fate. But there was no alternative. She hoped the other guests were unusually tolerant.

As the glass express elevator descended to the atrium, Amanda ignored the jawdropping view as she hugged herself tightly, feeling goosebumps breaking out across her bare thighs. They crossed the atrium, and Farooq trailed behind, watching her closely. As she passed the front desk, she heard a voice.

"Miss? Miss!"

She stopped and turned.

"Miss, I'm sorry, but Alqasr requires you to be covered in public spaces, except in the pool area itself."

A tall man in a blue suit stepped toward her. He wore a gold name plate that read, Samir Nader, General Manager. His eyes lingered on her nearly nude body, and she shivered in the cold draft of the air conditioning.

He met her eyes for a moment. "Particularly in that swimsuit." He pointed at her breasts. "You're barely covered. You may as well be completely naked." Amanda cringed, embarrassed.

Two men passing by heard his strident voice and turned, then stopped and stared as Nader circled her, pointing first at her crotch, then at her bare bottom, and finally at her breasts again, as he unleashed a tirade in Arabic, his voice steadily rising. Farooq also stood and watched.

Amanda squinted at his name tag as she struggled to remain calm. "I'm very sorry, Mr. Nader. I didn't know the policy."

The manager nodded, not yet placated. "You're in an Islamic country. You should be more respectful." When he spotted Farooq, he stepped back, but then followed him toward the pool.

Try as she might, she'd never be able to forget what happened next.

* * *

One Week Later

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

Amanda was sitting at her desk, absorbed in compiling information from the latest intercepts, when her phone rang.

"Our mission debrief is at 10:00," said Tyler.

"Today?" She checked the time. "That's in 15 minutes."

The sound of her own voice echoed within her Secure Compartmented Information Facility, which as usual was empty except for herself.

"Don't be late." He hung up.

She looked down at herself and kicked the side of her desk with the toe of her spike-heeled designer pump. Expecting a quiet Friday, she'd accepted an invitation for early cocktails after work, and the low-cut little black dress she'd worn came only to mid-thigh. Perfect for piquing the interest of Jason Carruthers, the hunky, tanned veteran operative, just returned from overseas, whom she'd met in the coffee line, but far from ideal for attending a leader meeting.

She rummaged in her desk drawer and pulled out the small zippered lingerie bag she kept for emergencies. Underneath the pair of white cotton clunkers was an equally utilitarian bra which she held up against her chest, and her faint hopes were extinguished. Her sexy dress, with its low neckline and spaghetti straps, wouldn't begin to cover the bra. Which was why she'd gone without a bra in the first place.

From the bottom of the drawer, she pulled out an oversized chocolate brown cardigan with a coarse weave and put it on, fastening the center button. It clashed badly with her pretty dress, but it was better than nothing.

Fortunately, Tyler would be doing all the talking at the debrief, and it was doubtful anyone important would attend. Even Percy might not be there. She'd just have to sit up straight and keep her legs beneath the table.

When she arrived, Percy and Wilson were already seated near the middle of the long table. The lights were lowered, and Tyler and Emma stood beside a large monitor at one end. Amanda took a seat beside Percy.

A minute later, Harlan Kimmel entered and sat down at the far end of the table. Within her, pride in her role in the mission fought with selfconsciousness over her inappropriate clothing. She absently toyed with the diamond stud in her ear.

Glancing at Tyler, Harlan said, "Please begin."

Tyler put up the same picture of Amir Hassan he'd showed before, and reviewed their plan to blackmail him. Next he asked Emma to narrate a video clip of her seduction attempt.

Amanda had seen bits of the raw feeds from the sensors she'd placed in Cloudtops, but not the finished product, and now she was impressed with Tyler's skillful editing. He'd maintained a continuous soundtrack while cutting seamlessly from one camera angle to another, and leveraged the high resolution to zoom in on Amir and his bodyguard.

The monitor showed a closeup of Emma's cleavage, and she began her narrative. "As you all know, Amir is an admirer of the female form, so I made the most of what I've got." The screen showed her leaning forward as she shook her shoulders in an obvious, ham-handed attempt at eroticism, then cut to a shot of Amir's indifferent reaction.

Undeterred, Emma continued with a saucy smile. "He didn't take the bait, so I upped the ante." The next shot, from a sensor over Amir's shoulder, showed Emma sliding forward in her chair, legs akimbo, then zoomed in on the bright red lace pattern of her panties.