Amanda, CIA Agent Ch. 07

David checked his laptop. "The counter has stabilized at 1,038 centrifuges destroyed. Let's call that the final number."

Lawrence nodded. "Any chance of getting any more?"

David shook his head. "We deliberately chose a time of day when their staffing levels would be low, but even so, they'll soon notice the damage. By tomorrow morning at the latest. At that point, pandemonium will break loose. They'll call in their experts and shut everything down until they find the worm."

"I understand. Thanks, David, for staying up to brief us. Please pass along our gratitude to the rest of your team. Amazing work." With that, he severed the connection, and the meeting broke up.

* * *

One Week Later

With a screech from her tires, Amanda turned her Mercedes into the parking lot of a nondescript office building in Tyson's Corner. Her dashboard clock read 7:05pm, and she stifled a curse. Stepping out of the car, she slammed the door and scurried inside, trying not to trip in her four-inch spike heels.

Inside, the receptionist's window was dark, so she crossed the empty waiting room, continued down a short hall, and knocked on the door marked Dr. Underwood.

"Come in."

She entered.

He sat at his desk and continued to study a file for a long moment. His balding pate reflected the light of the large floor lamp. Finally, he looked up, peering at her over the tops of his spectacles. "You must be Amanda."

Her smile was forced. "Sorry I'm late. Thank you for making time on such short notice."

"On the phone, you sounded quite distraught." He waved her toward a long leather couch.

She sat down, then noticed the pillow with its white paper covering to her left and the clear plastic mat to her right. She bit her lip, then swung her feet up and reclined onto the pillow. Realizing the hem of her skirt was askew, she straightened it.

He sat down behind her head and opened his notebook. "How long have you had these nightmares?"

She wrinkled her brow. His voice seemed disembodied. She tilted her head back until she caught a glimpse of the top of his head. "More than a year. The past week, they're a lot worse. I'm hardly sleeping."

Why did I have to wear a V-neck blouse today, she thought. Sitting up was ok, but at this angle he could see down the front.

"More than a year. That's about the time you started at the CIA."

"Yes."

"Has your job caused a lot of stress, or triggered any internal conflicts?"

She nodded. "My duties often require me to compromise my personal values."

"I see."

Amanda thought he probably didn't see at all.

"What happened a week ago?"

Even with her head tilted back, she couldn't see his face. She was sure he was looking down her blouse, seeing the bare inner sides of her breasts and the edges of her black lace balconette bra. The black lace would give him the wrong idea. She pressed her palm to her chest.

"A week ago, I served my husband with divorce papers."

"Sorry to hear that. What grounds did you state?" He rose from his seat and began to pace.

"Mental cruelty. I'm letting him keep my townhouse, so I have to find a new place. All my personal items are in storage. That's why I had to wear this blouse today. It's the last one that's clean. I know it's inappropriate. Sorry. I think I'm babbling. Sorry."

"I see. Mental cruelty. We'll need to discuss that further. What else happened? Something the week before, perhaps?"

She wrung her hands. "I returned from a mission to the Mideast."

"I don't need to know where you were, or who you saw, or what information you collected. But tell me, did you experience any trauma?"

The leather upholstery felt cold against her bare arms and calves, and she shivered and wrapped her hands around her arms, then lifted her knees. "No, just, um, contacting targets and espionage stuff."

She reached her hand into the pocket of her skirt and fingered the folded Iranian currency Mahmoud had given her. She kept it there to remind herself of who she was.

He sat down at the far end of the couch. "What sort of connections did you make with your targets?" He met her eye for an instant, then lowered his gaze.

She looked up at the rectangular ceiling tiles. Some had brown stains from a long-ago water leak.

"Sexual connections." Her cheek twitched. "I reported three of them. Two were primary, and one secondary."

She squeezed her eyes shut. "But there were --" Her voice cracked. "There were two others I didn't report. Neither was approved."

His eyes flashed to her face, then dropped again. "Interesting. Tell me about those last two."

She realized he was looking up her skirt, and she gave a squeak and flattened the backs of her knees against the upholstery.

He saw my panties, she thought, and not just for a moment. She grasped her hem, pulled it taut, and tucked the fabric beneath her thighs.

I was careless, she thought. That was my fault.

Did I unconsciously want him to see my panties? she wondered. Her lower lip trembled.

Does he think I did it on purpose? Does he think I'm flirting?

Michelle told me he put his hand up her skirt. Am I hoping he does that to me, and squeezes my butt, and sticks his finger in my pussy, like he did to her?

He isn't attractive, but he has power over me. Do I want him to force me?

She realized he was speaking to her.

"Amanda. What's wrong? You clammed up, and now you're trembling. Are you crying?" He handed her a box of Puffs Plus.

Her face twisted in anguish. "I didn't mean for it to happen. I told Mahmoud I would only do him, not his friends. But both his friends came back later. Mahmoud had all my clothes."

She sobbed. "Mahmoud let them in. I was naked. I tried to fight them off, but they were too strong. They held me down, and they took turns fucking me. It went on forever."

She took another wad of tissues and blew her nose. "It was my fault. I knew they'd come back, but I let Mahmoud take my clothes. When they saw me, I just stood there naked and waited. I knew they wanted to fuck me, and I just let them stare at my breasts. I knew they could see my pussy too, and I just stood there with my legs apart. I knew they'd both lose control."

She took a deep breath and wiped her eyes. "I've got nobody to blame but myself."

He patted her knee. "Is this what the nightmares are about?"

She nodded. "I have two different dreams. In one, Davood holds me down and Mohsen fucks me. In the other, it's the other way around. Regardless, I always climax. And then I wake up, and no matter what pajamas I'm wearing or which panties I have on, I'm always touching myself." Her face went red. "I'm masturbating in my sleep!"

She put her hands over her face. "It's just like Percy said. I'm a slut, and a whore. I used my face and body to get their attention, and I let them look until they couldn't help themselves."

She shook her head. "It's always the same. Eventually, they can't take it anymore. And then afterwards, I sit there all shocked, with my hands on my cheeks, and say, 'How could you.' I call them brutes, and monsters, and pretend I had nothing to do with it. That's me, pure as the driven snow." She gave a bitter laugh.

He squeezed her knee, and this time he left his hand there. "So, this was not the first time it happened."

She scoffed. "It's maybe the first time they held me down and forced me after I specifically said no. But a lot of other times, I've --" She cleared her throat. "- I've gotten fucked when I didn't want to, but it's been part of the mission, so I haven't objected."

She swallowed. "Other times, I've had to offer myself to strangers, for my habituation training. For most of those, I didn't even want to take off my clothes, or have them touch me, much less let them fuck me, but I did, because Percy said it was for my benefit."

He nodded as he listened. "That sounds like a lot of sex involving reluctance or dubious consent."

She nodded, then turned her head to look away.

"How many times, do you think? Have you kept count?"

She bit her lip, then took a shaky breath. Just spit it out, she told herself.

"Forty-two."

"Forty-two times? Holy crap."

She shook her head. "Forty-two men. I didn't count repeats." She drew a breath. "And I didn't count blowjobs or fingers. Or groping. That would be a lot more."

"That is kind of a lot. Is that why you call yourself a whore, and a slut?"

She nodded. "It's my fault."

"Isn't it the guys' fault too?"

She gave him another bitter smile. "They can't help it."

She felt her composure cracking, her self-control slipping away. Her voice rose. "I mean, look at me." She rose from the couch and moved to stand astride his knee.

Her face contorted into a snarl, and she put her hands beneath her breasts. "Look at these tits." She hefted them, then grabbed the edges of her blouse and yanked them apart, tearing off the buttons and exposing her black lace bra.

She pushed her bra straps off her shoulders and yanked down the cups. She held her bare breasts in her hands and shook them at him. "Look at them. Watch while I wave them in your face. What man can resist the urge to grab them?"

She began to cry again. She turned her back, then gathered a wad of skirt fabric in each hand and jerked it to her waist. "Look at this ass." She reached back, wrapped her hand around the fullest part of her bottom, and jiggled it. "Look!"

She clawed at the thong of her black lace panties and wrenched them to her knees. "Look at this pussy." She bent double, bringing her face nearly to her ankles, and felt the blood rush to her head. Reaching between her legs, she found her labia and spread them open. "Isn't this a beautiful pussy? Isn't this just the way you men like it, all wet, and glistening, and bald, and pink, spread open, waiting for you?"

She turned to face him and raised her skirt again. "All the guys say my pussy is beautiful." Hot tears streamed down her face as she thrust a finger deep inside herself. "Don't you think so?"

She flopped back onto the couch, opened her legs wide, and fucked herself rapidly with her finger as she rubbed her clit with her other hand. "Are you going to fuck me now? Don't you want to fuck me? Don't you want to own my hole?"

Lying on her back, she looked up at him, and her mouth twisted into a grimace as her shoulders shook. "I'm a slut, and a whore, and a fuck pig. It's all I'm good for. And it's my own fault. I did it to myself."

Dr. Underwood just sat there, staring at her pussy. After a long moment, he knelt on the floor beside her and took her breasts in his hands. 'My god. They're real. I mean, they looked real, but they're just so perfect. So soft, and firm." He kneaded them for a moment, then bent down and kissed each breast.

"Squeeze them harder," she said. "Twist my nipples. Hurt me."

He handled her roughly, just as she asked, and she groaned. He slapped her breasts repeatedly, further reddening them.

She whimpered. "Fuck me, Dr. Underwood. Please."

He stood, unbuckled his belt, and dropped his pants, then returned to the couch and knelt between her legs. As he leaned forward, she took his cock in her hand and guided it into her pussy. Wrapping her arms around him, she pulled him down until he was all the way inside her.

"Fuck me now, Dr. Underwood," she repeated. "Call me a slut."

"I'll make you my slut." He slammed into her. "You're my little whore now."

He lifted her calves and put his weight on them, pressing them down until her shins touched her shoulders. He began to fuck her forcefully. "You're such a filthy slut."

Bent double, she nodded as she squirmed beneath him. "I'm your hole now. It's all I'm good for. Fuck me harder."

A moment later, he grunted and came inside her, but he continued thrusting, working her clitoris with his fingers, and soon she reached her own climax.

Still panting, he rose, found his pants, and glanced at his watch. "We're about out of time for today, but I think we're going to need a few more sessions."