Amanda, CIA Agent Ch. 08

If you're new to this series, please take note: this story is in the Nonconsent category. In addition, this episode includes pervasive humiliation. If those elements don't appeal to you, you should choose a different story.

This story is a fantasy. The author does not condone any real-world nonconsensual touching or sexual activity, infliction of pain or emotional distress, or mistreatment of any person. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is strictly coincidental.

The author wishes to acknowledge the very helpful feedback provided by GreenandGolden and neuroparenthetical.

Tysons Corner, Virginia, October 2007

With considerable effort, Amanda heaved open the massive swinging restaurant door and stepped up to the podium.

The middle-aged maître d' looked her up and down for a long moment. "Welcome to Good Time Charlie's," he said to her chest. "How may I help you?"

Amanda sighed and swept a lock of dark hair behind her ear. "My reservation's under Stevens, party of two."

He checked his ledger. "Yes. Your friend is already seated." He led the way past the bar, where a horde of young men in sharp suits hoisted frosty beer steins and eyed scattered clusters of heavily made-up young women. Automatically, Amanda scanned their faces but didn't spot any agents or other CIA employees.

The back room was nearly empty, and considerably quieter, and Amanda had no difficulty spotting Michelle. As she gave her good friend a heartfelt squeeze, the waiter appeared, and over her shoulder, she told him, "One Cosmopolitan, one Tanqueray and tonic." She took the armchair opposite. "Thanks for meeting me, Michelle. It's been too long."

Michelle nodded. "Seems like we're never in town at the same time anymore. The price of success, I suppose." Her expression turned somber. "This is my first time out since filing for divorce."

Their table was long and narrow, and as Amanda slid her chair forward, her knee bumped Michelle's. "Oops. My God, I'm so sorry to hear that. I never thought you two would split up. The way Dirk looked at you, he obviously worshipped you."

Not for the first time, she was dazzled by Michelle's striking appearance. The warm glow of the stained-glass lamps shimmered off her cascading blonde tresses, forming a halo around her face before leading Amanda's eye downward along the neckline of her daring blouse to her dramatic cleavage. She let her gaze linger, and the urge to caress Michelle's breast caught her by surprise. She'd never acknowledged (even to herself) an attraction to another woman. She felt heat on her face.

Michelle seemed not to notice. "So I thought. I mean, I always knew he did the initial exams for all the female CIA candidates, so he had his entire forearm up a different woman's pussy every day. After all, that's how we met. But he always claimed doctors maintain a clinical detachment. To hear him tell it, he never felt aroused, or even attracted, no matter how beautiful they were. When I --" Her mouth twisted, and for a moment she struggled to continue. "When I discovered he sometimes tried to make the prettiest ones cum during the exam, and even kept pictures and video clips, it was such a shock."

Amanda blushed again and took a sip of her drink to hide her discomfort. A memory intruded: an image of her own body, strapped to Dirk Miller's examining table, her slender wrists tethered to the hard point above her head, her arms stretched taut. Her back bowed, her quivering breasts bared, exposed to his view, unprotected, available to his whim.

Her feet secured within his surgical boots, her forehead glistening beneath the harsh lights, her features contorting as she strained helplessly against her unyielding bonds, as Miller roughly levered her thighs apart, tightening his clamps to hold her long legs fully splayed.

The snap of his latex gloves, the cold slickness of his lubricant, his eager touch as he spread her labia with one hand, penetrating her with the other, thrusting his long fingers deep into her womb. His callous indifference to her own discomfort and shame.

"Amanda? Are you listening?"

"Oh. Michelle, I'm so sorry. I was just, um, remembering the day Dirk examined me. I've tried to forget it, but it just came flooding back."

"You mentioned before that he did your exam. Frankly, I always found that idea upsetting. And I always worried Percy would send you back to him for habituation. You're so beautiful. Dirk would have fallen in love with you." Her knee brushed the inside of Amanda's thigh.

For a moment, Amanda was tongue tied. She actually had seen Miller for habituation, but this clearly wasn't the moment to volunteer that fact. Instead, she just nodded, thinking the suggestion that anyone could compete with Michelle's own beauty was ridiculous. Feeling a tingling along the inside of her bare thigh, she shifted her leg away.

Michelle's cheek twitched. "Once I overheard him talking about you. I bet you're one of the poor women he shackled to his exam table." She scoffed. "Of course, he did. I'm so sorry."

As she continued, her voice quavered. "No doubt he kept pictures of you. Did he make you cum? No, don't answer that. Maybe one day, when my heart's not so... raw."

Amanda blotted the perspiration from her forehead, trying to concentrate on her genuine sympathy for her friend's predicament instead of her own shame. "In the end, was it the other women? Is that why you decided on divorce?"

Michelle nodded, then covered Amanda's hand with her own. "I'm sorry, I'm crying in my Cosmo and never asking about you. How're you holding up? When is your divorce final?"

Amanda huffed and rolled her eyes. "Not for months. I agreed to give Jason the townhouse, but now he wants alimony, can you believe it?" She waved her hand. "I'll let my attorney deal with that. I'm focusing on the next training session at the Farm. Percy told me yesterday that you'll be an instructor too!"

Michelle nodded repeatedly. "I so didn't want to be the only woman. Now we can watch each other's backs and rein them in if they try any bullshit."

"Exactly. But first, I have to go to New Jersey." She curled her lip.

"They're making you do that sting on your old priest?"

"Yeah. I'm driving up tomorrow. Hopefully just for a week. We can work together on our training when I get back."

"Perfect." They clinked glasses.

* * *

Sunday morning, the day after her drive to New Jersey, Amanda rose early, eager for a run around her old neighborhood before church. If she pushed herself hard for a few miles, it might release the knot of tension across her shoulders.

As she fell into a demanding pace, she detoured to avoid her old best friend Katharine's street. Katharine was unlikely to be outside at this early hour, but she couldn't risk being seen from her window. Amanda hadn't spoken to her since their falling out, over a year ago, but she was certain her friend remained close with Monsignor Urbino -- a closeness that had deepened when the two worked together on the church bazaar -- and Amanda didn't think she could look her in the eye and lie about the purpose of her visit.

Returning home an hour later, she hopped into the shower, thinking how strange it felt to be back in her old room with its pink walls and frilly curtains. Eventually she'd move into the master bedroom suite. However, the prospect of cleaning out her father's belongings remained daunting.

As she dried and styled her hair, she remembered again what she had to do that morning, and her stomach churned. It was better not to think about it. Stepping into her walk-in closet, she put on a thin sleeveless acrylic top and a scarlet leather skirt.

In the mirror, she saw her top fit closely around her bust, and its inverted chevron pattern drew the eye to a sliver of exposed midriff. Her stylish skirt stretched taut across the swell of her butt and accentuated her long legs. Both items were too provocative for her own taste, but they matched precisely with her instructions. She couldn't help noticing the way the clothing flattered her curves, and for a moment she struck a runway model's pose, cocking her hip and pouting for her imaginary audience.

However, she was all too aware that this morning's destination was Sunday Mass, not a fashion show. Her ensemble was inappropriate to the point of disrespect, but she had no choice. She told herself she'd seen far worse on a few of her contemporaries, who boldly knelt at the rail for communion in skimpy halter tops and miniskirts that barely covered their panties. After returning to her vanity to apply her makeup, she set out for Our Lady of Mercy.

Arriving very early, and finding the nave deserted, she chose an inconspicuous seat by herself. While she waited, she began to perspire despite the cool draft blowing on her bare legs and shoulders. As the church began to fill, she kept her head down, hoping to avoid being recognized. When the service finally began and she spotted Monsignor Urbino, her heart thudded in her chest, but she absorbed herself in the comforting familiarity of the liturgy.

The service passed quickly. When it ended, she lingered behind as the congregation thronged the aisles and Urbino took his place by the door. He looks happy, she thought as she watched him greet his parishioners. He has no idea the shitstorm she was about to unleash on him. Immediately she slapped her own hand for thinking such a vulgarity in church. Not so long ago, her devout upbringing would have compelled her to confess such a thought, but her behavior over the last year had rendered that idea ridiculous.

There were still several others ahead of her when he looked up and met her eye, and his jaunty demeanor vanished. His face darkened and he stared right through her. As the man in front of him spoke to him and extended his hand, unheard and unseen, she remembered his long string of calls and messages, none of which she'd answered. The hair stood up on the nape of her neck. She glanced toward the side door.

"Amanda."

He hadn't raised his voice, but his low tone cut through the surrounding clamor like a sharp scythe through tall, slender blades of dewy grass. An instant later, she was startled to find herself directly in front of him, grasping his extended arm through the sleeve of his black cassock. He frowned his disdain for her skimpy blouse and short skirt, then leaned forward and put his mouth to her ear.

"Go to my office. Wait for me." He gave her a baleful look, his eyes as black as coal.

To her right, motion drew her eye. At the bottom of the stairs, her old friend Katherine stood waiting in the sunshine, grinning, flapping her arm in an exaggerated wave hello as she bounced on her tiptoes.

Surprised and overwhelmed by her enthusiasm, Amanda struggled to maintain her composure. But now was the worst possible time for this reunion. She forced herself to turn away, her eyes brimming.

Inside the empty church, the sexton switched off the lights, casting the center aisle into gloom. When she finally glanced back over her shoulder, Katherine still watched her, but she was no longer smiling or waving.

As Amanda retreated further into the darkened church, she asked herself what had become of her. How could she reject her best friend so coldly?

Now she forced herself to confront the truth. The rift between them was completely her own fault. She couldn't blame Katherine any longer. Her heart ached.

Exiting the side door, she entered a courtyard, making her way down one side, beneath a covered walk. Just then, a dark cloud crossed in front of the sun, and the changing light played tricks on her eyes. In the row of windows lining the walk, where she'd seen the reflection of a towering oak, she now saw into the dimly lit room beyond. Against the far wall, she imagined she saw her 18-year-old self, standing in her father's study, wearing only her new black lace bra and panties, anxiously waiting for Monsignor to mete out his punishment for her depraved vanity.

The sky brightened, and the vision faded. After taking a moment to catch her breath and slow her pounding heart, she resumed her walk, but as she passed through the door and climbed the stairs, she shivered at the cold finger of dread that traced its way down her spine.

Urbino's office was open, and she sat down, not in the chair by his desk but at one end of his long sofa. She placed her handbag on the carved oak end table and reached inside to activate the camera concealed within.

She remembered her instructions from Lieutenant Ruiz of the Special Investigations Section of the New Jersey State Police. "Make him mad. He'll become careless." With an effort, she undid the first two buttons of her blouse, reddening when she saw the exposed inner edges of her breasts. God forgive me, she whispered to herself.

But please, in his anger, let Monsignor not spank me too hard, she continued, and let him stop there, as he always had in the past, even though she deserved much worse. The two recent complainants had accused him of inappropriate touching. The unwanted image of Urbino putting his hands on her breasts, or worse, between her legs, was almost too much to bear, and she pushed it from her mind.

A minute later, Monsignor's heavy footfalls echoed in the stairwell. When he entered, he closed and bolted the door, switched on the overhead lights, and closed the venetian blinds.

"Get up."

She rose, feeling her knees begin to shake as his imposing presence reactivated old memories -- memories so powerful and painful they threatened to overwhelm the self-confidence instilled by her training and experience.

With a scowl, he grasped her beneath her jaw, pressing his sweaty fingers into her cheeks until her lips puckered.

"You haven't visited," he said in his low, menacing growl. "I've been your priest since you were born, but now you don't even return my calls." He waved his arm at her body. "And now you disrespect me again." He put his hands on her shoulders and shoved her backward.

She sat down hard on the sofa. He stood over her, glowering, his massive form casting her into shadow.

After a moment, she rose again, unsteadily. When he reached for her shoulders, she put her hands on his wrists, but he roughly knocked her hands away and pushed her down again, harder.

He's plenty mad enough, she thought.

He gripped her by her hair, tilting her head back. "Why are you here? Did you come to mock me further?"

She tried to shake her head. "I need your wise counsel."

He snorted. "You've become a miserable little slut, just as I feared. Do you even attend mass anymore?"

She flinched. "Of course, I do!"

"When was your last confession?"

She bit her lip. "More than a year ago."

He sucked his teeth. "Kneel."

The kneeler he normally kept in his office was nowhere in sight. Carefully she put her bare knees on the polished hardwood floor, bowed her head, and sat back on her heels. "Forgive me, father, for I have sinned. It's been fourteen months since my last confession."

Urbino recited a short passage from the Bible, then waited.

She took a deep breath and stole an upward glance. "I've committed fornication."

He sneered at her. "Just as I thought. How many times?"

Her chin quivered. "Forty-two men. I don't, um, actually know how many times. It was a lot."

"Obviously." He paced back and forth, shaking his head. "It's true, then. You've become a whore. This would kill your father, if he weren't already dead."

She fought to contain the flood of tears that filled her eyes. "Yes."

"No doubt you've committed sodomy, as well."

The corners of her mouth turned down. "Yes."

"How many times?"

"Over a hundred." She blinked, and felt her tears stream down her cheeks.

"What kind of sodomy?"

She swallowed the lump in her throat, and spoke in a low voice, her face turned away.

"I can't hear you. Speak up."

She cleared her throat and forced herself to meet his eye. "I've taken them in my mouth and swallowed their seed."

"How shameful."

She lowered her eyes. "I've let them spurt on my face and in my hair."

"Disgusting."

"Sometimes, I've used my hand. A few times, they've come on my body. That one's not as popular." She grimaced.

His expression suggested he'd tasted rancid meat. "Probably not. But you get plenty of returning customers, just the same. How much do they pay? You must charge quite a lot."

She wanted to contradict him, but she couldn't manage to respond.

"Do you still wear a whore's underwear, and use your body to torment men? Don't bother answering, I'll see for myself."

Grasping her hair again, he hauled her up, and she struggled to get her feet beneath herself. "I warned you, didn't I? 'You reap what you sow.' And I promised your sainted father, God rest his soul. 'The damage may be done,' I told him, 'and I may not save her from the fires of hell, but I'll show her the path of the righteous.' And he thanked me, but he made me promise."

He turned her to face the huge wooden crucifix which hung over his sofa. "Your father said, 'She's a young woman now, beautiful and obstinate, but don't let that distract you from your responsibility. When she transgresses, you must be strong, and merciless. You must not spare her bottom. It's the only deterrent that's ever worked.' And I promised him. But I never imagined you'd commit such grave sins."

At his words, her hands grew cold, and she wrapped her arms around herself. His reminder of her father's concern for her brought fresh tears to her eyes, but it was her fear of Monsignor's punishment that filled her with foreboding.

I should have better prepared myself mentally, she thought to herself. But she knew why she hadn't done so: she couldn't bear to face her past transgressions, nor could she acknowledge the extent to which she'd disappointed her late father.

"We both know why you're here. You know what's going to happen. What my duty compels me to do. If you get into position voluntarily, it will count in your favor."

She bit her lip. Lieutenant Ruiz had been very specific: she must avoid any hint of compliance. She closed her eyes, clasped her hands together, and waited.

"I'll remind you, in case you've forgotten. Put your blouse and skirt on the sofa, bend over the back of the chair, and hold onto the arms."

Again, she didn't move.

He's going to do it, she thought. He's going to force me to strip.

She turned her head and caught sight of her handbag, its tiny aperture concealed in the corner stitching. Tomorrow, she thought, I'll give the camera to Lieutenant Ruiz. He'd promised they'd watch the recording together. Along with his team.

Including Detective Zach Dietrick, who was young, tall, and muscular. His partner, Detective Devin Kim, was equally fit and imposing, and almost as attractive. They'd all watch her taking off her clothes. Despite her shame, she felt a stirring in her lower core.

With a sigh, Urbino undid the knot in the braided cincture that served as the belt for his cassock, then used the long cord to tie her hands behind her back.

Now I'm helpless, she thought to herself, her pulse quickening. I'm not responsible for whatever happens next. I'm not tempting Monsignor to break his vows.

And I'm not teasing Ruiz and his team, either, she continued. The entire operation was his idea, not mine. If Zach and Devin see me in my bra and panties, and get excited, they have nobody to blame but themselves.

She realized Urbino was running his fingertips along the waistband of her short leather skirt. He found the zipper and ran it down, then slid the garment past her hips, letting it crumple around her feet.

The hem of her top barely reached her waist. She knew her panties were exposed. Her cheeks pinked.

Turning her to face him, he looked down at her chest. Following his gaze to the wedge of pale skin visible between the two buttons she'd unfastened, she bit her lip and forced herself to arch her back and lean forward, knowing it would further inflame his desire. She felt the weight of her breasts shift.