Amanda, CIA Agent Ch. 09

Content warning for new readers: This dark, sometimes disturbing series explores the (frequently nonconsensual) objectification and humiliation of a female CIA agent. This chapter also features battle violence. Proceed at your own risk.

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.

Fallujah, Iraq, November 2007

Amanda tried to find a comfortable sitting position in the back of the bouncing Humvee, but it was impossible. The veteran Marines seated on either side of her were broad-shouldered, and she had to lean forward to avoid being squashed. After two hours, her back ached.

She looked over her shoulder at the sky to the east, but it was too early for even a hint of dawn. Their headlights revealed the outlines of the desolate landscape, an endless expanse of sandy dirt and low scrub, broken only by an occasional industrial building.

Her mind wandered, and her thoughts returned to yesterday's mission briefing at Al Udeid Air Base near Doha, Qatar.

* * *

The mission plan itself was straightforward, and the short discussion was prolonged only by the arrival of her old friend Admiral Lowell, stopping in to say hello. His party invitation was a surprise, but it wasn't the kind one declined, even if one hadn't packed appropriate clothing.

Fortunately, an exclusive boutique in Doha stocked a slinky little black dress. It fit perfectly, but problematically, its halter neckline bared the inner slopes of her breasts, inappropriate for a work event, and its asymmetrical hem teased glimpses of her upper thighs. Nevertheless, the prospect of dressing provocatively for seven attractive men was exciting.

As commander of Special Operations Command Central (SOCCENT), Lowell had the power to advance her career. The party's guest of honor, Ambassador Bradley Newhouse -- who she'd rescued on her last mission along with his family - had just been named ambassador to Qatar, a step up from his previous post in Yemen.

The remaining guests included Grant Hutchins, the cocky, ridiculously fit heartthrob who'd led the SEAL team on her last mission, and who served as her personal escort in Qatar. In Yemen, Amanda had saved Grant's life with her sharpshooting skills.

When she arrived at the party, still blushing at her own immodest attire, the three men jousted good-naturedly to chat her up, and later for a spin around the dance floor to the music of the live band. Lowell dipped her low, making her regret foregoing a bra, and Newhouse embarrassed her by noting the bit of elastic occasionally visible at her right hip.

But it was Grant who made her spill her drink by staring at her legs, and who made her wet when he held her close, looked down her dress, and groped her bottom. Even when he stepped away to pound down several shots with the others, he kept his eyes trained on her.

I've never looked hotter, she thought, glimpsing her reflection. Was she pretty enough for Grant? Would he make good on his unspoken promises?

Her memory of what followed made her pulse quicken, and suddenly it was too warm in the Humvee. She swallowed a sigh and fanned herself.

She'd known Grant would drive her home after the party, and she vibrated with anticipation before they set out. Uncharacteristically, she turned in her seat and bent toward him, and felt a thrill when his gaze deflected toward her cleavage. Initially, she worried about the alcohol he'd consumed, but his driving seemed fine. When he finally put his hand on her knee, she cried out.

Embarrassed, she clamped her mouth shut, scolding herself for revealing the fever pitch of her libido. He took his time, watching the road while he crept his fingers up the inside of her thigh, moving with an infuriating languor that had her fighting an urge to buck her hips and hiding her shuddering breaths behind her hand.

When they reached the gate of Al Udeid Air Base, he stopped his truck beneath the blinding security lights, leaving her skirt rucked up while the other soldiers, returning from liberty, stacked up around them. While they waited before the rolling chain link gate, complete with coiled razor wire on top, the lead sentry insisted Grant lower the windows so he could "inspect the interior." His counterpart inspected her barely covered breasts.

He's imagining fondling them, she thought, self-conscious of the protrusions her hard nipples made in her thin satin halter.

The second sentry's eyes moved lower, taking in her bare thighs. His Adam's apple bobbed when he spotted Grant's fingertips, just as they reached her center. She lowered her eyes, overcome by her arousal and the lustful expression on the sentry's face.

Grant could easily pull aside the crotch of my panties and expose my pussy, she thought. He could spread my labia and thrust his fingers deep inside me. And the sentries would watch the spectacle, experiencing it vicariously.

If I resisted, Grant would hold my hands, she imagined. He might even tie them behind me. I couldn't stop him. She gave a high-pitched warble and drenched the crotch of her panties.

Slut, said the voice in her head. What tramp lets other men watch while her boyfriend plays with her pussy?

Grant's not your boyfriend, she reminded herself, no matter how hard she wished.

Arriving at her billet, he lifted her to his shoulder with ease and carried her inside, calling her a disobedient brat and slapping her bottom sharply when she kicked and squirmed. He took her straight to bed, and then seemingly spent a century stripping her naked. Please hurry, she thought to herself.

When he ran his hands over her body, his touch felt magical, and she felt such need for him, it brought tears to her eyes, but again she called upon unknown reserves of patience, willing herself to remain demure, legs together, covering herself with her arms. She tried so hard to maintain the appearance of the virtuous, respectable young woman she imagined he wanted.

He placed her hands at her sides, telling her authoritatively to leave them there. She whimpered then, no longer caring if he heard, undone by the submissiveness he demanded, no longer able to hide the inferno consuming her. When he pushed her knees apart, repeating his command, her chest heaved, but she obeyed.

He moved his fingers to her dripping folds, drawing a fresh wail. Working her clitoris, he brought her to a shattering climax. Moments later, as her pussy still pulsed, he took his thick, rock hard cock in hand and put it inside her.

Once more, he slowed, letting her arousal rekindle, and she thought, he's teasing me again, what a cruel, merciless man. Pound me, destroy my tender little pussy, she wanted to say, but then he'd see her for the whore she was, if any doubt remained. She longed to grab his hips and pull him into her, to show how roughly she wanted to be used, but hadn't he told her to leave her hands at her sides?

What would be the consequence for defiance? Would he tie her to the bed frame, spread eagle, rendering her helpless to cover herself? Would he then, finally, fuck her senseless, and give her the brutal reaming she longed for? Would he humiliate her, and hurt her, as she deserved?

Her heart pounded in her ears, and she bit her lip until it throbbed. Her arms and legs tightened like bowstrings, and the tension in her core climbed, but his movements remained deliberate. The urge to thrust her own hips became overwhelming.

Abruptly, his hands released their hold on her breasts, and his face sagged into the pillow. His only motion was the slow rise and fall of his breathing. He'd passed out.

For a time, she lay there, with his massive body squeezing the air from her lungs, poking and prodding him, but his snoring hadn't abated. Ultimately, she squirmed out from underneath him, but despite her exhaustion, her core remained knotted with unsatisfied need, and sleep eluded her.

Two hours later, her alarm went off, and she rose and showered. When she returned, Grant was gone.

* * *

Even now, as their Humvee sped down the darkened highway, her bitter disappointment lingered, and thoughts of what might have been replayed over and over like a skipping record.

A voice from the front passenger seat punctured her reverie. "Five minutes," called Sergeant Cliff Mayhew, the Marine squad leader. "Lock and load."

Amongst the modest homes populating the outskirts of Fallujah, she spotted an occasional blackened shell, and a few piles of rubble where buildings once stood, evidence of the pitched battle fought three years before. Men from this same battalion participated in that assault, suffering casualties from IEDs and snipers.

When they reached their staging point, a vacant lot several blocks further north, they all dismounted. She whispered to the grim-faced Marine who'd sat to her left. "You were here, in Fallujah, back in 2004, Frank?"

He nodded. "Kicked their asses then, and we'll do it again today. Maybe this time they'll learn their fucking lesson."

She pursed her lips. Today's mission wasn't to kick their asses, it was to capture Abu Rehman Marhoun, a senior commander of Al Qaida in Iraq, and bring him back for questioning. She herself had identified Marhoun as leader of the recent bombing of al-Askari Mosque in Samarra, intended to incite civil war between Shiites and Sunnis. She'd tracked Marhoun to his cousin's home, where they expected to find him today.

It was not yet 5am, and as they crept north, moving deeper into a densely populated neighborhood, nobody stirred. Looking up at the darkened windows, Amanda touched the butt of the 9mm automatic on her hip. She wished for a rifle, but she was not part of the breach squad.

Instead, her role was to question Marhoun's female relatives. Experience showed Iraqi women wouldn't speak to male soldiers, but females could obtain useful intelligence, including locations of combatants. If Marhoun wasn't home, this would become indispensable.

She looked over her shoulder at the SEAL team, who would provide overwatch from a nearby rooftop, and locked eyes with Grant. In his easy grin, she saw the same casual warmth he showed his buddies, but none of the heat she'd hoped to find. Had she imagined his interest? Did she only dream of the party, and its torrid aftermath?

Why did this always happen? The moment she found a hot guy, and caught his attention, she couldn't wait a single day before spreading her legs. She may as well wear a shirt reading, squeeze here, and a belt buckle slung low across her hips emblazoned, open 24/7. Why did she sell herself so cheaply? Would she ever control her base impulses?

"Excuse me, ma'am," said Corporal Arnold Carnes, the driver of her Humvee. He always had difficulty meeting her eye, and as she smiled at him, his cheeks pinked. "We're nearing our objective, and Sergeant Mayhew wants you behind him." She fell into line.

The Marines stacked outside the target compound, around the corner from the front door. Corporal Talley approached and rigged a C4 breach charge against the doorframe. He retreated, Mayhew pulled her back against the wall, the charge blew, and the squad rushed forward. By the time Amanda entered, two bleary-eyed men in their underwear sat against the wall in flexicuffs, while a Marine herded four frightened women into the cellar.

Disappointingly, neither man was Marhoun. Amanda followed the women downstairs and questioned them in Arabic. Within minutes, she'd identified an elderly woman as Marhoun's aunt, the wife of the older man upstairs. They were the parents of the younger man, as well as two of the women. The final woman was Marhoun's sister.

As she heard the call to Fajr, the dawn prayer, from a nearby mosque, Amanda crouched beside the aunt, whose name was Bushra. "I don't want to hurt your nephew. Please help me protect him from the soldiers."

Bushra shrank back, her hand trembling. "I told him to stop fighting. He's caused enough suffering. How many more must die?"

"Where is Abu?"

"You won't shoot him?"

Amanda shook her head.

She gave an address. "Go one block south, then turn right."

Amanda found Sergeant Mayhew. "I've got an address." As she spoke, they heard distant small arms fire.

Mayhew assembled his men, but then came an RPG blast, and the volume of rifle fire increased. It was coming from the south, the direction of the SEALs' position.

Mayhew spoke into his radio. "Situation?"

Grant answered. "Insurgents advancing from the south, east, and west. We've killed sixteen, but there are ten times that number. They're close, and we're taking heavy fire. We're pulling back."

Their own house took rifle fire, and an RPG blew a hole in the south facing wall. They moved to the north side, and two Marines used a sledgehammer to break through into the neighboring house, then into the house beyond, providing an escape route.

The SEALs popped smoke, and when the rifle fire ebbed, they rushed inside. Simultaneously, Frank Garnet, her oversized seatmate from the Humvee, called out, "Moakes is hit." Stan Moakes was the hulking Marine who'd sat on the other side of her.

Another RPG shook the house, raining chunks of plaster on her head, and another Marine called out, "Talley is hit."

"We're going to be overrun," said Mayhew.

"Travers and Seeling, take two Marines to the roof," said Grant. "Shut down those RPGs and buy me some time. Ellison, treat those wounded." To Mayhew, he said, "Mission aborted. Call in the choppers." He loaded a fresh clip.

Amanda leveled her gaze at him. "I'm going with you."

"Like hell. Help Ellison." He ducked through the neighboring houses and climbed the stairs.

Amanda picked up Moakes' M-16 and ran after Grant. When she reached the third floor, he was nowhere in sight, so she climbed the wooden ladder to the roof. Staying low, she scanned the neighboring buildings, and saw him leap from a parapet to the next rooftop. Without hesitating, she got a running start and jumped. She landed on her toes, tucked in her shoulder, rolled, and returned to her feet.

Grant saw her and waved her back, but she jumped again and joined him. His face was angry. "I told you to stay."

You may be a SEAL, she wanted to say, but one man against a well-armed mob was suicide.

Descending to the street, they heard distant gunfire, but there was nobody in sight. They moved north, then east, then south, intending to approach from the rear.

In the distance, two Blackhawks approached. As the range closed, the insurgents opened fire. The bullets hitting the aircraft sounded like a hailstorm on a tin roof. When an RPG arced upward, narrowly missing its target, both choppers abruptly climbed out of range.

Grant and Amanda climbed back to the roof. Leaping to an adjacent building, Grant cautiously peered over the edge. "West side has thirty bad guys."

"My side's stronger. More on the north side." The Jihadists poured automatic rifle fire into the Marine's house, receiving little return fire. The sound of the Blackhawks faded, but Grant wanted to even the odds before calling them back.

Taking positions on the west and east parapets, they set their rifles for single shots. Amanda targeted the rearmost man on her side and timed her shot to coincide with an AK-47 burst. The man fell, shot through the head. She lined up another enemy, but he moved as she squeezed the trigger, and she hit him in the neck.

She took aim again and shot another man through the head. Meanwhile, she heard Grant dispatch several more. But on her fourth shot, her luck ran out.

From below, she heard a shout, and drew back as a hail of bullets showered her with bits of masonry. Grant got off one more shot before he too was spotted. They ran for the stairs and met the insurgents as they climbed toward the second floor.

As the lead man raised his rifle, Grant shot him in the face. Another insurgent followed, and he got off a burst before Grant adjusted his aim and dropped him.

The third man turned the corner in a crouch, with his rifle up. Amanda's first shot was high, and the man shot Grant through the upper arm. Her second shot struck him center mass, and he collapsed.

Grant kept shooting, shielding Amanda with his body as she fired around him, but more enemy reached the landing. Grant shot two more but took another round in the thigh, and he dropped to one knee. Amanda killed another insurgent, then staggered and fell as several bullets struck her chest. Her rifle slid down the staircase.

The remaining insurgents swarmed the stairs. From the floor, Amanda watched as a man in a traditional dishdasha and checked headscarf emptied his magazine at Grant from close range. She drew her 9mm, but a tall, slender man landed on her, wrenching the pistol from her grasp. He backhanded her, stunning her, and he and a stockier middle-aged man pinned her to the floor. They rolled her over and tied her hands behind her back.

As her senses returned, she looked back at the skinny man. He carried an air of authority but appeared scarcely out of his twenties. His face was as long and narrow as his body, and his equally long neck highlighted his prominent Adam's apple. His large, misshapen ears stuck out cartoonishly.

From the bottom of the stairs, a voice called out in Arabic. "Hamdy. Is he still alive?"

Grant lay still, his head lolling over the edge of the stairs, his leg bent underneath him at an odd angle.

The slender man answered, "No."

"And the woman?"

"Alive."

"Badly wounded?"

Hamdy rolled her onto her back and pulled off her helmet, then removed her body armor. As she stifled a groan, he opened her shirt, revealing a row of bruises.

"No wounds, Tariq. Her body armor stopped the bullets."

The commander climbed the stairs. He stood over her for a long moment, staring at her chest, barely covered by her plain white bra, then turned. "Matar, take three men to the roof with the RPGs. Watch out for snipers. When the helicopters return, remain behind the wall until they are within 50 meters. Then aim for the open door, or the tail rotor."

He doesn't realize I understand Arabic, Amanda thought.

When Matar had gone, Tariq yelled down the staircase. "Rafie, tell Zakaria to keep shooting at the infidels inside my cousin's house. No, we used too many RPGs already, save the rest for the helicopters. Then drive to the west side and return with Sabar and his men. Take the blue truck."

Tariq turned back to Amanda, and she grimaced as he watched her chest rise and fall. "She's very pretty. What should we do with her, Hamdy, while we wait for the helicopters?"

Hamdy swallowed visibly. "We should tie her to that bed and make her cry out. When the Americans come to save her, if any make it past Zakaria, we can ambush them downstairs."

Tariq nodded with a smile, and patted Hamdy on the back. "Do it now."

Hamdy and the stocky man, whose name was Nashwan, lifted her onto the bed while she writhed and twisted. When they untied her hands, Amanda hit Nashwan in the throat, but her blow didn't have much weight behind it. Hamdy punched her back, making her see stars. As Hamdy lay atop her once more, and Nashwan wheezed, they secured her hands to the bedframe.

Hamdy took his time getting off her, then both stood over her, relishing her. Red-faced, she kicked out wildly, but didn't connect.

Nashwan knelt beside her, and tugged at her coiled braids until her thick, dark hair fell loose around her shoulders. He ran his fingertips along her collarbone, dipping into the hollow at the base of her neck, and smiled as she raised her chin in defiance.

"Let's take down her pants," said Hamdy. Nashwan cocked his head and grinned at her, his throat pain forgotten, as he unlaced her boots. Hamdy mocked her too as he put his hand on her knee and slid it up the inside of her leg, over her pants. When he neared the top of her thigh, she twisted her hips.