Amanda, CIA Agent Ch. 12

With a sigh, Michelle released her and flopped down at the kitchen table. "I just can't shake this feeling of... dread. Ever since you got back from Iraq, you haven't been right, and then after that disaster with Dirk and Cunningham, your nightmares came back. I know they've both made you fuck them again, even though you won't admit it. And you won't even see Dr. Underwood."

As Amanda poured the sauce over the chicken, her jaw tightened, but she said nothing.

"You know what it is?" Michelle looked directly at Amanda. "It's this fear that you're going to act out your urge. That you're going to deliberately put yourself in a situation where you'll get raped again. And I'm really worried that next time, you won't be able to recover."

"That's ridiculous." But Amanda's hand had begun to shake, and now she dropped the spoon, spattering her blouse. As she cleaned herself up, she worried Michelle could be right. Something really was wrong with her. But this wasn't the time to delve into that issue, not when she was about to begin the most important mission of her career.

* * *

Amanda felt the tension in her shoulders begin to ease as she followed the gorgeous young flight attendant through the First Class cabin to her window seat in the second row. Economy was full, but up front, there were few other passengers -- unsurprising, given the stratospheric cost, which Amanda happily paid out of her own pocket.

She hoped the aisle seat next to her might go unoccupied. She hadn't slept the night before, and now she smiled at the thought of an undisturbed eight-hour snooze in her sumptuous lie-flat seat. Removing her toothbrush from her carryon, she darted into the toilet.

When she returned, she found her Tanqueray and Tonic waiting. As she sipped, the attendant served a Jack Daniels to the man across the aisle, who didn't try to hide his glance down the front of her low-cut blouse, nor his attention to her legs beneath her short skirt.

This airline's uniforms had failed to keep pace with the times, as had their hiring criteria, which favored statuesque, flaxen-haired beauties, but their standards of service and comfort far outdistanced their competitors. Amanda had jumped at the chance to book a seat.

After pushing back, the attendants performed their safety briefing, then strapped themselves into their jump seats for takeoff. As soon as they were airborne, the same woman brought a pillow and blanket and helped deploy her bed.

Amanda lay back and pulled the blanket over her shoulder, but the hour was still early. However, when she got up to retrieve a chapstick from her carryon, she swooned. Wow, that was a strong drink, she thought, reclining again.

The last thing she remembered was the man across the aisle asking the attendant for permission to change seats.

* * *

Paris, France

Two days later

Amanda left her tiny room, just off the Rue du Sommerard in the heart of the Latin Quarter, heading toward the Sorbonne. Rain had threatened earlier, and the sky remained overcast. She hoped the walk would clear her head, but still struggled to escape the grogginess that dogged her since her arrival.

A chimera flashed across her mind, an image of the plane's ceiling panel, and the bright orange call button at its center. The memory disturbed her, but she had no idea why.

She realized she'd passed her destination, and as she backtracked, she reminded herself to focus on her mission. Entering the Central Sorbonne Building, she stepped inside her lecture hall, but when she scanned the room, she didn't see her target. She chose an empty row toward the back and sat down.

Keeping one eye on the new arrivals, she opened her laptop, then straightened the hem of her tan cashmere mock turtleneck so it covered the waistband of her knee-length brown tweed skirt, grateful for Michelle's help in choosing clothes that conformed to campus fashion trends and Parisian standards of smart dress while remaining unobtrusive.

At 8:59, a young woman rushed in, just before the professor emerged from his private door beside the podium, and Amanda recognized Magalie Fournier. She took a seat in Amanda's row, with a vacant spot in between.

"Bonjour! Bienvenue dans la Litterature Francaise 102," announced the professor. "Je m'apelle Dr. Charbonneau." He continued in French. "Let's begin with a review of the syllabus."

Charbonneau was her prime suspect for Magalie's handler, and Amanda listened closely, idly wondering what the handsome, soft-spoken man was like in bed. He noticed her too, but also cast glances toward two other pretty students. Was he her man? Derrick suspected him, but today Amanda found his passion for his subject matter sincere and convincing. She decided to reserve judgement.

Magalie wore a faded grey skirt that covered her legs to mid-calf, and an equally loose-fitting high-necked blouse, threadbare from countless washings. Her leather flats were once in vogue, but their worn heels betrayed their age. She hid her dark hair beneath a black beret, and kept her chin low and her shoulders hunched, but Amanda spotted her furrowed brow and tightly interlaced fingers.

When Magalie's turn came to introduce herself, she stood straight and used a clear voice and a measured pace, but spoke for a shorter time than the others. As she returned to her seat, she turned to the side, and Amanda saw Derrick's blurry photo didn't do her justice. Magalie was beautiful.

From Derrick's background report, Amanda knew Magalie's father tended a small vineyard in the Champagne region of northern France. He hadn't finished high school, but Magalie's mother had completed a semester at the University of Lorraine in Nancy before becoming pregnant. Back in her small town, Magalie had many cousins, but she would be the first to earn a degree.

However, the year before, the harvest was too poor to declare a vintage, and her family was forced to dip into their savings. To help make ends meet, Magalie took a job waiting tables at La Porcherie, a popular brasserie on Boulevard St. Germain. Magalie had been two months behind on her rent, but surprisingly, she'd just paid off her arrears and wired a sizable sum to her parents.

After class, Amanda trailed Magalie to her apartment, in a modest but well-kept building on a narrow side street. Down the block stood a patisserie, and when Amanda returned later, she sampled the freshly made macarons, each bursting with a different flavor, while keeping one eye on Magalie's doorway. Soon, the coed emerged wearing a tighter blouse and skirt, low-heeled pumps, and considerably more makeup. Amanda followed discreetly as she hurried toward La Porcherie, then took a window seat at a café across the street.

The restaurant was packed, and Magalie hurried to tend her tables, dodging male hands reaching for her hips and thighs, until the manager pulled her aside. With unmistakable exasperation, he admonished her, then boldly unfastened a button on her blouse, low between her breasts. Taking her wrist, he pulled her forward, nodding when she finally bent over, then sent her away with a smack across her ass.

Amanda waited until the manager turned, then used the camera in her watch to snap his photo. She noted with dismay the forced smile Magalie wore as she leaned over her latest table, unable to avoid displaying her ample cleavage and the edges of her black lace bra. When the closest man moved his arm out of view, Magalie stiffened, trembling and clenching her notepad until he withdrew his hand.

Reluctantly, Amanda captured several images. How sickening it was, the way the manager leveraged his economic power to exploit Magalie.

Later, alone in her little studio, Amanda sent Derrick an encrypted message, conveying her suspicions and referring to the manager's picture, which she'd already provided, along with all the others. As she reviewed the photos, she regretted taking the sequence of Magalie looking stricken as she bent forward, her lovely breasts nearly spilling from their confines. Derrick was a shit, and he'd kept copies of several compromising photos of Amanda for his personal use. No doubt he'd do the same with Magalie. These shots were considerably less revealing, but Amanda was certain he'd have some pictures more to his liking by the end of the mission.

She was still studying a closeup of Magalie's distressed face when Derrick responded, identifying Jean Barbier. The same man owned a black Audi seen on the grounds of the bordello.

"Congratulations," he wrote, "you've identified your target."

* * *

The next morning, Amanda treated herself to a freshly baked croissant, slathered in real butter and strawberry preserves -- a reward for the distasteful chore she was about to perform. Earlier, she'd reviewed an inspirational essay on leadership. She was in operational command of this mission, and she must set an example for her two subordinates, whose assignments required equal compromises to their modesty.

Just do it, she told herself. She brought out the little sundress she'd purchased at a vintage shop near the Centre Pompidou. It was an inconsequential piece of blue gingham fabric, completely unlined.

A peek out her window told her the rainstorm had passed, but the trees still swayed in a blustery wind, and the cold draft through the cracks in her warped floorboards confirmed that this dress would prove uncomfortable. Nevertheless, she pulled it on, then lifted her long, dark hair to secure the halter top behind her neck.

She applied full makeup over her moisturizer, using shadow and liner on her eyelids and teasing her already long, thick eyelashes until they resembled miniature leaf rakes. She thought she looked a little too wide-eyed, but she couldn't help feeling proud. Foundation, contour, and blush gave her a radiant glow. Finally, she painted her full lips with Hermes Rose Dakar.

She checked herself in the mirror, flushing when she saw her nipples were visible through her flimsy bodice. In weather this cold, they were sure to poke out proudly. Equally prominent was the ridge across her bottom from the elastic waistband of her panties. She'd expected this issue, and in fact, her plan required her to leave the panties behind, even though she'd never before left home without them. Now she bent to remove them.

She hated having to sacrifice her dignity for such a pig. But desperate times, desperate measures, she told herself. With an effort, she forced herself to snap the obligatory series of selfies in the mirror, reminding herself to get a variety of angles to avoid being made to re-take them later, then sent the photos off to Derrick. It was hard not to think of his reaction, or the likelihood he'd show them to others like some kind of trophy, some proof of his own lovemaking prowess.

Realizing she was behind schedule, she rushed to zip up her coat and locked the door behind herself. Outside, the wind was as biting as she'd feared, but thankfully, the walk to La Porcherie was short.

She found Jean Barbier reviewing his receipts from the night before, and when she entered, he looked at her over the tops of his spectacles. "Nous sommes fermes," he said, using a sharp tone. We're closed. "Tu n'as pas vu le signe?"

Draping her coat over a chair, she walked slowly toward him, rolling her hips as she crossed one foot over the other, in a performance worthy of a Parisian runway model. Atop the three-inch heels on her pale blue sandals, she towered over him. "Avez-vous une ouverture pour une serveuse?" Do you have an opening for a waitress? Her voice was breathy.

He looked back at her through his lenses. Her face caught his attention first, but his eyes soon dropped to her chest. She let him stare for a long moment, her heart pounding, then turned to the display case. On the bottom shelf sat a pretty cake, decorated with berries.

This next part would be the hardest. Drawing a deep breath, she pursed her lips, widened her stance, and bent sharply, bringing her nose to the glass. Her short hem caught beneath the swell of her bottom before popping free with an audible snap, and she tried not to think about the even-more-enticing delicacy she herself was displaying, between her open thighs. "Is that a chocolate raspberry torte?"

Hearing no response, she looked back over her shoulder, and saw his gaze trained on her exposed pussy. She held her pose a few more beats, then straightened and turned, her face as red as the raspberries on the cake, thinking she'd never get used to the need to objectify herself.

She studied him from close range, looking for something attractive about this rotund, balding, slovenly man, someplace to focus the excitement bubbling within her, but finding nothing. Nothing but the desire written on his face, and the sense of omnipotence it gave her. She realized she'd become wet, and hated herself for it.

"Shall I start work this evening, then?" Certain she'd sealed the deal, she scooped up her coat, preparing to leave.

He nodded, opening his collar, his own face now rosy. "How badly do you need the money?"

She swore softly to herself. This wouldn't be quite as easy as she'd planned. But it was her own fault. Toying with dominant men was always a risk.

She put down her coat. "Pretty badly."

He smiled. "Bend over again."

She turned to face the front door, bent forward, and placed her hands on her knees. Biting her lip, she lowered her shoulders further, certain he could again see everything.

Outside, on the sidewalk, a passerby glanced her way, then fixed his gaze on her, turning his head to its limit. Recognizing the view down the front of her dress, she clapped her hand to her chest.

Behind her, Jean stepped closer, and when she felt his heavy hand on her ass, she clenched her fists until her nails dug into her palms, forcing herself to let him grope her, knowing his action was apparent to passersby. How much latitude would she give him, right here in the brightly lit dining room? What further public indignities was she prepared to endure?

She still needed to gain entry to the bordello, known as Le Manoir de Mille Pervers, but she shouldn't sell herself too cheaply. She raised up and moved just beyond his reach, straightening her dress.

His eyes narrowed. "I don't like to be teased, and I'm not a man to be trifled with."

"And I'm not your whore." Smiling sweetly and picking up her coat again, she headed for the door.

"Start at 4pm. Wear the same dress," he called after her.

Walking back down Boulevard St. Germain, as briskly as her tall heels allowed, she was too perturbed to stop to put on her coat. The wind stung her bare skin, buffeting her short hem and threatening to upend her skirt, and she clutched the edge of the gauzy fabric with her free hand, to avoid adding to the already considerable attention she attracted.

When a well-dressed young man cut across her path, leering as he forced her to stop, something snapped. "Fuck you," she snapped at him in French.

He reached for her, and she pushed him away, just as a gust lifted her skirt to her waist, baring her pussy to him and several others. He hooted, turning to walk backwards, watching her stalk away.

Back in her tiny apartment, she began to cry, kicking off her sandals and roughly pulling off the hated sundress, nearly pitching it into the garbage before remembering she had to wear it again later.

Tears trickled down her cheeks, ruining her makeup, and she let herself blubber for a minute, then tissued her nose and sat down on the edge of her narrow bed. Again, she felt the urge to tear the dress in half, and she recognized it stood as a symbol for the objectification she was continually forced to tolerate. At this moment, it seemed unbearable.

She looked down at her naked body, and ran her hands over the swell of her jutting breasts, the subject of such endless fascination, a weapon with the power to deduct forty points from the IQ of any man. Beneath her ribcage, her body nipped in sharply to form her slender waist, then gracefully swept outward around her hips to reach her perfectly toned legs. Between them nestled her beautiful pink orchid, whose delicate petals so many longed to spread, and whose nectar held the potency to captivate, to obsess. She let her fingers linger there, remembering.

Her inner feminist despised the way men looked at her, as though she were merely a thing, a collection of body parts that existed solely for their pleasure, as a means of indulging and satisfying their most vulgar, loathsome urges. Yet for herself, the palpable evidence of their desire had become an opiate, and a trigger for her own arousal.

When she rose, she saw her juices had dampened her white duvet, and she realized she'd neglected her self-care for far too long. Sitting down again, she lay back against her pillow, opened her thighs, and inserted her index finger.

Already excited, she had no need for lubricant or toys, nor for the careful stretching she normally required. However, she noticed a painful rawness inside herself, a sensation she associated with the aftermath of particularly rough intercourse. She realized she'd been ignoring a dull ache between her legs all day. Yet she hadn't recently serviced any Agency leaders.

As she penetrated herself, her arousal grew, pushing such questions from her head. As she thrusted with her fingers and rubbed her clitoris with her other hand, she let her mind wander back to Jean Barbier. He was a repulsive man, but he wanted her so badly, so transparently.

What would he do to her? she wondered. Would he wrench her sensitive breasts, still tender from some assignation she couldn't recall? Very likely. Would he plumb her depths with his fat fingers? Almost certainly. Would he grip her harshly by the neck as he pushed his smelly little cock inside her to the hilt, as he squashed her beneath his bulk, as he rutted her furiously? As he demeaned and degraded and humiliated her?

She felt her pussy begin to clench around her fingers, and she increased the tempo and pressure on her clitoris. The muscles in her lower abdomen began to flutter.

He's a horrible man, she told herself, capable of horrible behavior. You'll tell him no, but he'll ignore you. You'll struggle, but he'll overpower you. You'll fight, and he'll hurt you. Finally, you'll surrender, and go limp, and he'll feast on you, ravage and plunder you. He'll steal your dignity and thieve your self-respect. He'll drain your very identity, drink it down, and walk away, leaving you an empty, desiccated husk, rattling in the cold wind.

When she gave voice to her climax, she didn't recognize the sound. As it continued, she buried her face in her pillow, lest the spinster next door complain.

Later, she used her small sink to wash the duvet cover, a little at a time, draping the wet portion over her bare shoulder as she worked. The residue of her tears and snot washed away easily, but the stain from beneath her hips took more scrubbing.

The blot on her self-esteem would never fade.

* * *

That evening, Amanda arrived early, wanting to meet La Porcherie's kitchen staff before the hordes arrived. She was still studying the menu when Magalie appeared, doing a double take.

"I know you. You're in my French Lit class."

Amanda nodded. "I'm Camille. And you're..." She snapped her fingers twice. "Magalie?"

"That's me." With a wry expression, she took in Amanda's body, barely covered by her wispy sundress. "We don't have any openings, but no doubt Jean made a new position for you." She leaned closer. "Watch out. With that dress, you're bound to provoke him. Not to mention the customers." She cut her eyes toward the group of three young men sitting down near the window.

Amanda touched her forehead, pretending to remember. "You're the one Jean said to talk to, about the side job. I told him I'm behind on my charge card, and I need some extra hours."