Amanda, CIA Agent Ch. 12

She turned back to Christophe, who now wore an amused expression. She opened her mouth, but for a moment, she couldn't find her voice. "Chr-, um, Mr. Deschamps, Ariane suggested there might be additional work available for someone with my..." She glanced down at her breasts, high and appealingly round within their pretty pale green lace cups. "...qualifications," she finished.

He grinned back at her. "Perhaps. Ask me again when you're more suitably attired."

Outside the window, dark clouds scudded across the sky, and the rising wind whistled faintly around the edges of the frame. Kayla shivered, but she reached back to unhook her bra, crossing her arms over her chest as she slowly slid the straps off her shoulders. After a moment, she opened her arms, and saw his smile fade.

His eyes devoured her bare breasts, watching them quiver as they rose and fell with her every breath, until eventually his focus slid down her flat tummy to the junction of her thighs.

Almost there, she thought, glancing back over her shoulder at her wristwatch, which was transmitting video of her nearly nude body into the ether. They're definitely giving me a commendation, she told herself.

She hooked her thumbs into her panties, and saw him react as her waistband flipped over. Looking away, she skimmed the panties down her legs, and stood before him naked.

Let him look, she again reminded herself, struggling to moderate her shaky breathing. She knew he'd want her to move her feet apart, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. Even so, he could see plenty.

He sat forward, baring his teeth. "I bet you like to be tied up, don't you?"

You wish, she thought, but she bit back a response.

"Too bad we can't do that here. Go to the door and press your body against the glass."

Kayla swallowed, then did as he instructed, flattening her breasts against the cold glass and turning her head to rest her cheek. Her knee clunked against the hard surface.

Yvette's sneer was unmistakable.

"You see, Yvette doesn't approve of my entrepreneurial venture. But her husband is disabled, and she can't afford to lose her job. So, we coexist. But I can't resist the opportunity to remind her of her dependence on me."

Hyper-aware of her own vulnerability, and unable to continue looking Yvette in the eye any longer, Kayla turned away from the door and stood by his desk again, trembling and hugging herself, trying unsuccessfully to convince herself she wasn't still completely naked. "Do I get the private job? Can I get dressed now?"

"Not yet." He pointed to the open footwell beneath his desk.

Understanding his demand, she wasn't pleased, but it wasn't a big surprise. Grudgingly, she had to admit it wasn't as bad as the next most likely alternative. She turned her face away to hide her sour expression as she lowered her knees to the white deep pile carpet and crawled into the cubbyhole, careful to duck her head.

Too late, she realized that, from her desk on the far side of the door, Yvette had a view of her bare ass, and more. She considered backing out to retrieve her panties, but Christophe had already slumped low in his highbacked leather chair, impatiently awaiting service. And really, what was the point of stretching a piece of lace over her crotch, if Yvette could still see her mouth on their employer's dick?

She unzipped his fly, and found him already so hard that freeing him required careful maneuvering. Reluctantly, she let him slap his length against her cheek a few times before she engulfed him.

Wrapping her hand around his shaft, she laved his mushroom as she jerked him off, using her saliva for lubrication. Thankfully, he kept his own mouth closed while he vocalized his pleasure, since she didn't welcome any new attention from passersby.

He watched her please him. "Fuck. You look so hot, all innocent and apple-cheeked, with your lovely lips wrapped around my cock."

She took him further into her mouth, sucking and slurping with each stroke, and he moaned his assent repeatedly as he pulled at the back of her neck, urging her to take him deeper. She brought her other hand up, controlling his depth and resting her elbows on his thighs, but he increased the pressure on the back of her head. She tasted his precum and saw his respiration quicken.

"Move your hands. Let me fuck your mouth," he barked, too loudly, as he rose out of his chair, forcing her to slide her knees closer and raise up off her heels. With his free hand, he roughly groped her breast. "Move them," he repeated, in a tone that brooked no disobedience, and Kayla saw a male shape slow and turn outside the curtained glass.

Behind her, she heard the door open. "Is there a problem?" called Yvette. "We all can hear you," she continued, in a stage whisper. The door thunked shut.

Reluctantly, Kayla dropped one hand, then the other, and Christophe put his palms against her cheeks, thrusting deeper. His tip pressed against the back of her throat, and her mouth filled with excess saliva, producing a squelching sound. She began to gag, and started to bring her hand up again, but he looked at her so sternly, she withdrew it. Her eyes watered, and spit drizzled out onto the tops of her thighs.

"Oh, yes-yes-yes," he murmured, in time with his strokes.

She heard a noise, and cut her eyes to the left in time to glimpse someone watching her through a narrow gap in the curtain. A male someone. The face was familiar. When she met his eye, he vanished.

"Cumming," Christophe announced, thrusting forward, placing his palm against the back of her head, and hammering it with his fist, grunting with each blow and forcing his crown deeper into her throat. Then, he fell back into his chair with a contented sigh.

Kayla sat still for a moment, still coughing, head bowed, letting the slurry of spit and cum dribble out of her mouth and onto the carpet, joining the obvious wet spot between her knees. She looked around for a tissue, but none were available. With her bare hand, she wiped away the remaining strands dangling from her chin, but she didn't dare touch her lips or her eyes, sure her lipstick and mascara would end up on the rug. Christophe might force Yvette to remove the stains.

She sat back on her haunches and looked up at him. "Should I ask Yvette for the time and place? Or should I get those details from Ariane?"

He cocked his head. "Just one more thing." He patted the top of his desk. "Get up here and show me your pussy like a good little whore."

Her shoulders slumped, but she clambered to her feet. The report he'd been reading lay open in front of him, and she closed the notebook and slid it to one side before raising herself onto her toes and centering her firm bottom atop his desk. She drew up her feet, hugging her knees to her chest.

"Show me," he repeated, with impatience showing in his voice.

With a sigh, she leaned back, bracing herself with her arms, and let her legs fall to either side, watching his reaction. He didn't appear satisfied until she sat with her legs completely unfolded, red-faced and fully open to his gaze.

"Oh, fuck, you're wet."

She realized it was true. Mortified, she fought the urge to cover herself.

He leaned closer, and she felt his hot breath on her shoulder. He reached out, and his finger found the valley between her labia. He slipped inside her pussy.

Behind her, the door creaked open again. "Your next appointment is here," announced Yvette. "They're just finishing up," she told the man, "Go right in."

This was too much for Kayla. She quickly climbed down from the desk, trying to remain facing away while she looked over her shoulder for her clothes. Her dress lay beneath her chair, and her panties were at her feet, but where was her bra? With growing shame, she turned to search for it.

The new arrival was clearly taken aback by her nudity, but that didn't stop him from admiring her as she retrieved her wristwatch from the bookshelf.

"Yes, you'll do nicely," she heard Christophe say as she shoved her panties into her handbag and pulled her dress over her head, abandoning the search for her missing bra. "Be ready for your first visit to Le Manoir tomorrow night. See Ariane about transportation."

She nodded once and turned to leave.

He gripped her wrist tightly, pulling her backward to whisper in her ear. "Don't think you've escaped. You're still getting well and truly fucked."

* * *

After disembarking separately from the Bateau Mouche, Amanda and her fellow agents made their way home. Despite the unpleasant weather, and the paucity of pedestrians at this late hour, Amanda decided to walk across the pont de l'Alma to clear her head. Halfway across, she stopped a moment, and when a gust swept away the mist, she caught sight of the Eiffel Tower in the distance. Its elegant beauty never failed to move her.

Both her subordinates' reports were encouraging, showing strong progress toward her mission's objective, but it bothered her that both women had already been sexually exploited. Kayla had dutifully transmitted video of her encounter with Deschamps, which she knew would receive wide circulation at headquarters, compounding her humiliation.

And neither of them had even gotten inside the bordello yet. Their experiences were sure to become harder to bear before the mission concluded.

Protecting them was her responsibility.

She looked down at the bridge's center pier, and the Zouave statue decorating it. The nineteenth century statue of an elite French soldier guarded the bridge just as she guarded the safety of her two junior agents. It was a duty she took very seriously, even if she couldn't protect herself.

Could Michelle be right? Did she deliberately put herself in danger? She stared at the black water, but in the reflected light she saw the bright orange rectangle of the flight attendant call button.

She heard shuffling footsteps on the walkway, and looked up at an approaching vagrant, shabbily dressed but stooped, withered, and obviously harmless.

"Economiser une piece, poupee?" Spare a coin, doll?

She stiffened, her hand clenched tight around the pair of two-euro coins she held.

Doll, he'd called her.

She looked down at him, but his face was not the one she saw. Her hand went slack, and the two coins fell to the pavement.

He retrieved them from the gutter. "Merci."

She didn't hear him.

* * *

Amanda was startled awake, to find a strange face peering down at her. A broad face, covered with a dark five o'clock shadow, flushed, and shiny with perspiration. A bulbous nose at its center, above thick lips, which slid back to reveal uneven teeth, yellowed by the nicotine that pervaded his hot, heavy breath.

She recognized him. He was the other first class passenger, seated nearby. She'd never met him, she was certain.

"Hey, baby," the wet lips whispered. "Are you my dolly-doll?"

She was aware of the steady drone of the plane's engines, but something was wrong. She felt groggy, more so than she should from a single drink. She tried to raise her arms, but they didn't respond. She couldn't even turn her head.

Even in her muddled state, she knew she'd been drugged. Given her feeling of relaxation and complete lack of motor function, she suspected methaqualone. Better known by its brand name, Quaalude, it was no longer legally available in the U.S., but it had become a favored date-rape drug.

Through the murk, she felt his hand at the back of her head, tugging at the pins securing her updo, unwinding her tightly coiled braids until her thick mane lay unfurled across her shoulders. He combed through her hair, letting her silkiness caress his fingertips, reveling in the sensation. Carefully he arranged its drape, then drew back to admire his handiwork.

"Oh, yes," he whispered into her ear, "you are my dolly-doll." Without warning, he gripped her jaw, clamping his powerful fingers just beneath her ears until he forced it open. As her eyes widened, he picked up a thick wad of paper cocktail napkins and crammed it into her mouth. "Or, you're soon going to be."

Her anger flared, and she thought, Like hell, I'm nobody's plaything. Bottled up inside her, her rage boiled, and her heart fought against the heavy weight of the tranquilizer.

However, there was nothing wrong with her sense of touch. If anything, her perception was heightened, and now she felt his fingers toying with her lower lip, rolling it down, then sliding lower, trailing her saliva along her chin and throat. His wrist rested on her clavicle as he unfastened the first button of her starched white cotton blouse, then the second. His fingers followed her placket lower, between her fulsome breasts, working the third button.

Her breath caught in her throat. He's undressing me, she thought, and I'm helpless. How did this happen?

She heard a hushed titter, and cut her eyes left. Twenty feet away, beyond the edge of the bulkhead, she could see a slice of the face of the purser, a winsome blonde in her thirties, her slim body turned hard to the right, lost in whispered conversation with the attendants she managed.

If only I could get her attention, Amanda thought. She raised her gaze, and her eye fell on the flight attendant call button, glowing bright orange in the dim light. Again, she tried to lift her hand, but it didn't move, not even a millimeter. Panic consumed her.

The strange man's hand pulled at the edge of her placket, and she realized he'd unfastened all her buttons. He was about to open her blouse. They were in public, and anyone traversing the aisle would see.

She heard him giggle with excitement, and felt the tails of her blouse slide out from beneath the waistband of her slacks. He pushed the edges apart, revealing her pale pink bra, and she watched his Adam's apple bob.

"Fuuuck."

After a long moment, he slid the blouse off her shoulders and down her arms, leaving it crumpled beneath the small of her back. Again, he drew back, admiring her, showing his toothy yellow grin as he lifted the dead weight of her limp left arm over her head, then her right, letting them dangle over the top of her lie-flat seat. In this position, her breasts strained against their lacy confines.

Riding a wave of unbridled lust, he seized her appealing roundness with both hands, gripping her globes with the possessiveness a drowning man would show for a life preserver. His hands worked like a lobster's claws, squashing her pliant flesh for long intervals before momentarily slackening, only to snatch them up again.

Get off me, you scum-sucking leech, she tried to call out, but she couldn't get the words past the gag in her mouth. Her muffled exhortations were so faint, they couldn't be heard over the sound of the engines.

Excitedly, he searched for and found the hidden button securing the front of her tailored slacks, drew down the tiny zipper, and slid the charcoal grey twill past the flare of her hips, down her legs, and off.

His hand reached out once more, approaching her like a slithering viper, animated by malevolence. His fingers traced the lower edges of her ribcage, then caressed the soft, pale skin of her flat belly, moving back and forth between the points of her hipbones, his soft touch belying his depravity.

As his hand slid lower, brushing the waistband of her bikini panties, her eyes widened again, and she heard her own labored breathing whistling through her dilated nostrils.

Please don't do it, she thought, locking her eyes on his in a silent entreaty. Please don't touch me there. Once more, her tongue pushed ineffectually against the wad of napkins.

He lifted his hand, then gripped her ankle, pushing it upward, letting her knee flop lifelessly to the side. He did the same with her other ankle, leaving her thighs apart, the thin fabric of her panties stretched tightly across her vulnerable hillock.

"Oh, yes, you're such a beautiful dolly." The back of his head bumped the air vent, opening it wide.

Grasping her shoulder, he rolled her to the side, slid his hand beneath her back, and sprang the hooks securing her bra. Letting her settle back, he pushed the cups upward, lifting them over her head, leaving the straps twisted around her hanging wrists. With delight, he took her breasts in his hands again, savoring the feel of her soft skin as he squeezed them roughly, unconcerned with her discomfort. He pressed them together and buried his face in their furrow, sowing slimy kisses as he heedlessly abraded her with his prickly stubble.

"Dolly has such pretty breasts. Oh, I love my dolly." He chose a nipple and sucked voraciously, until it hardened.

When he drew back again, cold air from the vent blasted her bare torso, and she began to shiver uncontrollably. She redoubled her efforts to move her arms and legs, without success.

He put his hand on her knee, and slid it up the inside of her thigh. "Are you going to show me your pussy now?"

She looked at him hard, telegraphing the force of her objection, but recognized its futility. The only voice he heard came from within his own imagination.

"Oh, yes. You are." He slid her panties down and off. "You love to show me your pussy, don't you, dolly."

He spread her open. "Oh my, look how wet you are! You're such a bad, greedy, dirty dolly. You look like an innocent angel..." He slid two fingers inside her. "...but inside, you're just a wanton slut."

She heard a faint clink as he unfastened his belt, then his full weight settled onto the inside of her thigh. The crown of his cock prodded her perineum, then he lifted his aim a fraction and slipped inside her.

He shifted his weight directly over her hips, and rested his hairy chest against her own, crushing her aching breasts between their bodies. With a slight sideways wiggle, he worked himself deeper inside her, and despite her bitter indignation, she felt herself continuing to slicken.

You're disgusting, she told herself. You're sick.

Her shame was almost unendurable, yet it added to her arousal. She longed to rub herself against his shaft.

He began to move, and as he thrusted, he spread his wet kisses over her cheeks and along her neck. "You love my cock, don't you, dolly?"

She tried to convince herself that this was someone else's body being desecrated, not her own, but every slap of his groin against her vulva forced her to confront the fact of his assault, of her participation in her own debasement. With all her strength, she tried to scream, but her howls remained stoppered inside her like a tormented genie trapped in a bottle.

Finally, he screwed his eyes shut, grunting repeatedly as he forcefully thrust himself into her, shaking the frame of her lie-flat seat, and she felt him filling her with his hot cum.

He lay atop her for another minute, letting his breathing normalize, before he rolled off. Retrieving her lingerie, he began to dress her, carefully, almost reverently, each article perfectly positioned and smoothed into place. As he did so, drowsiness overtook her, and by the time he removed the wad of napkins from her mouth, she was sound asleep again.

* * *

Special thanks to NikkiSparrow for her countless, invaluable suggestions and feedback. Make sure to check out Nikki's Red Sparrow series, she's one of the most talented writers on Literotica IMHO.

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