Nancy Mitchell's Other Life Ch. 02

Everyone in this story is over 18, including the fantasy people described in the story.

Five weeks later, Nancy Mitchell was still fantasizing about Agent Christine Waters. The memory of the statuesque blond had put Nancy through her paces nearly every night and most mornings, when she would wake up before her alarm and pass the time with her fingers in her cunt and Agent Waters in her head. Usually it started as a simple workplace romance, cups of coffee and sharing lunches in the break room. One thing lead to another until a bottle of wine lead them to bed. Things would be going great until Nancy's perversions started to creep into their lovemaking. Agent Waters took Nancy's need for public humiliation and other kinks as a sign she wasn't enough for Nancy, and they argued then fought. They were on the verge of breaking up, but Nancy begged for one last chance, and Agent Waters spitefully agreed. But Nancy would have to prove she really needed these things, that they weren't just momentary kicks or some kind of weird test. And then, in a moment of anger that quickly became lust, Mistress Christine told Mosquito Bites to...

Told her to...

Told her to what? What did Agent Waters want from her? Why had that little smirk come across her face during the interview? Had she really whispered, "Miss Mosquito Bites" in her ear or had that just been part of Nancy's fantasy? Had Nancy imagined the whole thing, misread social cues and body language and misheard words until they became what her greedy pussy wanted them to become? The questions inevitably derailed her fantasies, and while Nancy could still get herself off eventually it was so much less satisfying than when she was deep in one of her invented worlds where she was the plaything of a sadistic fantasy top.

That was the problem. The tops in Nancy's fantasies had a motivation, or at least a reason, but often it was fairly shallow and Nancy never thought about it when she was jilling off. They mostly tormented the flat-chested shame sluts she invented because the flat-chested shame sluts needed someone to torment them. Good enough for the story, game on. Nancy had never needed more than that to get off, but whenever she tried to fantasize about Agent Waters and the cruel humiliations she wanted to imagine suffering at her hands, thoughts of what Waters did in her spare time kept intruding.

Did she have pets? What were her friends like, did they call her Christine, Christie, Chris, or Waters? Did they play board games in blue jeans and flannel shirts or wear little black dresses and garters and stockings to cocktail parties and talk about art and politics? Fuck, was she married to some guy named Chet she dated in high school and having boring missionary position sex under the covers with the lights out once a month? The questions consumed Nancy.

She had tried to find Agent Waters on social media, but she didn't have a profile or at least not a public one, and she hadn't appeared in any news stories. Agent Waters had done security clearance reviews for a few other people in Nancy's office, but none of them knew anything about her personal life. Nancy didn't have access to the kinds of databases that could get her private information on someone, especially someone in the Bureau. Agent Waters contact info in the Federal Crime Bureau directory was just that, a name a phone extension and an office number. They didn't even work in the same building, and Nancy had no reason to show up at the site where Waters' office was listed. And the security guards at the door would definitely not be impressed that she was there to stalk her fantasy dominatrix. Nancy knew nothing about the woman who had so captured her imagination. Who the hell was Agent Christine Waters when she wasn't in Nancy's head?

Nancy groaned and slid her fingers out of her rapidly cooling and drying pussy. She actually wanted to please Agent Waters more than she wanted to come, and it was frustrating as hell. She'd never met anyone like that before, and she didn't know a damn thing about the agent except she had big breasts and the same lousy retirement plan the Bureau gave everyone. Who she was, what she liked, not even what she was doing. Was Agent Waters as kinky as she was, but already seeing someone, sitting on their face at this exact moment and digging her fingernails into their nipples, pulling their tiny breasts up into sharp cones and taunting them between their screams? "Ooooh, I think I almost got a b-cup out of you that time! Keep licking me and I'll try to get a picture so you can see what you'd look like if you had tits!" Nancy felt a sudden stab of entirely irrational jealousy towards this woman (who might not even exist) competing with her for Agent Waters cruel affection and gave up on getting off for the morning. She swung her legs out of bed and stomped toward the shower.

Unfortunately, at the moment Agent Waters was not doing anything nearly as erotic as getting eaten out while she tortured her lover's tiny little titties. She was sitting in a conference room, waiting for a meeting to begin. She had arrived five minutes early, as she always did, and was going over her notes one last time when Assistant Director Bancroft walked in with her supervisor, Agent Elias Jones. The two sat down, put their ever present cups of coffee in front of them, and nodded.

"It's god-damn early, and I think this is everyone on the calendar invite. Waters, what are we here for?" AD Bancroft took a sip of coffee and looked at her beneath large, bushy eyebrows going gray.

Agent Waters nodded, and began speaking. "Sir, we've been trying to get someone into the Blue Angel for years, but the extreme activities in the club have made it difficult. Frankly, the public nudity and expectation to participate in sex acts make it difficult to find agents of either sex who are willing to volunteer because of a fear of damaging their career, and it would cost them credibility on a witness stand if they did. However, I believe I have found someone who addresses both of those issues. I've prepared a summary-"

Her supervisor, Jones, winced and held up a hand. "What happened at the Blue Angel wasn't your fault Waters, and I'm afraid this is turning into an obsession. I apologize AD Bancroft, but I think we should stop this here-"

Bancroft shook his head ruefully and interrupted. "Frostbite has become a priority again. Not an urgent one, but a priority. And the Blue Angel Club is the only lead we have to his or her identity. You've got good timing, if nothing else, Waters. Go ahead, I'd like to hear this."

Jones narrowed his eyes, and waited for Bancroft to elaborate. When the assistant director didn't, he just nodded at Waters. "All right, Waters, let's hear it."

Waters' ass un-clenched three full notches and she continued before she could smile. She had gotten past the first hurdle, the big one, now to take a dive in round two and set up what she really wanted out of the meeting in round three. "Thank you, sir. I believe that in order to infiltrate the Blue Angel, we don't need an undercover agent who can pretend to be an exhibitionist. We need an exhibitionist who can pretend to be an undercover agent." Waters slid over two manila folders which each contained an extremely detailed psychological profile of Nancy Mitchell that the Bureau shrinks had worked up for her based on Nancy's new security clearance dossier and existing file. "Sirs, allow me to introduce Nancy Mitchell, data analyst at the C-building."

Waters went on to summarize Nancy Mitchell's sexual fantasies in clinical terms that somehow made Nancy sound even more depraved than simply reading her stories would. Phrases like "libido excited by fantasies of emotional and physical pain, craves public exposure for the humiliation it provides, and extensive fantasies of surrendering control of orgasms and wardrobe to an antagonist" were all used. Words like "anal, large object insertion, and demotion fantasy" were spoken and examples from Nancy's stories were cited. Waters carefully avoided any mention of her own interest in the slim brunette, and kept her voice flat and unemotional. When she was done baring Nancy's soul to the two men in the room her pussy was drenched, but neither the AD nor her supervisor had any idea that this was anything but a professional meeting for her, albeit one that touched on a target she had worked before with bad results.

But a feeling was building inside of her. She had fantasized about controlling someone, humiliating them publicly, even destroying their career so they were entirely dependent on her and couldn't say no to anything she asked before. Taking someone's deepest, darkest secrets and sharing them with others for her own enjoyment was a fantasy she had gotten off to in the past, but to actually sit in a conference room and do it? Unf. Her security clearance reviews had gotten people fired, but she took no pleasure in that and often felt guilty even though it was necessary. But she had never done this before, humiliated someone so thoroughly to two men who could destroy their career with an email. The only thing missing was Nancy herself, listening in on a phone while tied to a bed with a vibrator mashed into her cunt, coming over and over as she was shamed in front of powerful men who didn't even know she existed before but now knew that a desperate humiliation pig worked in their organization. Or even better, Nancy could be crying under the table, hearing every word, her mouth full of pussy and begging and pleading for Waters to stop.

Waters finished her report with the recommendation that Nancy be offered the opportunity to be temporarily assigned to the field, with appropriate training of course, in order to infiltrate the Blue Angel Club and help ascertain the identity of Codename: Frostbite. She specifically did not request that she be put in charge of the operation, closed her folder, sat back, and waited patiently for the hammer to drop.

Bancroft closed his folder as well and looked at her across the table. "Absolutely not. No fucking way."

"Pardon sir?" Waters cocked her head in feigned confusion.

"Fantasies, Waters." Bancroft slid the folder back across the table and sighed. "These are fantasies. Fantasies as in 'not real.' I played 'Soldier' when I was a child but it didn't prepare me for war, and Nancy Mitchell has never experienced any of the things in these stories that your whole psych profile is built on, as far as we know. No real consequences, none of the pain or aftermath of doing these acts in real life. For example, even if she does torture her breasts while masturbating or go out in public in a shirt that shows her chest, she can stop the whole show whenever she wants to, before it goes too far. The animals in that club won't be so respectful. Your whole plan hinges on her embracing these fantasies when they're not fantasies anymore."

Bancroft continued mercilessly. "We send her in there and unless things go perfectly, which they never do, she comes out severely traumatized with a lifetime of PTSD, and that's a best case scenario. Worst case she freaks out and says or does something that gets her and anyone out there with her tortured and killed. It's an interesting connection and I like your initiative, but your eagerness to catch Frostbite and make up for past... events, let's say, lead you to equate Nancy's enthusiasm for fantasy with real world experience. And there's no way I'm risking anyone's life on Nancy Mitchell's dirty internet stories that contain no real world experience."

Waters let her shoulders slump and sighed. She took a deep breath and nodded. "But-I...yes. That's fair, sir. I apologize for wasting both of your time."

She waited for Bancroft to signal to Jones, who cleared his throat and started to speak before she suddenly looked up and said, "Unless..."

Jones exhaled, but took the bait. "Unless what, Waters? The AD has a lot on his plate, so please make it brief."

Waters shrugged, "I just thought, you were absolutely right that it was unacceptable to send Mitchell in without actual experience, but what if she had actually done the things she described? In real life?"

The hum of the air conditioning filled every inch of the room. Jones sat still, keeping his eyes on nothing in particular. Waters was equally frozen, letting the question hang there, trying to ignore the wetness between her thighs. Bancroft eventually gave an elaborate shrug and stood up. "Mitchell wants to be a field agent?"

Waters met his eyes, and nodded. "Yes sir. Applied and passed the tests for the training three times, just didn't get a slot."

"Then I suppose, if she were to gain real world experience in these things, I would re-evaluate your proposal. And I can't tell you what to do in your personal times, or what your relationships should look like. But Agent Waters?"

"Yes sir?" She kept her voice innocent, a still junior agent just trying to do her best.

"I don't like being played." Bancroft walked to the door and paused with his hand on the doorknob. He spoke without turning around. "But I have been known to respect a player, if they bring me wins. And Frostbite would be a big win." He let himself out and door swung shut behind him.

Elias Jones let out an explosive breath. "You gambled big there Waters. Very big."

She couldn't resist a small amount of gloating. "And I believe I won the bet, sir."

Jones stood up, and pushed his chair in. "Did you? I'm not so sure. You got AD Bancroft's attention, and that can be a very dangerous thing. If you go through with this and you don't get Frostbite? I don't know. To be clear, you do this, it's all yours either way. You'll get the glory if it works, but I will also throw you under the bus in a heartbeat if it goes down like last time."

Agent Waters quickly got her ego back under control. She had what she wanted, tacit permission to make Mosquito Bites' fantasies a reality and eventually (probably) use her to go after Frostbite. There was no profit in gloating. She nodded sharply. "Yes sir."

"Fine. One last thing: I can't advise you or Ms. Mitchell as to your extra-curricular activities, but she at least will get emotional about this scenario you've devised at some point. And emotions can make people very unpredictable." Jones sighed, turned, and left the room.

Waters counted to ten after the door closed, then slapped the table, gave out a loud whoop, and let her face break out into a huge grin. She had won. She had fucking won! And speaking of winning, it was time to collect her prize. She could get off in one of the bathroom stalls, plenty of people did it, but she had a better idea. It probably wasn't the safest course to first approach Nancy at her place of work, but C-site was practically Siberia for the Bureau, and a small, even chaste encounter in her office would prep Mosquito Bites for being humiliated there in the future. Waters nodded to herself. She was on a winning streak, it was time to bet big.

A forty minute drive later and Christine Waters walked through the C-site building, counting the numbers on the cubicles. She drew more than one startled glance, but had passed on before anyone really saw her as anything but a blond with a dyke haircut in a charcoal pants suit with a purposeful stride moving through the area. A few looked out of their cubicles, their gaze lingering appreciatively on her ass, but no one was going to stop her.

Cubicle 512. Nancy Mitchell's small, dull, beige piece of the office. Waters walked in without bothering to stop by the entrance and clear her throat or knock gently on the plastic. Nancy was lost in thought, starting at a spreadsheet, when Agent Waters stopped behind her, took a handful of her hair in her hand and leaned down. Her clenched fist held Nancy's head straight forward, and her free hand flicked a headphone off of Nancy's ear. "Hello Nancy. Do you recognize my voice? Do you know who I am?"

Nancy definitely recognized that voice. Remembered how it had said the word "explain" and forced her to confess the most embarrassing event of her life, so far. Instinctively, she squeaked out a "Yes!" It was louder than she meant it to be. It sounded like a gunshot in her ear, and she trembled and whispered a second, "Yes, I do." Fuck, she almost pissed herself when she felt the hand wrapped in her hair and heard that voice, felt the hot breath on her ear again. What the fuck was happening? Had she fallen in the shower this morning and she was in a coma and this was all a dream?

"Good." Agent Waters paused, relishing the feeling of control. "I liked your stories, and I read them all you dirty girl. I want you to think about if you want those little fantasies of yours to become true. Or not. If you do, in three minutes get up and go to the all gender restroom by the west stairwell. Knock on the door. If you don't, just sit here and..." She looked over Nancy's shoulder. "Finish deleting duplicate results from columns B and G."

Waters let go of Nancy's hair and left before she threw the brunette on the floor and started tearing her clothes off right then and there. The agent was barely holding it together. She got to the restroom ready to drag anyone who happened to be in it out and throw them down the stairwell. Thankfully it was unoccupied and she stepped in, locked the door behind her, and took a deep breath. She was really doing this. Holy fuck she was really doing this. She forced herself to take slow, deep breaths. Nancy had to see her calm, in total control. If she even knocked on the door.

Agent Waters herself had to fight to keep from walking out of the restroom, down the stairs, and driving away and never contacting Nancy again. Her fantasies were safe, and as much as this turned her on it could be dangerous, even for the person supposedly in control. In her more analytical moments, usually right after she had gotten off, Agent Waters had wondered why the women in Nancy's stories didn't simply cut their losses and tell their tormentors to do their worst. Or out themselves for whatever misdeed they committed, accept the consequences, and refuse to be humiliated further. Or hell, shoot the fuckers and lawyer up. The obvious answer of course was that it was a fantasy. But Waters had understood Nancy's fantasies well enough to know that, on a certain level, Nancy would know that she was doing this because she wanted it to happen and far from being her tormentor, Agent Waters was just there to help her quit hiding behind Nancy and become her true self: Mosquito Bites.

Nancy sat motionless, staring at her monitor, seeing nothing. Finally she jumped and blinked. Three minutes. She grabbed her phone and checked the exact time. Had she sat there for ten seconds or twenty or thirty? Had she been in a fugue state for five minutes already and Waters was already gone, out of the building and her life forever? No, the same song was still playing in the one headphone still on her ear. It wasn't that far along from where it was when Agent Waters whispered in her ear, ten seconds at most. Her cunt was doing tricks she didn't know it was capable of, and she wanted to run to the restroom right away. But she wanted to obey more. So she dutifully made herself wait the three minutes. Well, two minutes and forty-five seconds at least.

There was never any real question of whether she would go to that restroom or not. Five weeks of boring barely registering orgasms guaranteed that, even if years of fantasizing about this moment didn't. She put her headphones on her desk, got up, and walked to the bathroom. Afterwards she could never remember the walk, just stand up then gently knocking on the door and feeling like her whole body was wound as tightly as possible.

The door lock clicked and the door barely opened. It was an invitation. A taunt. A dare to accept the other version of herself that did the things she only fantasized about. Nancy carefully pushed the door open and stepped inside.