Twenty Three

...aw, damn it! Who would she be if she let shame and embarrassment override her sense of duty? There was still a mission to accomplish! Thousands of lives remained at stake, and the man knew more than he had told her. She had to at least try to pry the information from him, didn't she?

* * * * *

Swallowing her pride and rage, Agnes appealed to her rapist with as much deference as she could muster. "Ra'is Abdullah, you're a good husband. A... a passionate lover. Thank you for showing me affection." The tyrant beamed complacently. "Now, please: as a final gift... won't you tell me where the jihadis are located? Where do they plan to strike?"

He frowned slightly, as it dawned on him that she was merely flattering him. Still, he wasn't about to let it spoil his buoyant mood. He simply dismissed her with an airy wave of his hand. "Go. My men will take you back to the city. If you are lucky, you will stop the jihadis. And if not, then you will at least catch them afterward. Your president can send them to Gitmo!"

The woman wasn't taking no for an answer. Hating herself for it, she dropped to her knees in supplication. Clasping her hands, hoping the tits-swaying, pussy-bared, semen-leaking spectacle she presented was more endearing than grotesque, she groveled shamelessly. "Please Ra'is, I'm begging you. It will cost you nothing and it means everything to me. Please!" He was impassive. Bowing her head, she glanced up at him imploringly, liquid eyes half veiled by her lashes, voice modulated still lower and a bit husky. "Lover, d-did I not please you?..."

A cunning gleam came into Rahim's eye. "Ha! You go on talking woman? Well, there is one other thing you can do for me. Before—I did not think you would agree. Then, I did not know you were such an àhira!" He gave a vulgar chuckle. "But now? Now I think you might do it."

Agnes was flummoxed. What more could this creep want? She'd given him everything. She'd surrendered her body to him in the most raw and biological way imaginable. What else could he possibly take from her?

Outwardly, though, she kept her tone neutral. "That intel is terribly important, Ra'is. Please, tell me—what can I do for you?"

He gave a broad gesture with his arms. "Well, you know, those Fazils are weak. I have thousands of fighters. I tell you, I could fuck them over, even with no American missiles. I could kick them from here to Rakhallabad. But my men, they are timid. They say they cannot attack the Fazils, because then the CIA will pour bombs on them like raindrops. I say to them: the Americans don't care if the Fazils sell them oil, or the Tashlis sell them oil. It is the same. But my men, they are scared."

He looked at her searchingly, and she perceived something truly wicked in his expression. "They are fools. But they need to learn not to fear America... So, CIA woman—you can teach them. When you lie down and open your cunt to them, my men will see what America is—a pretty whore who can be bought for the right price. And when you do that, I will tell you what you want."

Agnes was stunned almost speechless by the man's audacity and depravity. As God was her witness, he must be insane! "I... I c-couldn't have sex with thousands of men!" Her protests sounded almost incoherent, even to her own ears. "I-I mean, it's... it's physically impossible!"

The clan chief gave a condescending laugh and spread his hands magnanimously. "Of course, of course! I did not mean you would fuck all my fighters. Of course not! No—just the men here, guarding my home." He counted on his fingers for a moment. "Fifty, maybe sixty I think. Then they will tell their friends, and they will tell their friends. Soon no Tashlis will be scared of the CIA, you see?"

He smiled blandly at her and waited patiently for her response. She very nearly turned on her heel and walked out on the bastard. Didn't he understand how much she had already sacrificed? Did he really believe she would ever submit to being gangbanged, bareback, by a goddamn mob of oversexed Harbali yokels? Fuck him! Fuck him!!!

And yet...—a small, heartless voice whispered uncomfortably in her head—she could do it. After today, she was already damaged goods. Her temple had already been desecrated. And... if she was honest with herself, she knew her body had responded to the violation. So: what more harm could they really do to her? Whether she mated with one, or with fifty-one, she would still be a fallen woman.

Moreover, the arithmetic was persuasive. With the intel she had now, taking down the terrorists would require hours, maybe days. With what was on offer, she could reduce that to minutes. Of course, there was the small matter of plowing through Rahim's rabble as quickly as possible. But she could do that—couldn't she?

In fact (cruel logic goaded her), if this arrangement greatly increased her odds of success, then didn't she in fact have a moral obligation to acquiesce to it? Did she honestly have any right to clutch at the tatters of her already-soiled dignity, when the lives of so many innocent Americans, innocent Christians, hung in the balance? If God had chosen her to be His sacrificial lamb, could she really reject the call?"

Her face burned with tension and indecision and rage; and the seconds ticked by. At last, Agnes erupted in angry frustration. "Well... what choice do I have?!! I'll do it. Fifty—no more!" Her eyes flashed, and she couldn't help adding: "You're an evil man, Abdullah Rahim. You'll burn in hell for this!"

His smile widened. "Ignorant woman! All is as it should be. Woman submits to man. Christian submits to Muslim. Think: even for such a small service, Allah may make you a houri in Paradise..." That image made her want to retch.

"So, the contract is made," Rahim went on in business-like fashion. "Fifty men is enough. You must bring each to release. Then, I will tell you everything about where the jihadis are, and where they will strike. Now, come!"

* * * * *

Taking long, confident strides, the villain returned to the courtyard. Agnes trailed unwillingly in his wake, legs still unsteady. He stopped at the edge of the green awning, and she drew up beside him, feeling anxious and exposed in the glare of the floodlights.

Once again, her naked form attracted rapt attention from the men loitering in the enclosure. On the one hand, she was becoming numb to the shame and humiliation of being put on display like this. But on the other hand, she remained acutely aware of the dabs of cum dotting her golden locks; the sogginess of the fur at her crotch; the tracks of semen now drying and crusting on her legs. With her nipples still poking out assertively, and her labia puffy and relaxed, engorged clit jutting insolently between them, it must have been obvious to everyone present that she had just been fucked, and fucked hard.

Rahim clapped his hands for attention and shouted in Harbali, his voice booming off the walls of the compound until it seemed to fill the space completely. He enunciated his words slowly and carefully, so that Agnes was able to piece together what he was saying well enough. "Men! Some of you have said America hates the Tashlis. But I tell you, it is not true! America loves the Tashlis. How do I know this? Look! This infidel àhira is the CIA's highest officer in Harbalistan! And they sent her to spread her legs for me! You see, the CIA does not drop bombs on us—they send us women!"

As the leader spoke, his followers ambled in closer to the tent. His quip about bombs and females elicited some grins and snickers from the crowd.

Pleased that he was getting through to them, the warlord gestured at the ruddy, glistening folds visible between her thighs. "Yes, the CIA slut gave herself to me eagerly, like a bitch in heat. But is that proof enough of America's love? 'No!' I said, 'this is not enough—what about my men? They are most important to me!' 'Ra'is,' she replied, 'the CIA loves all Tashlis. Please, have your men fuck me too.' And thus it shall be! Come, pour your seed into this CIA cunt! She herself has told me she is fertile. You see, this is the privilege of the Tashlis! The Americans do not let Fazils impregnate their women!"

The man put his hand on Agnes's back and gave her a little shove, so that she stumbled forward a few paces. She felt a chill run through her body as she stood there—naked, weak, alone, and utterly defenseless. She shut her eyes, expecting Rahim's thugs to descend on her like a pack of ravenous wolves, and fearing she would be torn apart. There was a murmur, a rustle in the crowd surrounding her, and she braced herself. And then... nothing happened?

After a few seconds she opened her eyes and looked around. Rahim's men appeared more like sheep than wolves. Well, horny sheep, perhaps. Their eyes were bright, and their faces gave every indication that they were aroused and eager to fuck her. She could see trousers tenting out here and there. Yet, they also seemed confused, hesitant, maybe a bit bashful. This wasn't quite like any situation they'd ever experienced before. Oh, they may have been used to molesting luckless peasant girls in the village—or, maybe their honor code prevented it, Agnes didn't know. But either way, they clearly found the current arrangement disconcerting. They were unsure how to proceed, and afraid of making fools of themselves.

The agent was relieved not to be in physical danger from the mob, but she couldn't help feeling exasperated by their dithering. The clock was ticking! Now that the deal was made, she needed to get these goons off as quickly as possible. She didn't have time to waste while they worked up their courage...

After a few awkward moments, she huffed and rolled her eyes. Apparently, she had to do everything herself!

As you know, Agnes's moral and personal scruples had pretty much been trampled and dragged through the mud by this point. But if any shards of them still remained, she set them aside now, and advanced toward the men with a brazen swagger. The ruffians appeared almost intimidated—they drew themselves up and back, as if they wanted to retreat from her.

She picked one out at random from the front row: a tall, wide-eyed youth of about twenty with a round face and a patchy beard. He looked terrified as she approached. Setting her teeth, and pasting a smile on her face, she reached down the front of his dungarees. This made the other men hoot: "Ha ha! The CIA bitch likes you Soso!" The lad blushed beneath his latte-colored skin.

Fishing around in his pants, Agnes grasped the young man's shaft, finding it to be thick and knobby. And although the organ was firmly erect, she was struck by how vitally alive it was too. It leaped and pulsed ecstatically to her touch.

Tugging the fellow forward by his cock, she drew him back toward the awning, and the concrete pad that lay below it. Then, removing her hand from his trousers, she lay down on the hard surface. Trying to look as eager and alluring as she could, she spread her legs wide. She was still slack and aroused; but nonetheless she reached to pull her pussy lips apart even further, giving Soso an unobstructed view straight down her passage. She affected a sultry tone and spoke in her rudimentary Harbali. "Come on, handsome, stick it in me..."

A cheer went up from the assembled men. With fumbling haste, Soso dropped his pants around his ankles and knelt between her thighs. Clumsily, he mashed his penis up against her vulva... once... twice...... ugh, he didn't seem able to find the right spot. Fuck, she groaned to herself, this was ridiculous! With a slight shudder, she reached between her legs, grasped his member, and guided her rapist into her own vagina. The young man looked like he had won the lottery. He shot her a big grin, and she grimaced back with glassy eyes.

She was still so dilated, so stretched-out, so slick with Rahim's semen, that her flesh offered no resistance. Yet, even though she had seated the youth firmly an inch or two inside her, he didn't seem in any particular hurry to plow the rest of the way home. He held his torso up off of her and pressed forward uncertainly; and both Soso and Agnes found themselves gazing hypnotically (he in wonderment, she wondering how long this was going to take) at the spot where his pole made its halting way in between her rosy, engorged labia. By now the other men were crowding around closer, and most had their phones out to capture it all: her flushed face; the creamy-smooth expanse of her skin; the graceful bulge of her tits splayed out on her torso—and Soso's ruddy-brown shaft gradually disappearing into her body.

At last Soso hit bottom—and the very moment he did so, his eyes closed and his muscles tensed reflexively. She felt another flood of warmth within her, and couldn't help an instinctive twinge of disdain for the lad. It was painfully obvious that he'd never been with a woman before, and his eagerness had got the better of him. It did, at least, seem that he had a lot of cum to deposit once he started. His body jerked spasmodically for quite a while, sending spurt after spurt of jizz into her tract, there to mingle with the sperm of his chieftain. Then Soso was spent. As he pulled his still-hard cock from her, a last few milky droplets spattered onto her mons.

One down, she told herself wearily.

Soso seemed a bit crestfallen that he hadn't savored the moment longer. There had been a few snickers among the onlookers when he had started to ejaculate; but now the men gathered around and slapped his back, congratulating him that he was no longer a blushing virgin. His grin returned, and his violation of her seemed to have broken the ice. Now all the militiamen stripped off their pants, lined up, and began stroking their erect dicks, eager for their turn to fuck the CIA agent.

Unfortunately for Agnes, very few of the oafs were as easy to get off as Soso. The next one, for example, 'Esou,' was older, in his mid-thirties, with coarse, dark skin and a dense, jet-black beard. He penetrated her easily, and plied her body with quiet expertise for what seemed like an eternity (four minutes?). Changing position, he knelt so that he could massage her clit with his fingertips, even as he continued pistoning into her cunt (eight minutes?). Next, he bent her legs back, so that her knees grazed her nipples, and railed her masterfully (twelve minutes?).

It all felt wonderful, and under other circumstances her animal side would have urged her to lie back and appreciate the man's virtuosity. Right now, however, a protracted coupling was something she simply didn't have time for. Haunted by the clock and desperate to finish Esou off, Agnes knew she would have to work harder to spark his ejaculation.

To that end, she started swaying her body in response to the fighter's thrusts, bucking her pelvis back against his groin, rolling her hips as if she could milk the sperm from his cock. She closed her eyes and arched her back and pitched her body expressively, accompanying it all with a series of throaty, high-pitched groans inspired by Meg Ryan in that diner scene. Peeking through closed eyelids, she saw the man's pupils dilate and his felt his tempo escalate. Her feigned enjoyment brought him to a very real frenzy; and with desperate lunges he added his semen to the growing reservoir of the stuff collecting in her unguarded womb.

He rolled off her, and she sighed stoically. Two down.

After that, the men began to run together, and Agnes soon lost track of the number. She was putting everything into her performance now—writhing feverishly, vocalizing seductively, using all the filthy words she knew in Harbali. In short, channeling what she imagined a slut who wanted to be gangbanged would be like. It was a matter of simple logic. The more excited she seemed to be, the more excited they would be, the quicker they'd come, and the sooner this would all be over with. And then she could get on with saving America.

What began with play-acting, however, gradually took on a life of its own. As her physical stimulation continued to mount, and as both the men's euphoria and her own ersatz arousal seeped into her brain and swirled around there, she found she was doing less and less pretending.

By the fifth or sixth rape, her orgasm was no longer faked at all. In fact, it didn't take long before that feeling of delicious, highly-charged static building up in her brain, and then exploding wildly and rapturously through her body—which had seemed astonishing and miraculous only a couple of hours ago—began to take on the quality of a delightful and slightly-addictive routine. Her cunt gaped wider and wider, and became sloppier and sloppier. In the end, all it took was some new Tashli to dip his prick in there, and her body would be jolted by a fresh and irresistible wave of climax.

It may have been the tenth or twelfth assailant who posed the most daunting challenge to the success of her mission. He was among the older men present, perhaps in his fifties, and was struggling with his erection. He tried to guide his dick into her, but even in her loose, engorged state he was too droopy. He then made a valiant effort to rectify the situation, jerking himself faster and faster until his hand became a blur. But with his comrades jeering and ribbing him, he was simply unable to make the necessary progress.

Agnes was too befuddled to catch all this at first; but as the interval without a cock in her hole stretched longer and longer, she regained her senses enough to grasp the situation. Holy mother! she cursed. It wasn't enough that she had to be a secret agent and a prostitute—she had to be a fucking ED therapist too?!

Now, even before she became a Catholic, Agnes had really never loved the idea of blowjobs. She knew the theory, more or less. But it struck her as, well... icky... to put a man's thing in her mouth, and she had pretty much avoided doing it. Today, however, she was miles past any such niceties. She may have had zero self-respect left, but she had a job to do, and was damned-well going to get it done.

With that as her mantra, she hauled herself up off the concrete, fell to her knees before the hapless Harbali, and sucked his flaccid organ between her lips. She found the pliable, springy flesh strange against her tongue and palate, and even stranger when it began to expand within her mouth, as if by magic. The human male really was like a whole different species, she thought.

Agnes didn't have any technique, of course, but she more than made up for it with determination and energy. As the man's cock became rigid and gave her more to work with, she put her all into firing him up. She bobbed her head with frantic urgency, running her lips sensuously over his shaft and massaging his glans with the tip of her tongue. She cradled his balls lovingly, as if to convey how happy she would be to have the contents deposited inside her. Even erect, his phallus wasn't terribly large, so she was able to take all of him into her mouth from time to time—smashing her face up against his groin and feeling him tickle the frenulum at back of her throat. As she worked, her tits swayed and wobbled on her chest, and the man held her hair back so he could enjoy the view. She peered up at him with what she hoped were bashful, adoring eyes.

The fellow found the image of his penis, shoved down the throat of a lovely and solicitous American agent, to be a wonderful aphrodisiac. Soon, he was rock-solid, and Agnes tasted a trace of salty-sweet on her tongue. Before she could even process that observation, he pulled out of her mouth, pushed her to the ground, pressed her legs apart with his knees, and rammed urgently home between her thighs. Almost immediately his body convulsed, and began making its personal contribution to the vast ocean of sticky male potency accumulating in her womb.