Twenty Three

This episode put an idea into Agnes fuzzy brain. If she could take the Tashli clansmen two at a time, she could complete her mission even faster. Moving quickly, before another penis succeeded in entering her, she rose and repositioned herself on all fours. Then she looked up at the goons through her tangled, matted locks, and flashed a flirtatious smile. "Well soldiers? Fuck my mouth, or fuck my cunt. You choose."

The men seemed to like this proposition—and fortunately, they seemed about evenly split in their preferences.

Increasingly, now, as Agnes withdrew into herself, and into the overwhelming sensations she was experiencing, her abusers began to seem less and less like men to her at all. For the most part, she experienced them only as two endless lines of cocks. In back of her, one cock after another plunged down her vagina, and sprayed its seed into her uterus. In front, one cock after another lunged past her tonsils and gushed its semen into her throat. In-between those two poles, the woman relinquished all notions of personal autonomy and bodily integrity, giving herself wholly over to the deluge of raw stimulation. Meekly, docilely, she surrendered to the dozens of male organs that violated her and deposited their essence inside her. No, it was more than that—she didn't just surrender to them, she welcomed them, she embraced them. And gradually the cacophony of sensory inputs merged together and harmonized into one dark, corporeal, triumphant crescendo of orgasm that raged on endlessly in her brain.

Many of the men were well-endowed, and when they speared their shafts down her throat it was all she could do not to gag. Yet, she took whatever they gave her. Her eyes streamed, and thick ropes of cum and saliva spilled out of her nose and mouth. Her stomach began to feel leaden with sperm. Some of the men came deep in her throat, some on her tongue. Others spurted onto her face and hair, and soon she was coated in jizz. She didn't bother trying to wipe it off, just let it ooze slowly down toward her chin.

Her reproductive tract began to fill up with semen too, so that every time a new dick pounded home inside her, an equal amount of cum spilled out, cascading down her legs and pooling on the concrete. Her cunt was so loose, and gaped open so wide, that the men could pretty much fuck her any way they wanted. In fact, for a lark one of the guys spent a few minutes carefully reaming her with the barrel of his AK-47, while his mates took pictures. He must have known this was going too far, but the woman didn't bat an eyelash—if anything, she felt a vague satisfaction in knowing she had been able to take that too.

On, and on, and on it went, and it was pretty much a blur. Maybe she took only 50 men (though many no doubt returned to the line for a double-dip). Later, though, when she thought back on it, she strongly suspected Rahim of fudging the bargain, so that the number rose still higher. In the end, she concluded there was no way to guess how many men ejaculated into her that day.

She did retain a distinct recollection of old Mullah Yusuf's turn in line. The eager, childlike, toothless grimace on his face when he stuck his withered erection in her mouth was hard to forget. And she had the strong impression that Abdullah Rahim may have fucked her again as well. Mostly, though, her world was reduced to a chaotic whirlwind of anonymous Harbali fighters, probing phalluses, spurting geysers of seminal fluid, and boundless orgasms...

* * * * *

...And then, through her haze, Agnes was struck by a sudden feeling of alarm. Something was wrong! She had come down off the edge of her never-ending climax, and found there was no cock shoved between her legs. Nothing between her puffy, drooling lips either. What the fuck? Had her efforts been derailed by another limp-dicked loser who couldn't get it up...?!

Groggily she opened her eyes and raised her cum-splattered head, blinking under the baleful illumination of the artificial lights. She was flat on the gritty dirt of the yard now, still naked of course. She lay there face-down, tits smashed flat so that they squeezed out at the sides of her body, arms and legs spread wide. Her crotch felt soggy, and loose, and a little raw. "Wha...?" she croaked.

Some of Rahim's men seemed to have wandered off—back to their duties, maybe, or recounting the play-by-play of their escapades excitedly in small groups. Many, though, were still clustered around her, savoring their exploits, and soaking in one final look at her bare, drenched, ill-used pussy. When they saw she was regaining her faculties they gave a ragged cheer, and several shot their guns off in the air.

A shadow blocked out the glare overhead, and Abdullah Rahim stood over her, looking down. "Well, CIA whore, you have kept your word. Now I keep mine." He lifted her bodily to her tottering legs, and handed her two dossiers—the old one, and a new one as well. "I wish you luck. Perhaps I will see you in the capital one day."

She glanced at her watch. 06:23:44... 06:23:43... 06:23:42... She needed to get this intel to Langley!

* * * * *

Rahim's goons didn't bother covering her head on the way back. If it had been daytime, and Agnes had had her wits about her, she might have seen enough through the ragged canvas of the truck canopy to figure out where the warlord's base was. But as it was, she was too wrung out to even try. Instead, she dozed fitfully amidst the jolting of the rural roads, while her body tried to restore itself.

As the night wore on, they again transferred vehicles several times. The final leg of the journey was made in a small panel truck, painted with the logo of a falafel company. They linked up with it in the predawn stillness, somewhere in the outskirts of the city. Before they left, the driver grunted haltingly that he would take her directly to the embassy. The woman nodded gratefully.

When they pulled up in front of the building, there were no formalities. The guards simply threw open the back door, and propelled Agnes forcefully into the street. It was really only then that she registered that her clothes had been left behind in Rahim's residence. She did still have her chunky gold bracelet and watch, and she clutched the two file folders of intel tightly in her hands. Beyond that, however, she was stark naked. Further adding to her disgrace, she was also splattered with the cum of dozens upon dozens of men. It made her hair stick together in lank clumps; it crusted her nose, cheeks, and chin; and it coated her crotch and inner thighs. Even though she had left a pearlescent puddle on the seat of each transport along the way, she found she was still dripping onto the asphalt of Emir Selim Fazil II boulevard.

For a moment she just froze there, picked out by the golden beams of the rising sun, while drivers honked and leered; and the growing throngs on the street gawked and pointed and snapped pictures. She turned a bright crimson color, from her head to her toes. Despite all the indignities she had been through, somehow it was a whole different thing to be stripped down in the middle of civilization—in the middle of her world.

Collecting her wits, she covered her tits and bush as best she could with the file folders, and set off in a bowlegged hobble toward the embassy gate. The eyes of the Marine guards posted there were like saucers. They were enjoying the view, but they also had a mission, and they crossed their rifles to prevent this wacked-out nymphomaniac from penetrating the grounds.

Agnes babbled at them incoherently in a hopeless effort to talk her way in. Fortunately, one of them eventually recognized her as the 'agricultural attaché.' Wincing to think of the semen-stains he would have to clean, he gallantly offered her his dress-uniform coat, and she accepted it appreciatively. If she moved very carefully, it was almost long enough to conceal her pussy.

Then, she spent a good while leaning up against the front-desk in the lobby, trying to persuade the administrative staffers to issue her a temporary keycard. She wanted to scream at them; but they were hidebound bureaucrats and she knew it would be counterproductive. Instead, she just smiled, and explained, and explained, and smiled.

The embassy was quiet at that time in the morning. Even so, a steady stream of custodial workers and office early-birds passed through the atrium, and she knew that every single one was eyeballing her with some mix of curiosity, mockery, and salaciousness. She hoped her butt-cheeks weren't too visible below the line of the coat; and she twitched self-consciously each time a drip fell from her cunt and splatted dully on the marble floor. But mostly, she couldn't stop thinking about the precious seconds ticking off the clock.

At last she was authorized to proceed. The agent tried to hold her head high as necks swiveled and conversations stopped to watch her parade through the building, bare-legged, wobbly, and plastered with sperm. Well, that should give her co-workers something to gossip about, she thought sardonically.

Thankfully, she at last made it to her office and slammed the door. After a second's hesitation, she sat her soggy backside down in her swivel chair (making a note to get rid of it). Then, she picked up the phone. "Get me an encrypted line to Langley. NOW!" As she waited for the call to connect, she checked her watch. 01:32:11... 01:32:10... 01:32:09... She feared she was too late.

* * * * *

Once her report was made, her intel scanned and transmitted, Agnes knew she had done all she could. Now it was in the hands of the federal, state, and local officials stateside. She hoped she had provided them with enough information, and enough time.

The short cab ride to her condo was awkward, but she was past caring. At one point, she recalled the jihadis' choice of targets, and couldn't help laughing hysterically. What had those Harbali numbskulls decided to make their primary objective? Apple's corporate headquarters? Camp Pendleton? Dodger stadium? Nope! They had concluded that the symbolic heart and soul of America was... Las Vegas. The conspirators had planted not one, but five dirty bombs—at the Bellagio, Caesar's, Luxor, MGM Grand, and Circus Circus.

When her hilarity subsided, the thought occurred to Agnes that it was hardly worth saving such a godless place. And yet, she chided herself, the inhabitants were still Americans. Sort of.

Agnes managed to dodge all her neighbors, and once she was in her own home, she breathed a sigh of relief. It seemed that at last she could begin the slow, painful journey of recovery—of processing all the things she had been through.

First she took a long, long, hot shower. She tried to wash all the semen out of herself, though she guessed it was a pointless gesture at this point.

When she had finished, she got out, toweled dry, and then... took another hot shower.

After that, she still didn't feel clean, exactly, but less despoiled. What she desperately wanted was to crash in bed. She was utterly exhausted. But she kept going on adrenaline—determined to get back to work as quickly as possible, and see the mission through to the bitter end. Efficiently, she brushed and blow-dried her hair. Then, feeling perverse, she pulled a business suit from her closet that was virtually identical to the one she had dropped on the floor of Abdullah Rahim's harem.

Briefly, she knelt by the crucifix in the corner, and prayed for guidance... prayed that she had acted in accordance with God's will... prayed that He would protect her from harm. Then she rose and strode out of her condo, feeling almost like a person again.

Back at the embassy gate, she handed the guard his coat, all rumples and smears. She tried to feel sorry about it, but she really didn't care. He saluted.

Entering the building, she looked at her watch one final time. It was just ticking down 00:00:02... 00:00:01... 00:00:00. She wondered what was happening in Las Vegas at that moment.

* * * * *

At the lower levels of the building, she got a lot of queer looks. But when she reached the restricted areas, where all the staff had top-secret clearance, the mood shifted. There, her recent antics had been supplanted in people's minds, at least temporarily, by a sudden flood of classified cables from DC. Details remained sketchy, but it was clear that a terrorist attack had just been foiled on American soil—an attack that would have made 9-11 look like amateur hour.

A few of the folks who were plugged into agency politics came up and congratulated her. From what they'd heard, they told her, Geoffrey Cartwright had scored a stunning intelligence coup. That was the kind of thing that could get a person fast-tracked to Director. And if she was lucky, they said, he might even bring her along with him.

She should have been livid about this skewed rendering of the last twenty-three hours. Tomorrow she probably would be. But today, she was too numb to care very much. She knew what she had done. And God knew. About all the lives she had saved.

* * * * * EPILOGUE * * * * *

She put a call in to Geoffrey, but he was busy. While she waited for him to call her back, she swapped her desk chair with a clean one from a neighboring office (sorry Stacie!).

Sitting there watching the phone, strangely idle, Agnes's mind wandered. At one point, she noted that Rahim's ludicrous bracelet was somehow still on her arm. With gold prices what they were, she thought, it was probably worth a fortune. She twirled it on her finger for a bit, then returned it to her wrist.

She checked her secure email. There were 60 or 70 messages related to the attack in Las Vegas. One by one, she deleted each of them, unread. There was one other message, from an analyst in her section. She opened that one:

'Chatter on Harbali comms alleging female US agent fucked by entire brigade of Tashli militia. Still processing video intercepts. Must be Islamist propaganda, but unusual. Any idea what it's about?'

She typed back: 'No idea. Anyway, stupid claim. Single woman couldn't fuck a brigade. No more than platoon, maybe company, max.'

She spun around in her new chair. For a while, she seriously considered going down to the infirmary to get a dose of Plan-B. Then she was ashamed of her weakness and prayed sincerely for divine guidance. Finally, as the day was getting on toward noon, her phone buzzed. "Becker," she answered automatically.

Geoffrey's voice sounded sheepish. "Hey Aggs, sorry you had to wait. Just got off the phone with the President... But, just let me say: that was one hell of a job you did today! CTU Las Vegas took down the last of the bombers with seconds to spare. If you'd been even ten minutes later with your last intel dump, we'd be looking at a huge pile of bodies."

Hmm, that was good to know. So. It had all been necessary. It had all been, um... worth it...

* * * * *

"Aggs, are you still there? Did you hear what I said? Great work, this was a big win!"

...And yet, she prodded herself, there was still this other matter—the matter of Geoffrey's attitude. That was something she could not allow to stand. In fact, the situation seemed to call for righteous fury. She wasn't quite able to muster it, under the circumstances, but she tried to act like it anyway. "Thank you for the pat on the back Geoffrey. I am glad the good guys came out on top. But let's parse what you just said for a second. The thing that saved the day was my intel—my hard work, my sacrifices. So explain to me: why the hell is the President is congratulating you for it?!"

He tried to be soothing. "Don't worry! Rest assured, I'm telling everyone about the important part you played in this mission. Why, I told the President himself that I couldn't have done it without the help of my gal in Harbalistan. There's plenty of credit to go around."

That cocksucker! Even in her exhausted state, she was starting to get hot under the collar. "Don't think you can fuck with me Geoffrey. You owe me! I saved copies of your emails. Don't you think a Congressional committee would be interested to learn how you ignored all my warnings these last few weeks?"

That threat hit home—suddenly his voice sounded scared. "You... look Agg-Agnes, just don't do anything hasty. Y-you're right, I do owe you. And I'll take care of you. If we keep the waters smooth, we both end up big winners out of this. Whatever good comes to me, I'll make sure you get an equal share. That's a promise."

She more-or-less believed him. Not that his word was worth anything, of course, but that he was deadly afraid of having his emails leaked, and would put in the work to keep her happy. And she had to admit—he had the connections and political instincts to make much more hay out of this than she ever could.

"Ok, Geoffrey, you can start making it right today."

"Sure, shoot." No hesitation—good, he knew which side his bread was buttered on.

"First off, there's a target I've identified here in Harbalistan, who's linked to the Las Vegas plot. I want him greenlit for immediate neutralization. Extreme prejudice."

That one was a cinch. CIA drones killed randos in the Middle East all the time; it'd be easy to slip another on the pile. "No problem. What're the deets?"

Agnes knew that with real resources put into the effort, it wouldn't take long to find the Tashli motherfucker. And when they did... BOOM!... In her mind's eye, she could already see the napalm-tipped missile crashing into the accursed compound; could see waves of orange and purple flames leveling every last stick of the structure. It was a pleasing, soothing image. She did feel a twinge about Fatima, and... well, about any other non-combatants who might end up immolated. But, she told herself implacably, collateral damage was a fact of CIA life...

With Rahim's name still hovering on her lips, however, a soft, small voice in her ear made her pause... Even leaving aside the matter of innocents, it pestered—could this really be the right thing to do? To kill—not to protect her countrymates from harm, but purely for the sake of revenge? And to kill someone (ahem, many someones), who might have fathered a child by her? None of that death would change what had happened.

Moreover, the Bible had that irksome commandment about killing. In fact, her faith counseled not only mercy, but forgiveness—Jesus had said that a person should turn the other cheek. She'd never liked that proverb, of course, but she couldn't deny that it was in the Scriptures...

Abruptly, Agnes decided she wouldn't assassinate Rahim that day. "I... I still have a few loose-ends to nail down. Then I'll send it on to you." No point closing any doors, she thought—she could always obliterate the bastard tomorrow.

"Sure, whatever you want."

"Good, because there are a few other things I want. First, a senior analyst posting back in DC. Second, I want to be bumped up three levels in paygrade. And... oh yeah: third, I need a guaranteed slot at the agency's executive daycare."

Geoffrey jumped at the chance to inject a positive note into the conversation. "Christ, Agnes—that's wonderful! Congratulations!! You're really expecting?"

She closed her eyes wearily, and let the question simply hang there for a moment...

Then she sighed. "Um... yeah... pretty sure..."

* * * * *

END

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