1) This story includes broad caricatures of Roman Catholicism, Islam, and Middle-Eastern cultures. It involves themes of impregnation. It is also, of course, a non-consent scenario. So if any of these characteristics are likely to offend or irritate you, please choose a different story that is more to your liking.
2) All characters are over the age of 18.
3) This work is sheer fantasy in all respects, and is intended for the purposes of erotic entertainment only. In real life it is incumbent on all of us to ensure consent in any situation, and to show respect and empathy to those around us–not just with regard to sex, but in every aspect of life.
* * * * *
THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN 8:00 A.M.
— AND 7:00 A.M. ON THE SUBSEQUENT DAY
* * * * *
Agnes Becker’s face was set in a determined scowl, and she spoke into the secure-line with hoarse urgency. “You’re not listening to me, Geoffrey. You need to pull the trigger on this–now! I’ve sent you the document scans. You already have the intercepted calls and emails. Your analysts and linguists can look them over to their hearts’ content, and they’ll tell you the same thing I am: this intel is rock solid, and the threat is very real. But you know it’ll take weeks for your team to do all that vetting. We’re looking at a timeframe of less than a day. We don’t have the luxury of waiting–we’ve got to take action!”
Her boss’s condescension was palpable. “Like I said before, Aggs–you’re doing great work. But you need to back off, and let the process play out. You know how many ‘credible threats’ the agency gets every month. We simply can’t do an all-hands-on-deck mobilization on one agent’s say-so. Everything has to run through channels… So: keep doing what you’re doing. Work your contacts. Update me if you get anything actionable. And never forget, this job is a marathon, not a sprint.”
She hung up the receiver with a bang, and let out a low snarl of frustration: “Fucking DC desk-jockeys with their fucking platitudes!”
(Agnes had cleansed herself of many sinful habits over the years, but profanity was one she’d never managed to shake.)
Although she was exasperated, she wasn’t really surprised that the section chief had blown her off. First off, she was inexperienced–only a few years out of Quantico, and low on the totem pole at the agency. And second, this posting was seen as a backwater. Harbalistan was a small country; and the petty royals who ruled it were happy to comply with America’s demands (in exchange for a cut of the development money, of course). The place did have a scattering of Islamic radicals, but they had never produced any serious terror threats. It simply wasn’t high on the CIA’s radar screen.
And not to put too fine a point on it, that’s exactly why an agent like her was there at all–Harbalistan was an assignment no one wanted, and no one expected to be of much importance.
Agnes knew all that, of course, but she had never let it discourage her. She was able to keep her head held high because she also knew one thing her superiors didn’t: she was woman on a mission.
Oh, she hadn’t always been on a mission. Into her early 20s she had simply drifted through life–her parents had never believed in much, and she’d been the same. She’d washed out of college and dated a handful of losers, none of them very seriously.
But then she’d found Catholicism, and that had changed everything.
She embraced the Roman Catholic faith with the puritanical fervor of a convert, and soon gravitated towards its more conservative and militant elements. In the beginning, she focused on herself, and her personal spirituality: repurifying herself and dedicating herself to the task of doing God’s bidding, one day at a time. Gradually, though, she began to realize that God had chosen her with a particular purpose in mind. What He wanted for her was to become a guardian of her country–and of the Christian heritage that it stood for.
With His help and guidance, she finished her BA at Benedictine College. Then she mastered Arabic and earned an MA in Islamic Studies at Harvard (know thy enemy…). Finally, CIA training. At every step she received top marks; and by the end she had no doubts she’d be good at human intelligence work. God had given her everything she needed to fulfill her vocation. So, when she received her posting to Harbalistan, she viewed it neither as a stepping stone to somewhere better, nor as a waste of time. She trusted that divine providence had guided her to the place where she was needed most.
Almost as soon as Agnes’s feet hit the tarmac at Yasin Fazil International Airport, she had begun to understand why God had brought her there. Her sharp nose was able to detect the faint whiff of anti-American hatred, and Islamic extremism–clues her predecessor at the embassy had clearly missed. Over time, she built a network of informants, and identified mullahs and clan leaders to be surveilled. Her progress was painfully slow. All too often, she was denied agency resources that she needed. But she kept plugging away, determined to keep the Christian heartland of America safe from harm.
And then, just recently, she had finally started to see the dimensions of the threat clearly. Her growing cache of intel suggested that a small cell of Harbali jihadis had somehow gotten its hands on a quantity of North Korean uranium, and that they were planning to detonate a dirty-bomb in a major US city. This, she felt sure, was the demon that God had sent her to slay.
Maddeningly, Agnes’s superiors in DC had refused to take her escalating series of warnings seriously. From their perspective, she was just another over-enthusiastic greenhorn, trying to turn a second-rate posting into ground-zero for the global war on terror. And besides (they were quick to point out), she still didn’t have anything really definitive to show them. Her evidence remained circumstantial and suggestive at best.
* * * * *
It was only yesterday evening that Agnes had finally hit paydirt. One of her tribal contacts had passed her some purloined document scans, in exchange for a $50 payout. He didn’t know what was in the images, and they’d traveled through so many hands that he couldn’t tell her where they originated. But he swore these documents were linked to the jihadis she was after.
At the time, she’d taken his assurances with a grain of salt–too many promising leads had already turned out to be garbage for her to get her hopes up. But this morning, when she had started translating, her heart began to race with excitement at what she found. Soon enough, she was able to confirm it: this was a data trove beyond her wildest expectations. The documents in her hands contained the master plan for the attack! They outlined the terror plot in systematic detail–describing the operation so clearly that even her boss Geoffrey would be able to grasp it.
Now, admittedly, there were a few infuriating gaps. For one thing, all five of the main conspirators were given code names, so there was no identifiable information to go on. For another, the plan also didn’t specify the detonation site. She could tell it was somewhere in the Pacific timezone; but that still left her with an impossibly long list of potential targets–population centers, technology hubs, military bases, reservoirs, sports arenas, national parks… ground-zero could be just about anywhere.
One thing the plan did provide, however, was a timetable–and her eyes bugged out when she saw the dates and times specified. The attack was scheduled for–gulp–today. Even factoring in the time difference, they still had less than twenty-four hours before the bomb detonated!
As she came to grips with this ominous deadline, the bottom seemed to drop out of Agnes’s stomach, and she broke out in a cold sweat. Up to this point, she’d believed she still had weeks or months to thwart the terrorists. Now it turned out she was teetering right on the brink of botching her mission. If that happened, then the deaths of thousands of innocent, God-fearing Americans would lie on her conscience–tragic victims of her failure and inadequacy.
For a moment, she was simply incapacitated by the shock of it. Lord, she prayed silently, have I failed You? Please forgive me… Please help me make it right…
But then, with an effort, Agnes pulled herself together. She had her faith to lean upon–and she had her training and self-discipline as well. In this moment of crisis, she would need to draw on all three. She understood, intellectually, that panic and self-doubt would serve neither her, nor her divine purpose. They would only get in her way. So, she shoved them out of her mind and forced herself to focus on the task at hand.
Grimly, she rechecked the figures carefully. Then she started a countdown timer on her wristwatch. 23:00:00 hours. That was how long she had until the bomb went off.
* * * * *
Recalling her lessons at Quantico, she knew that before doing anything else, she needed to be sure the new intel was genuine. So, she went back to the beginning, and combed through all the documents again, carefully and methodically, looking for any discrepancies, flaws, or mistranslations.
That done, she next weighed their authenticity with cool detachment:
1) The materials just looked right. If these were forgeries, they were exquisite.
2) Every detail matched the previous reports she had received–it all cross-checked.
3) She had faith in her informant.
4) A good agent listens to their gut, and hers was screaming that this was the real deal.
It was only then that Agnes had put in the call to her section chief, Geoffrey Cartwright–feeling sure that with this new data she could finally get him to see sense…
…But of course, as you already know, it didn’t work out that way. She had tried, calmly and rationally, to impress the gravity of the situation on her boss. She’d walked him through the cold, hard facts contained in the documents, spelling everything out for him as if he were a little child. But, Geoffrey remained in thrall to procedure. He said he needed time to vet the materials, time to brief the directorate, time to formulate a response. All time they didn’t have. And then, as the piece-de-resistance, he trotted out ‘a marathon, not a sprint’–God, it made her want to barf!
Ok, so he was a useless excuse for a man. Now, though, Agnes knew she needed to let go of her frustration with Geoffrey. Or rather, she needed to bottle up all that rage and aggravation and put it to use–channel it into action. She’d done everything she could to mobilize an agency-level response, and it hadn’t worked. But the clock hadn’t run out yet, and the game wasn’t over. If she could figure out the missing details–who, and where–then even an hour’s notice might still be enough time to thwart the attack. So long as American lives might be saved, it was her duty to leave no stone unturned, and no effort spared.
She glanced at her wristwatch. 20:57:37… 20:57:36… 20:57:35… Somehow, some way, she had to track down the necessary intel, and relay it back to authorities in the US, while there was still time for them to take action. She just had to. Once the countdown reached zero, it would be too late.
* * * * *
Agnes spent the rest of the morning working the phones, rapidly and efficiently. One by one, she reached out to all her contacts–wheedling, and bullying, and trying to call in favors. She dispensed with the usual niceties and protocols; there simply wasn’t time to do things the right way. Instead, she bent all her efforts to trying to acquire a lead–any lead–fast.
At first, she’d been absurdly confident that something would turn up. Gradually, though, as the hours passed and the list of names dwindled, her positivity faded. By the time noon approached, she knew she only had one card left to play: Iskander Ali Amin.
Amin was Agnes’s highest profile informant, a deputy defense minister for Harbalistan. The man felt no loyalty to the ruling regime, and she had leveraged his greed to get him to fork over some low-grade intel. Still, she’d only been cultivating him for a few months, and didn’t really have her hooks into him properly yet. Contacting him now was a serious long-shot, and it was quite possible she would burn him as an asset for nothing. But she was at the end of her rope–there was no point holding anything back now.
She called his government office, and sweet-talked her way past the secretary. Fearing he might be bugged, she used her code name, and kept Amin from saying anything when he came on the line. “It’s Al-Reem. I need to see you–now. Usual place. Don’t keep me waiting.” She hung up, hoping desperately that he’d show.
* * * * *
Forty-five minutes later, she was at the apartment safe-house, watching the seconds tick away on her wrist, trying to empty her mind. From the window, she saw a black Mercedes slowly circle the block and enter the building’s parking garage. She bit her nails as she waited. At last, the door opened, and Iskander Ali treaded warily inside.
Amin was a tall man–slightly overweight, but carrying it well. He wore an expensive Savile-Row business suit, and had a full head of jet-black hair. His face was a plump oval, and normally sported a jovial smile. Not today, though. Instead, he barked at Agnes (his deep bass voice and excellent English complemented by a British public-school accent). “What the bloody hell was that?! You can’t just ring me at the defense ministry! If they get wind I’ve been talking to you, the Crown Prince will have me cut up into very small pieces and poured into the foundation of one of his new high-rises!”
She had expected him to be edgy. “Relax Iskander, no one knows who I am. The phone was untraceable. As long as you weren’t followed, then we’re fine. If anyone asks, just say one of your mistresses was feeling neglected.”
He seemed only slightly mollified, so she decided to try a conciliatory tone. “Look, I’m sorry I had to break protocol, but there wasn’t time to go through the usual channels. I have intel on an imminent terror threat. It’s big–and it involves Harbali nationals. I need your help to stop them.”
The man’s mood remained petulant. “You’re wasting both our time. I don’t know anything about this terror attack. And why should I do your job for you anyway? What’s in it for me?”
She saw she’d have to be tougher with him. “Do I need to spell it out? First off, if America gets hit by Harbali jihadis, we’ll come down on this country like a ton of bricks. I’d hate for you to end up as collateral damage. Second, I know you’ve been buying condos in Miami. I imagine the Emir and Crown Prince would be interested to learn that their deputy defense minister is planning an exit strategy–and downright eager to find out where he is getting the funds.”
He was silent for a moment, and when he spoke his demeanor was more contrite. Sometimes you needed honeyed words, she reflected, but other times you had to let your assets know that you had ’em by the balls. “Look, Agnes,” he said cajolingly, “if I knew anything, I would tell you. You’re right, of course–it doesn’t serve any of us if these terrorists succeed. And we have intercepted chatter that something big is coming. But I don’t have anything more definite than that. I truly cannot help you–I wish I could.”
Just for a second, Agnes feared she might burst out in tears. Not that she was the over-emotional type–quite the contrary. But the pressure of the situation, the stress, the sense of responsibility for innocent lives, the feeling of being God’s instrument–it had been building up slowly inside her for months, and then come to a rapid and unexpected crescendo today. Even when she’d known that Iskander was her last remaining hope to snatch victory from defeat, she’d maintained an irrational certainty that he would give her something. But now, it seemed, her mission really had reached a bleak and bitter dead-end.
Still–she had her faith, and she wasn’t a quitter. Maybe if she just leaned on the man harder, she could squeeze something out of him. Gulping down her distress, she fixed him with stern eyes. Her voice was low and filled with menace. “Don’t play dumb with me Iskander. You know something, and you’re going to tell me. If you don’t give me something I can work with, I swear to God I will bury you.”
Amin could see the woman standing before him was desperate, and he felt pity for her. But he could also see she was dangerous, and rightly feared what her desperation might drive her to do. “Ok, ok,” he said, the slightest hint of nervousness in his voice. “I can’t make any promises. But let me make a call.”
* * * * *
The call dragged on a long time. Agnes had picked up a fair amount of Harbali since arriving in-country, but Iskander lapsed into a rural dialect, and talked quickly and colloquially, so she had a hard time keeping up. Anyway it was all just fragments. She thought he was speaking to a succession of people. At one point he turned and fixed her with an appraising look. Then he went back to jabbering away.
Finally, he hung up. “I swear to you by Allah: I do not know anything. But there is someone who might. A distant cousin of mine, in fact. A man called Abdullah Rahim. He is willing to meet with you, if that is what you want.”
Agnes knew the name. Rahim was a tribal chieftain out in the hinterlands–an ambitious man who ruled a good chunk of the countryside. His Tashli clan had been feuding with the royal family for generations, and every so often those tensions spilled over into low-grade violence. It was certainly plausible that he had access to information that wasn’t available in the capital.
Iskander went on: “There are some conditions. Rahim likes his privacy, so you will have to go to him. Alone. And you’ll have to leave your firearms and electronics behind. I can’t promise he will help you, but I believe he does know something about the attack.”
Agnes folded her arms obstinately. “Uh, no way. I can’t meet him like that. I’d be a sitting duck to be kidnapped or bushwhacked. Find another option. Bring him here.”
The man replied matter-of-factly. “I understand your apprehension, but that’s the only way he will agree to see you. He is a careful man, with no desire to get snatched by a CIA rendition team. But he has pledged your safety–and out there in the hills, he has the power to make it stick.”
Agnes wavered. Being an agent involved taking risks, that was part of the business. The trick was to take smart risks. Under any other circumstances, she would have dismissed this proposal out of hand. But she didn’t have anything else to try. What if Rahim had the information to save countless lives, and she simply passed up the opportunity because she was twitchy?
She fixed Iskander with a probing gaze. “Can I trust him?”
He considered carefully before replying. “Abdullah Rahim is not what I would describe as an honorable man. More of a thug, really. But he does have his own sort of code. He won’t lie to you–I feel confident of that. And if he says you will be safe, then you will be.”
Still Agnes hesitated, unsure what to do. Glancing at her watch, she saw the timer now read 17:11:08… 17:11:07… 17:11:06… She thought about what those rapidly vanishing minutes and seconds meant–about the dreadful, gory reality that lay behind them. Setting aside her many misgivings, she made her decision. “Ok, I’ll meet him.”
Iskander nodded and pulled out his phone again. “I’ll set it up. It’s a long drive and I know you’re in a hurry. But… if it pans out, then I’ll expect your lot to buy me another condo in Florida…?”
For most of the afternoon, Agnes bounced along in a series of decrepit vehicles, blindfolded. Rahim’s men were obviously trying to make it hard for anyone to track her. Little did they know (she thought resentfully) that her request for drone surveillance of her movements had been turned down. Other regional operations, it seemed, had been given higher priority.
She spent the last stage of the trip in in the back of an old Soviet-made GAZ-66 truck. The road wound and twisted interminably, and from the pounding she was taking, she could tell it was rocky and badly rutted. Finally, they ground to a halt, and there was blessed stillness. Strong hands grasped her elbows and lifted her down to the ground. Then the hood was removed from her head and she found herself dazzled by the slanting rays of the setting sun.
She was standing in the middle of a compound. The bare-dirt courtyard held an assortment of trucks, motorbikes, and Land Cruisers (a few of them had machine-guns mounted, she noted). In and around them was a scattering of young men, who tinkered with the vehicles, chatted in twos and threes, or leaned against the walls smoking. They were a motley group. Some wore tattered camo; some had T-shirts blazoned with the logos of Western movies and rock bands; and a few were clad in traditional caftans, Nearly all of them had AK-47s or Uzis in their hands, or slung with casual indifference on their backs.
The area was bordered on all sides by tall walls. Even the gate that the truck had entered by was already sealed up with a solid slab of sheet-metal. Small out-buildings were dotted here and there, but the focal-point of the enclosure was a large, boxy, three-story dwelling, which loomed before her. The entire place was constructed of mud-brick, plastered smooth and painted in pastel colors. At the front of the main residence, she could see a single large entryway, shaded by a wide green awning. Otherwise, the building was featureless, save for a few small windows, set high up in the structure.
A thin, dry haze of dust hung in the air. Agnes glanced around, but couldn’t pick up any landmarks. She might have been two hundred miles from the capital, or (if the drivers had gone in circles for five hours) in a nearby suburb.
One of the men who had traveled with her, bearded, swarthy, and a bit older than most, gestured toward the entrance of the big house with his rifle. His demeanor wasn’t menacing, just matter-of-fact, maybe even a bit bored.
Beneath the awning, she found the door flanked by a couple of guards. They frisked her competently, and ran metal and RF detectors over her body. She fought successfully to keep her cheap plastic wristwatch, which proved too inert to even set off their equipment. (Foolish on their part, since the CIA probably could have embedded some useful gadgetry in it; but in fact it was just something she’d picked up at Target a few years back for $9.99.) Other than that, there was nothing for them to find–she’d left her gun and phone in the office, as directed. Anyway, Rahim’s men had already searched her carefully before putting her in the first truck. She understood the guards’ caution, but resented every second that was wasted this way.
At last, the pair decided Agnes wasn’t a threat. One of them escorted her through the front entrance, and into a sparsely-furnished antechamber. In the far wall, she saw an open doorway, screened by curtains that gleamed with a metallic sheen. The guard called out in Harbali: “she’s here, boss!” Then he turned on his heel and went back outside.
From behind the curtain, a voice rang out, in an animated, masculine tenor. It spoke clumsy English with a strong Harbali accent. “CIA woman, you have come. Enter!”
* * * * *
Agnes parted the curtain, and stepped into a much larger room. It was well-lit and luxurious. Expensive Persian rugs covered the floor, and high-quality textiles adorned the walls. Scattered here and there were sumptuous pillows. On one of them, a man reclined casually. He wore earth-tone robes and a close-fitting black turban, tied from a shemagh scarf. Presumably this was Abdullah Rahim, the man she had come to see.
Rahim nodded slightly to acknowledge her presence, a thin smile on his lips. Then he clapped his hands, calling loudly in Harbali: “Fatima! The woman is dusty from the road. Bring water!”
While they waited, the man looked her over carefully. His frank inspection made Agnes self-conscious. She knew she was attractive. With her creamy complexion, slender nose, and icy blue eyes, all framed by shoulder-length goldenrod locks, she was used to drawing more than her fair share of masculine attention, both at home and here in Harbalistan. But that didn’t mean she sought it out.
In fact, Agnes felt deeply ambivalent about the effect she had on the opposite sex. Even before her religious conversion, she had never really wanted to catch men’s eyes–she would have preferred to be invisible. Now, added to that, her faith taught that the flesh was corrupt, and vanity a sin. Yet, physical appeal was undeniably useful for a spy–especially a female spy. Men were far more likely to boast or confide to her, than to her male colleagues. So she tried to think of it as a gift from God, and use it always for His holy purposes.
Her charms appeared to be working on Rahim, at any rate. “You are more beautiful than my cousin said,” he remarked casually. Agnes was torn between wanting to accept the complement and preferring not to encourage this line of conversation. In the end she said nothing, and an awkward silence descended on the room.
Soon, a female figure bustled in through a side-door, toting a small basin and a towel. At first Agnes barely glanced at her, but then she did a double-take. The girl (Fatima?) was entirely unclothed!
She was young, early-20s probably, with a round, cheery face, dark skin, and glossy black hair bound up in a bun. She wore gold combs in her hair, heavy gold bracelets on her forearms, a jewel in her naval, and a pencil-thin belt of gold around her waist. Other than that, she was completely uncovered–revealing a frame that was slightly chubby, with large torpedo-shaped breasts that sagged a bit under their own weight. Agnes knew, hypothetically, that Muslims shaved their genitals, but now she had the proof: the woman was indeed entirely bare, her smooth puffy mons giving way to a deep slit that ran down between her legs. Under the circumstances, this detail struck Agnes’s Catholic sensibilities as vaguely obscene.
Fatima brought the basin over and set it down before Agnes. For a long moment, the agent’s surprise and bewilderment was such that she could only stare at the naked woman before her. She felt her face redden and her chest tighten, as if experiencing sympathetic shame on the poor girl’s behalf. Then, with an effort, Agnes took hold of herself, and looked fixedly away–unsure whether her intention was to preserve Fatima’s modesty, or her own.
Rahim seemed amused by her discomfort.
After Fatima had retired, Agnes crouched at the basin, rinsed her hands and face, and dried them with the towel. Then, straightening, she broke the silence in the room. “Abdullah Rahim, thank you for seeing me. My name is Agnes Becker, and I’m here representing the United States of America. I need your help to stop a terr…”
He cut her off with a curt gesture; then continued gazing at her thoughtfully. This time, she returned his scrutiny with equal candor. She figured he was trying to intimidate her, perhaps to gain the upper-hand in their dealings, so she pitched her body-language to show she wasn’t daunted by him.
Rahim was in his mid-40s, she guessed, but looked older–no doubt from a lifetime spent enduring the sun, wind, and hardship of the Harbali hinterlands. He had dark, leathery skin; a close-trimmed beard; a lean, hatchet-sharp face; a hawk nose; and close-set eyes that were black, liquid, and piercing. Not to her taste, really, but undeniably charismatic. She could see why so many tribesmen had rallied to him.
“You are a puzzle,” he said at last, speaking slowly and deliberately. “You see, I follow tradition. Not like those people in the city, like my cousin, who have turned into Westerners. Here, CIA woman, you are in the real Harbalistan. Here, men come to do business, and I meet them outside, beneath my tent. Here, women are for the home, for family and kids and enjoying life… But you–you are a puzzle. A woman who comes to do business. What should I do with you?”
Judging the question to be rhetorical, Agnes pasted an attentive look on her face and waited for him to continue. Rahim, it seemed, was an old-school sexist, and intended to do some grandstanding on the subject. She’d met lots of men like that since joining the CIA–more of them here in the Mideast, but plenty back at Langley too–and she had a pretty good idea how to handle them. Under these exigent circumstances, she would be perfectly willing to stroke Rahim’s masculine ego a bit, if that’s what it took to get the intelligence she needed.
The warlord gestured theatrically about him. “Well: I cannot do business with you under the tent, because you are not a man. So, you see: I bring you into my private space, the place for my wives and children.” He pointed to the curtain behind her. “No man comes through that door, except me.” Then, flashing a humorless grin, he added: “If they did, I would shoot them!”
“Thank you for having me in your home, Ra’is Rahim,” she said, with what she hoped was ladylike deference. “It is a special honor. Your wisdom and hospitality are deepl…”
He broke in as if she wasn’t even speaking. “But! If you wish to remain, then you must obey the rules of my house.”
Agnes had no idea what he meant by this. “Of course, I respect yo…”
Again he simply talked over her. “And, it is the rule in this house that women do not wear clothes.”
* * * * *
A chill fell on the room. Faced with such a fantastical proposition, Agnes tried to persuade herself that she had misunderstood him. Perhaps Rahim’s English was worse than it seemed…? After a moment she spluttered, “Um, you don’t understand. I just n…”
Calmly, he raised a hand to her. “In my home, I do not meet with a woman who is clothed. Take them off. Or, leave.”
To hear this provocation repeated sent a bolt of righteous indignation through Agnes’s mind. Who the fuck did this bastard think he was?! She reined in her temper as best she could, but a cold light shone in her eyes, and she spoke through gritted teeth. “So, this is how you greet important visitors, Abdullah? You must be weak in the head!”
He shrugged. “It is you who comes begging favors, CIA woman. If you do not need my help, then go.”
She stammered for a beat or two; then rallied for a rather scattershot attack. “Wh-well, how do I even know you can help me? For all I know, you’re lying through your teeth about having information! Or… maybe, you’re really the terrorist. Maybe you masterminded the whole plot! I could send a SEAL team here to conduct my business–all men, by the way. How would you like that?”
He didn’t seem particularly worried by her threats, but took exception to being lumped in with the Islamic extremists. “Listen, woman. I am not a terrorist. Those jihadis are a bunch of troublemakers! I know these men because they used to work for me, before some crazy mullah twisted their minds. There are five of them. They have some atom bomb from Korea, you know? And they will attack today, if your people do not stop them.”
A slight catch in her breath told him that he had hit a nerve. Bending forward, eyes unblinking, he went on in a more confidential tone: “You see? I know everything about their plan. If we reach an arrangement, then I will tell you.” He leaned back and gestured at her business suit. “But we cannot even discuss it if you do not show me proper respect.”
Anger and frustration mixed freely in Agnes’s mind now. She hadn’t shared any of those details with Iskander or Rahim, and they all tracked. Clearly, this man did possess intel she needed. And he was trying to leverage it into… making her undress for him?! It was bizarre, disorienting. And most of all, infuriating!
She lashed out again. “Don’t be an idiot! You do not want to make an enemy of the CIA. If you don’t help me, and those terrorists succeed, then I will make it my personal mission to rain missiles down on you! There won’t be anything left but ashes.”
He smiled blandly. “It may be so. Or your soldiers may find that I am a very, ah, slippery man… But, if I do die from CIA bombs, it will be quick. Those Americans dying from atom sickness will suffer much more…”
Haranguing him obviously wasn’t working, so she choked down her anger and attempted a more ingratiating tone. “Look, it doesn’t have to go down this way at all, Rahim. If your intel is good, we can get you money. A lot of money. And do favors for you. The CIA is a very good friend to have.”
Rahim said nothing. Instead, he pulled a smartphone from somewhere under his robes and started scrolling through messages. Several awkward seconds passed, before Agnes realized that the man wasn’t even going to bother responding to her.
Her rage was beginning to give way to bafflement and despair. Until a few moments ago, she had still really only been hoping she could get her hands on the information in time. And although she hadn’t admitted it to herself, in her heart she had known that it was a truly forlorn hope indeed. Now, everything had changed. Now, she had good reason to believe that the information not only existed, but was in the possession of the man seated before her. It seemed she had found the answer to her prayers. Yet… the clock was ticking, and she remained stuck at an impasse with the patriarchal asshole. She couldn’t do what he asked, obviously. But she had offered both the carrot and the stick, and didn’t know what else to try.
Weakly, she took a stab at reasoning with him. “Ra’is Rahim, Islam teaches modesty for women. You know that what you are asking goes against your own religious convictions…”
This at least got him to look at her again. A sneer of disdain crossed his face. “Pahhht! Islam says that women should be modest in the world. If a decent woman leaves the house, she should cover not just her body, but also her hair and face–which I see you do not do. Islam also says that in the home, in the harem, wives should please their husbands. And here in my home, it pleases me if they remove their clothes.”
“Yes, but, I am not your wife. Surely you don’t make other women who come here…”
He seemed exasperated. “What other woman would be so indecent as to come into my home like this!? It has never happened! You come here like a whore, beg for my help, and complain when I ask you to behave as my wives do. And then you say I am crazy!”
She felt she was perilously close to begging now. “I-I just can’t do what you’re asking, Ra’is Rahim. It isn’t the Western way. We have our own traditions–in America women conduct business too. I will discuss our business in your tent, or I will discuss it with you here. But what you are asking–it… it’s simply impossible.”
He gave a dismissive flick of his hand, and returned to the phone. “Do as you will. My men will drive you back to the city.”
She stood there awkwardly, feeling very isolated and very alone. There seemed no point in arguing any further. A part of her mind couldn’t help wondering what it was all about–she’d never heard of any Muslim, no matter how misogynistic, making a demand like this before. But in the end, it didn’t really matter. Whether it was archaic sexism, a twisted power-play, or something else entirely, the crux of the matter was that he clearly wasn’t going to budge.
Every fiber in Agnes’s being told her to walk out the door and never look back. That was obviously the right thing to do, and no one would ever blame her for it. But… she couldn’t see how she could do that. If she left without gaining this horrible man’s cooperation, then it would be tantamount to giving up–there were scant hours left and she saw no other way forward. And giving up would mean condemning thousands of Americans to gruesome deaths. Plus, she thought… wouldn’t it mean forsaking her commission from God as well?
Propelled by this logic, she began to feel there was really no other choice but to comply with his perverted ultimatum. And oddly, it made her think of the gold stars she had seen on the wall at Langley. Agents were asked to make sacrifices every day. The thought of exposing herself to this smug heathen, in exchange for nothing but his willingness to talk to her? Yes, it was truly ghastly–it made her feel sick, and small, and dirty. It would be a sacrifice. But it was still just a trifle, compared to those unnamed patriots who had given up their lives for their country. Right?
Seeking one final push, she glanced at her wrist. 10:46:30… 10:46:29… 10:46:28…
Shit! There was simply no more time to worry about personal indignities. She needed to act before it was too late.
Swallowing her gorge, heartbeat pounding in her ears, Agnes dropped her suit-jacket to the ground. Abdullah Rahim glanced up from his phone with a satisfied smirk.
* * * * *
Agnes wished the man had kept reading his messages. Pinned down by his probing eyes, she felt like a lab specimen under a microscope. Or (she shuddered), like an exotic dancer at some seedy men’s club.
Stiffly, she began unfastening the buttons of her frilly, white-silk blouse.
Agnes had never really conceived of herself as an object of sexual desire. Still, she recognized that she had a good body to go with her attractive face. Certainly men had always seemed eager to try to get her clothes off. Now, in her early thirties, her charms remained undiminished–if she had lost a bit of the glow of youth, then it was more than offset by the poise and confidence of full adulthood. In fact, thanks to her CIA training and workout regimen, her figure was probably more fit and alluring than it had ever been.
She took no comfort from any of this as she stripped down before the Harbali strongman, of course. Quite the contrary–if God had seen fit to make her drab and unappealing (she thought with a touch of self-pity), then maybe she wouldn’t have attracted the attention of this horrible man in the first place!
One by one, the buttons came undone; and when she reached the last one, her blouse draped open. Angrily, Agnes shrugged the garment from her milky white shoulders, revealing a lean, shapely torso and toned arms. Her bra was white and conservatively cut, but enlivened with a touch of lace. Below it, her midsection was taut and her abs showed a bit of definition from countless hours spent doing crunches.
With hardly a pause, she proceeded to unzip her mid-calf black pencil skirt, and allowed it to drop. Her hips were on the narrow side, and her ass was small, though shapely. Mostly, though, one’s eyes were drawn to her long, smooth, athletic legs. “Shoes too?” she asked in a monotone. Rahim nodded and she kicked off her flats.
Then Agnes did find herself hesitating. The mud-brick house must have been well-insulated against the desert heat, because the air around her felt cool as it washed over her bare skin. Already she felt naked, and she hadn’t even gotten to the hard part yet. Was she really going to expose herself completely before this man…?
Yes (she badgered herself), you are going to strip for him. You have a mission. Don’t feel–just do.
Awkwardly, unwillingly, her fingers fumbled open the catch at the back of her bra. Then, pulling her arms through the straps with an air of resignation, she allowed the cups to fall.
Rahim’s eyes flashed and he flicked his tongue over his lips. Automatically, she glanced downward, as if to follow the line of his gaze. Agnes had always liked her breasts. They were small enough that they never interfered with her active lifestyle–yet, they were far from flat. They swelled out nicely, in fact, with a delectable bit of gravity to the way they hung; and they were adorned with large, delicate pink areolae. Even as she watched, the nipples hardened under the chieftain’s scrutiny, and flushed a deeper rosy hue.
The woman was now wearing nothing except her modest-yet-stylish white satin panties. Only her most intimate treasures remained concealed, and she was on the cusp of giving them up to the creep as well. She felt utterly powerless, like a rabbit in a snare. And even though she knew why she was doing it, she couldn’t help being disgusted with herself.
And then… an entirely different thought crossed Agnes’s mind: a thought which made her blush furiously with a new wave of embarrassment. “I–I…” she stammered.
Rahim was clearly enjoying the show, and may have feared she was about to chicken out. When he spoke, his tone was harsh. “Yes? What?”
“I, um… Ra’is, you should know that I don’t… I mean, I’m not… you know, I’m not… shaved down there.” She gestured lamely toward her crotch.
God, this was mortifying. Agnes had always felt more comfortable going natural. Oh, she trimmed her mound neatly enough (she was a meticulous person); but to actually go bare would have struck her as immodest, and oversexed. And anyway, it had always seemed a purely personal decision. She had never imagined anyone else would see her bush–let alone deem it offensive to their religion!
As it turned out, however, the tribal leader was more amused than offended. He leaned back his head and let loose with a hearty laugh. Then, wiping his eyes, he spoke with mock-benevolence. “Well, as you say, you have your own traditions in the West. You are an infidel woman–so of course you should have an infidel cunt!” He chuckled again, and then waved a hand imperiously. “Continue!”
Beet red, incapable of looking him in the eye after that last exchange, she worked the panties over her slender hips and allowed them to fall around her ankles. Then she just stood there, exposed–her fretful gaze aimed at a blank spot on the wall, jaw working slightly, thighs pressed firmly together.
Agnes shuddered to envision herself as she appeared to him now. For one thing, she was breathing heavily under the pressure of the moment, and this made her breasts rise and fall in a shamefully provocative way. For another, she knew the close-cropped honey-brown thatch at her crotch wasn’t nearly dense enough to conceal the outlines of her sexual organs beneath. The resulting mental picture was utterly degrading–it made her feel more animal than human.
She experienced a powerful urge to cover herself with her hands; but she resisted, judging it would only make her seem weaker and more vulnerable. Anyway, she guessed she would have to let this man get his fill of her unclad form, before he’d allow the negotiation to move forward.
In the end, she simply stood there, shifting her weight uneasily from one leg to the other. She was unable to shake the grim notion of how she had just debased herself–from the level of top-flight operative to that of Playboy centerfold. All for this warlord’s sordid gratification. She told herself that she didn’t care, that it didn’t matter. But the hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach suggested otherwise.
* * * * *
After an agonizingly long interval, Rahim chuckled once more. “Ok, CIA woman, now you are fit to do business with me. So: speak!”
It was difficult to re-focus on the mission. Agnes had entered this house puffed up with self-assurance and a sense of destiny. Between God’s divine will, her own undeniable skills, and the CIA name, she’d figured this rural bumpkin would be putty in her hands. Now, standing with her clothes in a pile around her feet, tits and pussy on garish display, it seemed like all her poise and confidence had been stripped away too. What was left of her felt small and weak–like a fragile little girl, begging for scraps from the man’s table.
She sought to calm herself. Maybe, she thought, the problem was that she had let her ego get the better of her. The key now was to maintain faith in a higher power. Everything would happen the way it was intended to. Her only job to reconcile herself to God’s will.
Pressing her eyes closed for a second, she said a little prayer. Then, doing her best to act like the professional she was (clothes or no clothes), she began again: “Ra’is Abdullah Rahim, thank you for inviting me into your home. I am honored to stand before you. You know a great deal about the Harbali jihadis. If you truly oppose them, as you say, then help me stop them. If you do, the United States will be very grateful, and you will be richly rewarded. But if you don’t help, you will suffer America’s vengeance… Please: you have the power to save countless innocent lives.”
The man replied to her speech unhurriedly, with a musing quality to his voice. “Tell me, CIA woman, what do you think of the rulers of our country–the Emir, and the Crown Prince, and that whole Fazil crowd?”
She was confused by this non-sequitur–had he heard anything she said? Well… his question was problematic. Officially, the US supported the Fazil dynasty. But she knew Abdullah Rahim was from a different clan, the Tashlis, who had been feuding with the Fazils for centuries. Agnes decided she’d better tread carefully. “Uh, the United States believes that all the people of Harbalistan should have their voices heard…”
He glanced at her searchingly. “A Fazil killed my grandfather. Did you know that? The blood-debt is still not paid. And now they think they are high and mighty, and keep the Tashlis down in the dirt. So: let me tell you what I want. I want America to kick out the Fazils. I will be the new Emir.”
She stammered. “A-as I said, America would be very grateful if you…”
He continued expansively. “Now, you may say you cannot do it openly. But with American weapons, my men can wipe out the Fazils. So here is my offer. Give me 200 ‘Javelin’ anti-tank missiles, 200 ‘Stinger’ anti-aircraft missiles, and eight ‘Blackhawk’ helicopters, and I will tell you everything.”
She was dumbfounded. If Rahim believed it was that easy to get ahold of America’s most advanced weapons, then he was even more clueless than she had thought. His proposal wasn’t something she was empowered to accept. It wasn’t even something the CIA Director could commit to. A weapons transfer like that was political–it would need sign-off from the intelligence committee in Congress.
However… as a field agent, Agnes had made her peace with breaking one biblical commandment in particular–the prohibition against lying. And if there was ever a moment that called for bald-faced lies, this appeared to be it.
“Mmm, that’s a hell of a lot to ask for Ra’is Rahim. But… well, it’s worth it if we can stop this attack. I agree to your terms. You give me the intelligence now; and if it checks out, then the weapons will be here within four weeks. We’ll also send advisers to train your men to use them. Together, America and the Tashlis can build a better future for Harbalistan. I give you my word.”
Abdullah Rahim seemed to find this highly amusing. Once again, he let out a ringing peal of laughter. “Good, very good!” he chortled, his teeth flashing white. “You agree right away! You give your word. All very good! Except there is one little problem–I do not believe you, CIA woman!”
Fuck! Ok, true, she was lying. But what kind of negotiation was this? She didn’t know how to respond. Should she double-down on the lie? Or backtrack? “Look,” she said hesitantly, feeling more naked and exposed than ever, “I’ll do my best…”
He snorted impatiently. “Shakhem! I would like to have American missiles. It is a beautiful picture. But we both know the CIA will not give me missiles.”
Agnes couldn’t think of anything else to say, so she just stood there, watching him with wary eyes.
He went on: “So: enough foolish talk. Tell me truthfully woman: what can you give me?”
She grimaced feebly. “As I said, we can pay you…”
Rahim shook his head sharply. “No. No promises of CIA money. Money is good, but I have a lot, and I do not trust the CIA.” He pointed an index finger in the direction of her bare sternum. “What can you give me?”
She was stumped. Feeling pathetic, she held out her palms in a gesture of silent futility.
He pounced. “Foolish! Do you forget who you are? A woman always has something to give. Offer me what is between your legs!”
That made her flinch. She hadn’t prepared herself for this line of engagement at all. Oh, there may have been plenty of signs where this was headed; but if there were, she had chosen not to read them. She’d persuaded herself this was all about sexism and power-trips and negotiating tactics. She hadn’t allowed her mind to go… there.
And to be fair, in her experience, this wasn’t how the game of spycraft was played. At a theoretical level, she knew there were femme-fatales in the business. The Russians were said to go in for that kind of thing. But the CIA frowned on it–it introduced an ‘unpredictable human element.’ And mostly, sex just wasn’t something people would even think to barter for, openly, in exchange for intel. It wasn’t like money, or an immigration visa. So even if Agnes did resort to light flirting with male informants from time to time, she was sure everyone involved recognized that nothing physical was ever actually on the table.
The whole thing was odd enough, in fact, that once again she found herself checking to make sure she had understood the man properly. “So… you want to trade your information on the terrorists for…?”
He looked at her like she was stupid. “For your cunt! It is very simple. It would please me to fuck a CIA woman. Even the Emir has not done that, you know? And you are a pretty one. So: that is my price.”
Agnes blushed all over. Her heart thudded uneasily and sweat broke out on her brow. It was one thing to bare herself for him. But to sacrifice her chastity to him…? To let him… inside her..?
Her voice grated: “No, not that.”
He seemed irritated by her response. “Hah, do not pretend to care about your family’s honor now. You come here like a man, to do business–so do business! Think what an easy way I am offering you to save your people!”
She felt like she was in deep water and being pulled under. “It’s just… sex isn’t like that.” Her voice sounded weak and pitiful in her ears. “It’s sacred, between a husband and wife.”
“Pahht! We can go see camels fucking in the village! Is that sacred? You think too much woman! Lie down and open your legs. You will enjoy it!”
“That’s just it. Sex isn’t for pleasure. It’s not for deal-making. God made it for procreation.”
That last part made Rahim laugh. “Well, as you wish.”
“It’s not funny!! Look, I-I’m not protected, a-and… and…”
Agnes saw the rapacious glitter in the man’s eyes, and knew at once that it had been a mistake to blurt out that information. Clumsily, she shifted to bargaining. “Um, what if I take you in my mouth…? Or–if you could at least use a condom…?” (She shared the Church’s opposition to such practices, but by this point she would settle for any less-bad outcome.)
The clan leader crossed his arms, and she saw his fingers tapping irritably. Frantically she tried to think of something else to offer him, some other way to persuade or coerce him, some other option. But her mind was under such strain that it barely functioned at all. And anyway, there were no alternatives–certainly none that could deliver the vital information in time.
Automatically she glanced at her watch. 10:19:52… 10:19:51… 10:19:50… Watching the lifeblood of her fellow citizens tick away, one second at a time, she felt utterly helpless, buffeted like a bit of driftwood on the tides of fate. Too tired to fight it any more, too overwhelmed to truly reckon with the consequences of what she was about to do, she gave the brute her unconditional surrender.
“Fine,” she said wearily, “you can fuck me.”
* * * * *
Abdullah Rahim rose for the first time, his heavy robes swishing audibly. There was a gleam of triumph in his eye. “Good. Come!” He grasped her arm firmly and pulled her along behind him. Her breasts bobbed gracefully as she trotted to keep up with his lengthy strides. Out past the curtain, through the front door, and beneath the awning, the woman soon found herself standing in the yard again.
Rough pebbles under her bare feet and a dazzling glare in her eyes shocked Agnes from her apathy. The sun had set and the sky was dusky, but she found herself picked out in the beams of countless stadium lights, set at intervals around the compound to ensure every square inch remained brightly lit.
Dozens of militiamen still loitered around the enclosure; and gradually it dawned on her that every single one of them had stopped what he was doing to gawk, slack-jawed, at her naked body. A few were snapping pictures with their phones. Why had this creep dragged her outside without her clothes on?!
“Yusuf!… YUSUF!” Rahim roared. After a moment he added under his breath in Harbali, “Where is that good for nothing…”
A small, wizened old man hobbled out from behind one of the sheds. His beard was long and white, and he wore a gray thawb smeared with an assortment of stains. At the sight of a nude American female flaunting her wares in the middle of the courtyard, the codger stopped dead in his tracks. Slowly, searchingly, he allowed his bulging eyeballs to range over her body (lingering unapologetically on her boobs and crotch). Then, when he had his fill, he raised his eyes to hers, and fixed her with a nearly-toothless leer.
“Ah, Mullah Yusuf–” Rahim said, “this woman wishes a pleasure-marriage with me. She is not Muslim, but she is Christian, and the Prophet (may Allah bless him) said it is good for a Muslim man to plant his seed in women of that faith.”
This struck Agnes as a sick perversion of the Sharia laws she had learned about in school. Mullah Yusuf, however, appeared unperturbed, and merely bobbed his head deferentially. “What is the term of the marriage?”
Rahim considered. “I would like to have her all night, but she has little time. Let us say: one hour.”
“And the bride gift?” Yusuf asked.
The chieftain fished a clunky gold bracelet from a pocket in his robes. “I offer this,” he said. “And, I offer something else of great value to her. I will tell her the names of the five Harbali jihadis–both their true names, and the names they use in America.”
Agnes looked up at Rahim sharply. “Wait! You said you knew everything. You have to tell me where they are–not just who!”
The warlord returned her gaze coolly, through half-closed eyelids. “I could tell you, but… you know, you are still just a woman. It is more than you are worth for one fuck! No–what I offer is a fair bargain.” He spoke with an air of finality.
Hastily, Agnes weighed whether this deal still made sense. Given the time left on her watch… deducting the time to return to the capital… and (she reminded herself bitterly), subtracting one more hour for this bastard to take what he wanted from her… it would be a roll of the dice! Without knowing the city, and the target, DHS would be reduced to searching the whole western seaboard for a list of five names. They might get lucky, but there was no guarantee they could track the men down in time.
But… at least they would have a chance. Without Rahim’s list of names, she had nothing.
Mullah Yusuf surveyed her with shrewd, beady eyes and a crooked grin. “Woman, do you agree to the marriage contract?”
The agent winced and gritted her teeth. “Yes.”
* * * * *
Feeling a little like the condemned prisoner, Agnes followed her ‘husband’ back into the harem, clad in a weighty gold bracelet, her wristwatch, and nothing else.
Once there, she faced him with as much defiance as she could: eyes steely, jaw set, legs tight together. Just because she had agreed to this arrangement didn’t mean she had to give Rahim anything extra. She was merely a loyal government operative, she told herself–doing what the mission demanded, and nothing more.
For a moment her foe stared back at her, his expression inscrutable. Then, with an abrupt motion, Rahim reached out, and thrust his hand in-between her thighs. Agnes gasped and flinched, more in surprise and dismay than anything else.
The villain seemed determined to strip away every shred of dignity she had left. Slowly and deliberately, he insinuated himself into her pussy–prying her labia apart, and fondling the delicate folds concealed beneath with cocky self-assurance. Agnes understood the claim of ownership implicit in the gesture. Rahim was staking out his territory–affirming, both to himself and to her, that he had bought the space between her legs. For the next hour, he was saying, her vagina was his property, to be used in whatever way he wished.
In her humiliation, she tried fruitlessly to make sense of it. How could she ever have allowed her chastity, her bodily temple, to fall forfeit to a man like this? How could God have allowed it? And her shame only deepened as she sensed her genitals beginning to respond to his stimulation. The rest of her muscles remained tense, her breathing quick and shallow, her every instinct screaming that she should fight or flee. And yet… where he touched her, it was impossible to deny the slight relaxation of her labia, the perk of her clitoris, the hint of moisture in her canal… In fact at some point, without intending to, she must have shifted her feet slightly further apart–because (she realized with a jolt) her thighs were no longer clamped tightly shut. Her own subconscious seemed to be conspiring against her…
When, at length, he withdrew his hand, the woman was ashamed to admit that her flesh craved more of his touch. Rahim, however, having reminded her of her powerlessness and vulnerability, now shifted to readying himself for action. Using quick, efficient motions, he stepped back from her a pace or two, cast aside his robes, and then shed the lightweight linen shirt and pants beneath.
Agnes felt ill-prepared for the sudden confrontation with his unclad form. Modesty dictated that she ought to look away; but in that moment, it simply wasn’t possible. Whether she liked it or not, this male was about to mate with her–and the primitive urge to gauge his biological fitness overwhelmed any sense of decorum.
The thing that struck her first about Rahim was the knotty sinews that lay beneath his dusky skin and lean physique. He was clearly a strong man–but strong in an entirely different way than the puffed-up gym rats of the West. He was a man made strong by life, and by hardship, rather than professional trainers and steroid injections.
And then gradually, and much to her chagrin, she found her gaze drawn toward, um, one part of him in particular. It wasn’t so much that she chose to look at his member (she later thought), it was simply that she could do nothing else.
The man’s penis was shaved and circumcised, in accordance with Islamic custom. It also appeared to be fully erect, standing out from his body like an iron rod, angled just above the horizontal, massive testicles dangling portentously below. Her eyes traced its austere, unyielding lines as if in a trance; and she was struck by the growing awareness that this was no mere lump of flesh, but rather an exquisite, perfectly-crafted machine–a machine designed by her Creator with a singular purpose in mind: to reach deep inside the human female and impregnate her.
Oh, and one other thing: the particular set of equipment Rahim had been allocated was (gulp)… huge!
The idea of being violated by that monstrously potent phallus sent a fresh wave of anxiety washing over Agnes. Her pupils dilated, her heartrate jumped, and her mind raced. Anatomically speaking (she frantically began to calculate), would that thing really fit…?
Rahim caught the line of her gaze and flashed his teeth. “Allah has blessed me, has he not, CIA woman? Maybe it will be hard to love your next husband after being married to me.”
His smug self-regard was like a bucket of cold water. She blinked and looked away, angry at herself for giving him the satisfaction. He was still only a man, like any other (uh, more-or-less). She simply needed to keep her emotions under control. “Let’s just get it over with,” she said harshly.
The smirk remained on his lips. “As you wish. Get on your hands and knees.”
* * * * *
For a split-second, Agnes hesitated–shaken by the image of being mounted like a brute animal. She had thought she could sink no further into dishonor, but she’d been wrong. Still, she asked herself wearily, what was the point in arguing over the terms under which he fucked her? Wouldn’t the end result be the same? In fact, if she didn’t have to look at him, then so much the better. The logical thing was simply to brace herself, take one for God and country, and then get on with her mission.
Eyes fixed, she trudged a few paces to where an ornate Persian rug lay on the floor. Shakily, she crouched and dropped to her bare knees. Then, trying not to despise herself for it, she lowered down onto her hands, locking her elbows straight.
She maintained what modesty she could in this degrading pose. She held her head up, back straight, legs together, ass clenched. But the woman had no illusions about her appearance. She knew how freely her breasts dangled below her (engorged, rosy-pink nipples pointed straight toward the ground). She knew how coyly the plump lips of her pussy peeked out at the rear. For long seconds Agnes simply remained like that, passive, stoic, feeling like a beast about to be bred.
She sensed Rahim’s presence loom up behind her. She could imagine how his eyes devoured the graceful curves of her bare back, and the petite roundness of her ass–and how his ego must exult to see this attractive American agent subjugated to him so profoundly. Then she felt the man’s bare foot shoved in between her legs. Wordlessly, grudgingly, Agnes yielded to his steady pressure, spreading her knees until they were far more than shoulder width apart.
This posture forced her back to arch downward, tipping her ass up into the air and splitting it open. In the process, her still-aroused labia sprang apart too. She blushed anew to envision the obscene figure she must cut this way. She could feel the gentle circulation of air in the room caressing her asshole. She knew how coquettishly her clit poked down, as if daring the man to grope her. And, at her very center, she was haunted by the utter vulnerability of her vaginal entrance–her inner sanctum, now bared and defenseless. She had exposed herself in the most abject way possible, and was now utterly at the mercy of this Harbali thug.
Rahim crouched behind her, and again she felt his hand between her thighs. She had been girding herself for the dreadful possibility that he would simply ram his oversized dick home, but that wasn’t what happened. Instead, the man began with his fingertips, using only the lightest touch, little more than brushing the surface of her skin. He started in by teasing her outer-labia; and then moved to gently circle her clit–never quite giving her nub the contact it craved.
With unhurried skill, he continued to hint and tantalize, and her excitement steadily mounted. It seemed to her that being stretched wide only heightened the exquisite sensitivity of her most intimate parts. The man’s canny manipulation stirred up urges that Agnes didn’t know she had; and smoldering embers began to kindle, deep in her groin. Looking back on it later, she was ashamed to recall how willingly her body responded to his manipulation. She told herself that being a man with many wives must have taught Abdullah Rahim a great deal about how to touch a woman, but in her heart she knew it was a pathetic excuse.
Soon, the despot began to stroke along the length of her vulva, accelerating his tempo slightly, sending electrifying sparks through her clitoral hood and inner labia. He used a firmer hand now, and the captivating rhythm and gentle friction of his movements were delicious. Agnes tried her best to hate it, tried her best to focus on her hate for him–but she was beginning to feel overwhelmed by sensory input, and seemed unable to master her own instinctive responses. A light sheen of sweat glistened on her brow, and her chest began to heave with deep, rasping breaths. Her nipples felt hard and swollen, and she suppressed the itch to rub them against the carpet.
For a time, Rahim’s fingertips deftly shifted to rim the entrance to the agent’s vagina. Though Agnes wished it wasn’t so, the truth was that her canal was becoming positively wet. Even worse, she was shocked to realize that the opening was starting to slacken and dilate of its own accord–as if her body was beckoning her abuser to enter inside her. It felt like self-betrayal. When the man resumed stroking her delicate folds, he used her own fluids to lubricate them. And always his cadence grew slightly faster, and slightly more intense.
Then, just when Agnes was beginning to wonder how much more she could take, Rahim abruptly switched gears. At last, he began to stimulate her clit directly–his fingers rubbing her nub with a firm, side-to-side staccato drumbeat. At the same time, his free hand reached around to massage her breasts: first one, and then the other. Her brain was awash with a flood of neuro-chemical impulses and she felt at risk of losing herself. She hadn’t known she could feel this good
Reflexively, her body began to sway, conforming to his pace, moving instinctively to maximize the feelings flowing through her nerve endings. The warlord kneaded her teats and fondled her clit with an air of possession, assurance, domination–and her animal-self groveled for more. And then, at the precise moment when it was not possible for her to be any more aroused, he plunged his ring and middle fingers into her vagina. Her damp, relaxed, velvety channel yielded to him without a shred of resistance.
Using powerful, rhythmic jerks of his arm, Rahim ground his hand up against her crotch, fingers penetrating deep, deep inside her. Her entire pussy was one exquisite bonfire of sensations. As her intellect and faith were burned away, the primordial female that remained gloried in the male’s assertiveness, his single-mindedness, his lack of inhibition–and embraced her own submission to him.
It was in that moment of utter self-surrender that the woman felt something she never had before. Her eyes rolled back and a kaleidoscope of colors danced in her mind. Her back arched even further than before, her body tensed, and her pussy spasmed uncontrollably. She gulped for air in short pants; and each time she exhaled, a guttural, involuntary moan was torn from her throat.
Thinking back on it later, she couldn’t even guess how long she hovered there, carried along on the crest of orgasm. Not only did she have no frame of reference for what was happening, it wasn’t even possible for her rational mind to consider the matter. It felt to her as if she had been transported from the mortal world, so that time and space seemed to have no meaning. In that heavenly domain, all that existed was her own carnal nature, and the base pleasures of the flesh–and her only conscious thought was that she never, never, never wanted it to stop… ever…
* * * * *
Eventually, of course, after who knows how long, the tidal-wave of bliss finally did wash over and past her. Oh, she clutched wildly at it, tried desperately to keep ahold of it, but it eluded her grasp; and regretfully she found herself descending back to earth. One final, massive, uncontrollable shudder ran through the woman’s body, radiating out from her vagina, and then the thing was done. Her head drooped, her lungs gasped for air, and her elbows buckled, so that her upper body collapsed to the ground.
Over-sensitized now, she reached back, awkwardly, and brushed her fingers across the skin of Rahim’s arm–prompting the chieftain to cease his motions and withdraw his hand from between her legs. Her honeyed locks were soggy with perspiration, and her face felt blazing hot against the carpet.
As she lay there, panting, sweating, the woman sought to knit together the tattered threads of her mind. Fitfully, her superego tried to reassert itself. It was daunting, though, because this meant facing up to what had just happened. She knew, academically, that humans are inherently wicked (women most of all, perhaps, to judge by Eve)–and therefore susceptible to lust and temptation. But she’d never really believed any of this applied to her personally. It was crushing, therefore, to admit that she had just allowed a strange man–a crude heathen no less–to beguile her with his debauched gratification. With God as her shield and righteousness her armor, she’d expected more of herself.
Feeling overwhelmed by her own complicity, she decided to focus her will on just one thing. Just close up your legs, she told herself. She knew that her genitals remained swollen and damp and spread open on display. She was disgusted by the image, and despondent to think that it reflected the state of her soul. If she could just close up her legs, it would be a small victory, a small step toward reclaiming herself.
Only… it was so hard to move. The truth was that even as her intellect raced, her body was still in physical thrall to the afterglow of her orgasm. Her muscles felt wrung-out, exhausted, spent. She just wanted to lie there forever, unmoving, head lying limply on the carpet. And at the same time, paradoxically, she also suffered the lack of stimulation acutely. Her body seemed empty, bereft, and a part of her was frantic to regain the ecstatic high of climax and release.
This swirl of contradictory thoughts and emotions confounded Agnes’s brain, and she struggled to make sense of it, and to master her instincts. With time and calm, she would have regained her composure–but time was a luxury she simply didn’t possess. For, just when she was beginning to get ahold of herself, she was jolted by the sensation of hot flesh pressing against the entrance to her vagina.
Shit, she thought with a rush of dull panic, this ordeal isn’t over–it’s only beginning!
* * * * *
Agnes reddened to imagine the self-satisfied smile playing over Abdullah Rahim’s face as he positioned his cock against her opening. Then she cringed to recall just how big that cock was. But there was no escaping from it. She felt the bastard’s fingers dig greedily into her haunches, spreading her ass-cheeks even further apart. Caught in his vise-like grasp, she was immobilized, reduced to the level of helpless prey, her cunt nothing but a gaping bullseye for the organ about to spear its way inside her. She bridled at his insatiable grip, and yet… well, there was a kind of compelling, succulent physicality to it too. It sent guilty thrills coursing through her legs, and made her toes curl.
Then the warlord grunted, and with an effort began to force his way inside her. Agnes didn’t think of herself as a virgin, exactly. (At least, she’d gotten to third base a few times, and it seemed like she and then-boyfriend Charlie must have gone all the way that night they got so drunk…). Still, she’d never had much experience, and the years since reclaiming her chastity had been entirely fallow. As a result, even though she was still wet and relaxed from her earlier orgasm, her vagina remained an extremely tight fit for a penis as large as Rahim’s, and his progress was labored.
And even assuming she wasn’t a virgin, Agnes could still feel something being stolen from her as the man’s thick, unyielding shaft battered its way past her crumbling defenses. The childlike faith that she had embraced nearly a decade ago–the utter conviction that God would protect her from harm, protect her from her own sinfulness, and give her life meaning–it had seemed almost like a second virginity to her. Now, that naivete was punctured, snatched away, irreversibly defiled, by the relentless pressure of the pitiless male organ inside her.
Why had God forsaken her?, she despaired…
After what seemed an eternity–a never-ending, slow-motion plunge into her depths–she felt Rahim’s groin press up against her ass, felt her clitoris twitch at the tap of his brimming ball-sac, and knew that some way, somehow, her tract had accepted every last inch of him. Her body hardly seemed to belong to her any more. Her canal felt strained, stretched, stuffed full; and around it, the rest of her was transfixed, as if impaled on a steel pole. The whole experience should have been repugnant, but she struggled to summon the appropriate feelings of anger and indignation. With mounting horror, she realized that her rational mind was once again on the verge of being overwhelmed by an avalanche of sheer animal arousal.
Logically, Agnes knew the man was nothing but a fucking rapist–and she tried desperately to hold onto that idea now, like a drowning woman clutching on to a life-preserver. But… it just kept slipping away from her. Beyond logic, beyond spirituality, her body was at the mercy of a deeper, older truth. Her innermost-self lay in thrall to the experience of being possessed, overmatched, dominated in such a corporeal way. The mere thought of it sent a new wave of lubrication coursing through her vagina…
Several times, Rahim’s fearsome appendage withdrew from her body, and then rammed its way inside her again. It remained difficult going–the man’s lunges were not painful, really, but they were uncomfortable, and unnerving. Yet unaccountably, she found her flesh responding to the man’s penetration, growing more slick, more pliant with each assault, so that gradually the friction abated.
In her mind’s eye, she could envision what the strongman saw as he plumbed her depths. She saw her ass cheeks spread wide. She saw her pussy, ruddy, wet, and appallingly accessible to him. And planted solidly in the middle, she saw Rahim’s dusky, swollen shaft, piercing mercilessly into her most private recesses. At that moment, it must have seemed to him that she was nothing but a receptacle for his cock, and for his sperm–an object for his pleasure and procreation. And really, she mused, would he have been wrong? Agnes was revolted by the notion, yet… also strangely captivated…
And that was about the last conscious thought the woman could manage. Once he was able to ply her passage freely, Rahim began thrusting into her with reckless force. He released her hips and straddled her torso with his arms, so that she felt the heat of his breath on her neck. With her head on the ground and ass in the air, he was able to pound downward at an angle. Each time he landed, she felt his glans questing deep inside her, felt his groin slap up hard against her asshole, felt his weighty testicles bang up thrillingly against her clit. Her thighs rippled, her nipples chafed against the prickly wool of the rug, and heady thunderbolts of energy ran through the length of her body.
In later days, she loathed to admit it to herself, but…–being railed by the brute was, um, glorious. With rationality and morality driven out of her brain, she simply abandoned herself to atavistic sensation. For years she had worked so hard: to be in control and avoid temptation, to be faithful and righteous. In the heat of this moment, it was a blissful freedom to let that all go. She could simply bask in the jangle of her nerves, in his masculine vigor, in her own feminine receptivity, and in the way their flesh mingled and became indistinguishable.
As this rising tide of feelings and emotions flooded her system, the woman felt a shudder course through her body, and she began to climax for a second time. This time it was less about the physical sensations (though those remained delectable). Rather, it was an earthy, intuitive orgasm–a celebration of orgiastic self-abandon, acceptance, fertility, and desire. In that moment, she simply gave herself over to everything that was happening to her: to being overmastered, penetrated, inseminated.
Her body spasmed and her hips bucked back against her abuser, matching his tempo, meeting his thrusts eagerly. On and on the orgasm went. Muscle contractions shook her frame, rhythmically, urgently, irresistibly–yet her mind was at peace, free from thought, permeated with a gentle, warm, moist rapture. Rahim felt her body lurch and writhe, heard her moans, and it only served to amplify his excitement. Ecstatically, without a shred of inhibition, he pounded his dick into her hole, reveling in the abject submission of this desirable and seemingly unattainable female.
Abruptly, the man’s cadence changed. His lunges became shorter, quicker, more precise. Each time he landed, his pelvis pressed down into her backside, hard, and she felt the tip of his penis straining eagerly to reach further inside her. Automatically, her body pushed back–collaborating with her assailant to help him penetrate as deep into her as was physically possible. And then a warm surge of fluid splashed up against her cervix, gushed through her cervix, and she knew without doubt that Rahim was breeding her.
Her body thrilled to feel his male essence pour into her. The power of the chieftain’s purposeful thrusts, and the heat of his ejaculate spraying into her womb, raised the climax crashing through her skull to new heights. The couple thrashed against each other wildly, desperately–as if to brand his substance ever more profoundly into her flesh by the vigor and heedlessness of their lust.
On and on he went, discharging thick, permeating ropes of cum into her canal until every surface was bathed with his sticky, white, indelible potency. She wished it would never end. And, looking back on it later, she couldn’t believe how much of himself he managed to deposit in her. (Well, to be fair, he had one impressive set of balls, and she was quite sure he emptied them into her completely.) At last, however, he had nothing left to give, and slowly, reluctantly, he ground to a halt. A final, pleasurable shiver ran up and down the woman’s spine, and then she was at rest, simply marinating in the exquisite excess of sensation, passion, and self-renunciation that she had just experienced.
Rahim, too, took a moment to savor his consummation, and revel in his conquest. Then, with a sigh of contentment, he withdrew from her body. Lying there, immobilized, she felt her vagina gape open, felt the hot lake of semen in her belly, felt the dampness of her snatch and the trickle of stray drips down the inside of her thighs. The man crouched next to her, briefly, in order to clean the fluids off his cock using her spun-straw tresses. Then, he stood and pulled on his robe again.
She didn’t care about any of that. She was just happy to remain there on the carpet, stupefied and almost half-asleep after so much physical exertion and emotional drain. She breathed heavily, eyes closed, rump high, and luxuriated in the instinctive sense that she had fulfilled her biological imperative. She had given it everything she had–now, it was ok to simply rest.
Gentle contractions washed through her womb, shepherding the billions of tireless, tenacious, unwavering sperm within, propelling them ever closer to her ovaries. Everything was working exactly the way it was intended to. It all felt so good… so right…
Except… some small part of her mind still nagged at her. Wasn’t there something else she was supposed to do…?
* * * * *
Fuck! Agnes came back to herself with a start, and her eyes flew open. How long had she been lying there in a daze? She couldn’t waste time–the clock was ticking!
And then… FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!! She had allowed the creep’s semen to collect and congeal in her reproductive tract! What the hell was she thinking?!
Frantically, clumsily, the agent wrenched herself upright onto wobbly legs. Almost immediately, pearly blobs of Harbali cum began to ooze out of her vagina, tracing greasy lines down the inside of her legs. She wondered how much more remained trapped inside.
A prayer flitted into Agnes’s mind. She knew it was sinful to wish for the sexual act to be sterile, but she prayed her prayer anyway. God, please let this man’s seed pass from me; let our intercourse be barren; please, let me not be with child…
In that moment of tribulation, however, she did not sense God’s presence with her at all. and feared mightily that He was indifferent to her suffering.
Abdullah Rahim was lounging on one of the pillows again–apparently content to watch her for as long as she lay there in a post-coital stupor. Now, as Agnes came back to life, he favored her with a self-important grin. “Well, woman, the hour is over–you served me well. My wives all bear me many children; and, with Allah’s help, you will surely be fertile also.” He flourished a folder. “Here is the rest of your bride-price: the names of the jihadi agents in America.”
Trying not to think about the words he was saying, she tottered over and snatched the dossier from his hand. Quickly, she thumbed through it–it appeared to be genuine!
She also took a peek at her watch. 09:05:28… 09:05:27… 09:05:26…
With this new intel, she now had a legitimate shot at preventing the attack. Yet, even so, she knew that the odds remained badly stacked against her–there was just so little time left, and so much of America to be searched.
Facing this unpleasant truth, she wavered, torn between warring impulses. Shame and dishonor made her want to flee, to get back to civilization as quickly as possible, to do everything she could to obliterate the memory of this cretin, and of her own defilement. But… but…
…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 in as deferential a manner 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 before her adversary. Clasping her hands, hoping the tits-swinging, 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 possibly 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 drop bombs on them like raindrops. I say to them: the Americans don’t care–if the Fazils sell oil to America, or the Tashlis sell oil to America, 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 copulated 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 strange and 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, protracted copulation 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 ocean 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 retainers, perhaps in his fifties, and appeared to be 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, shoved 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 reservoir of sticky male potency accumulating in her womb.
This episode put an idea into Agnes fuzzy brain. If she could take the 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 shoved 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 raped 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 will 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
* * * * *