Content warning for new readers: This dark, sometimes disturbing series explores the (frequently nonconsensual) objectification and humiliation of a female CIA agent. This chapter also features battle violence. Proceed at your own risk.
This story is a fantasy. The author does not condone any real-world nonconsensual touching or sexual activity, infliction of pain or emotional distress, or mistreatment of any person. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is strictly coincidental.
Fallujah, Iraq, November 2007
Amanda tried to find a comfortable sitting position in the back of the bouncing Humvee, but it was impossible. The veteran Marines seated on either side of her were broad-shouldered, and she had to lean forward to avoid being squashed. After two hours, her back ached.
She looked over her shoulder at the sky to the east, but it was too early for even a hint of dawn. Their headlights revealed the outlines of the desolate landscape, an endless expanse of sandy dirt and low scrub, broken only by an occasional industrial building.
Her mind wandered, and her thoughts returned to yesterday's mission briefing at Al Udeid Air Base near Doha, Qatar.
* * *
The mission plan itself was straightforward, and the short discussion was prolonged only by the arrival of her old friend Admiral Lowell, stopping in to say hello. His party invitation was a surprise, but it wasn't the kind one declined, even if one hadn't packed appropriate clothing.
Fortunately, an exclusive boutique in Doha stocked a slinky little black dress. It fit perfectly, but problematically, its halter neckline bared the inner slopes of her breasts, inappropriate for a work event, and its asymmetrical hem teased glimpses of her upper thighs. Nevertheless, the prospect of dressing provocatively for seven attractive men was exciting.
As commander of Special Operations Command Central (SOCCENT), Lowell had the power to advance her career. The party's guest of honor, Ambassador Bradley Newhouse -- who she'd rescued on her last mission along with his family - had just been named ambassador to Qatar, a step up from his previous post in Yemen.
The remaining guests included Grant Hutchins, the cocky, ridiculously fit heartthrob who'd led the SEAL team on her last mission, and who served as her personal escort in Qatar. In Yemen, Amanda had saved Grant's life with her sharpshooting skills.
When she arrived at the party, still blushing at her own immodest attire, the three men jousted good-naturedly to chat her up, and later for a spin around the dance floor to the music of the live band. Lowell dipped her low, making her regret foregoing a bra, and Newhouse embarrassed her by noting the bit of elastic occasionally visible at her right hip.
But it was Grant who made her spill her drink by staring at her legs, and who made her wet when he held her close, looked down her dress, and groped her bottom. Even when he stepped away to pound down several shots with the others, he kept his eyes trained on her.
I've never looked hotter, she thought, glimpsing her reflection. Was she pretty enough for Grant? Would he make good on his unspoken promises?
Her memory of what followed made her pulse quicken, and suddenly it was too warm in the Humvee. She swallowed a sigh and fanned herself.
She'd known Grant would drive her home after the party, and she vibrated with anticipation before they set out. Uncharacteristically, she turned in her seat and bent toward him, and felt a thrill when his gaze deflected toward her cleavage. Initially, she worried about the alcohol he'd consumed, but his driving seemed fine. When he finally put his hand on her knee, she cried out.
Embarrassed, she clamped her mouth shut, scolding herself for revealing the fever pitch of her libido. He took his time, watching the road while he crept his fingers up the inside of her thigh, moving with an infuriating languor that had her fighting an urge to buck her hips and hiding her shuddering breaths behind her hand.
When they reached the gate of Al Udeid Air Base, he stopped his truck beneath the blinding security lights, leaving her skirt rucked up while the other soldiers, returning from liberty, stacked up around them. While they waited before the rolling chain link gate, complete with coiled razor wire on top, the lead sentry insisted Grant lower the windows so he could "inspect the interior." His counterpart inspected her barely covered breasts.
He's imagining fondling them, she thought, self-conscious of the protrusions her hard nipples made in her thin satin halter.
The second sentry's eyes moved lower, taking in her bare thighs. His Adam's apple bobbed when he spotted Grant's fingertips, just as they reached her center. She lowered her eyes, overcome by her arousal and the lustful expression on the sentry's face.
Grant could easily pull aside the crotch of my panties and expose my pussy, she thought. He could spread my labia and thrust his fingers deep inside me. And the sentries would watch the spectacle, experiencing it vicariously.
If I resisted, Grant would hold my hands, she imagined. He might even tie them behind me. I couldn't stop him. She gave a high-pitched warble and drenched the crotch of her panties.
Slut, said the voice in her head. What tramp lets other men watch while her boyfriend plays with her pussy?
Grant's not your boyfriend, she reminded herself, no matter how hard she wished.
Arriving at her billet, he lifted her to his shoulder with ease and carried her inside, calling her a disobedient brat and slapping her bottom sharply when she kicked and squirmed. He took her straight to bed, and then seemingly spent a century stripping her naked. Please hurry, she thought to herself.
When he ran his hands over her body, his touch felt magical, and she felt such need for him, it brought tears to her eyes, but again she called upon unknown reserves of patience, willing herself to remain demure, legs together, covering herself with her arms. She tried so hard to maintain the appearance of the virtuous, respectable young woman she imagined he wanted.
He placed her hands at her sides, telling her authoritatively to leave them there. She whimpered then, no longer caring if he heard, undone by the submissiveness he demanded, no longer able to hide the inferno consuming her. When he pushed her knees apart, repeating his command, her chest heaved, but she obeyed.
He moved his fingers to her dripping folds, drawing a fresh wail. Working her clitoris, he brought her to a shattering climax. Moments later, as her pussy still pulsed, he took his thick, rock hard cock in hand and put it inside her.
Once more, he slowed, letting her arousal rekindle, and she thought, he's teasing me again, what a cruel, merciless man. Pound me, destroy my tender little pussy, she wanted to say, but then he'd see her for the whore she was, if any doubt remained. She longed to grab his hips and pull him into her, to show how roughly she wanted to be used, but hadn't he told her to leave her hands at her sides?
What would be the consequence for defiance? Would he tie her to the bed frame, spread eagle, rendering her helpless to cover herself? Would he then, finally, fuck her senseless, and give her the brutal reaming she longed for? Would he humiliate her, and hurt her, as she deserved?
Her heart pounded in her ears, and she bit her lip until it throbbed. Her arms and legs tightened like bowstrings, and the tension in her core climbed, but his movements remained deliberate. The urge to thrust her own hips became overwhelming.
Abruptly, his hands released their hold on her breasts, and his face sagged into the pillow. His only motion was the slow rise and fall of his breathing. He'd passed out.
For a time, she lay there, with his massive body squeezing the air from her lungs, poking and prodding him, but his snoring hadn't abated. Ultimately, she squirmed out from underneath him, but despite her exhaustion, her core remained knotted with unsatisfied need, and sleep eluded her.
Two hours later, her alarm went off, and she rose and showered. When she returned, Grant was gone.
* * *
Even now, as their Humvee sped down the darkened highway, her bitter disappointment lingered, and thoughts of what might have been replayed over and over like a skipping record.
A voice from the front passenger seat punctured her reverie. "Five minutes," called Sergeant Cliff Mayhew, the Marine squad leader. "Lock and load."
Amongst the modest homes populating the outskirts of Fallujah, she spotted an occasional blackened shell, and a few piles of rubble where buildings once stood, evidence of the pitched battle fought three years before. Men from this same battalion participated in that assault, suffering casualties from IEDs and snipers.
When they reached their staging point, a vacant lot several blocks further north, they all dismounted. She whispered to the grim-faced Marine who'd sat to her left. "You were here, in Fallujah, back in 2004, Frank?"
He nodded. "Kicked their asses then, and we'll do it again today. Maybe this time they'll learn their fucking lesson."
She pursed her lips. Today's mission wasn't to kick their asses, it was to capture Abu Rehman Marhoun, a senior commander of Al Qaida in Iraq, and bring him back for questioning. She herself had identified Marhoun as leader of the recent bombing of al-Askari Mosque in Samarra, intended to incite civil war between Shiites and Sunnis. She'd tracked Marhoun to his cousin's home, where they expected to find him today.
It was not yet 5am, and as they crept north, moving deeper into a densely populated neighborhood, nobody stirred. Looking up at the darkened windows, Amanda touched the butt of the 9mm automatic on her hip. She wished for a rifle, but she was not part of the breach squad.
Instead, her role was to question Marhoun's female relatives. Experience showed Iraqi women wouldn't speak to male soldiers, but females could obtain useful intelligence, including locations of combatants. If Marhoun wasn't home, this would become indispensable.
She looked over her shoulder at the SEAL team, who would provide overwatch from a nearby rooftop, and locked eyes with Grant. In his easy grin, she saw the same casual warmth he showed his buddies, but none of the heat she'd hoped to find. Had she imagined his interest? Did she only dream of the party, and its torrid aftermath?
Why did this always happen? The moment she found a hot guy, and caught his attention, she couldn't wait a single day before spreading her legs. She may as well wear a shirt reading, squeeze here, and a belt buckle slung low across her hips emblazoned, open 24/7. Why did she sell herself so cheaply? Would she ever control her base impulses?
"Excuse me, ma'am," said Corporal Arnold Carnes, the driver of her Humvee. He always had difficulty meeting her eye, and as she smiled at him, his cheeks pinked. "We're nearing our objective, and Sergeant Mayhew wants you behind him." She fell into line.
The Marines stacked outside the target compound, around the corner from the front door. Corporal Talley approached and rigged a C4 breach charge against the doorframe. He retreated, Mayhew pulled her back against the wall, the charge blew, and the squad rushed forward. By the time Amanda entered, two bleary-eyed men in their underwear sat against the wall in flexicuffs, while a Marine herded four frightened women into the cellar.
Disappointingly, neither man was Marhoun. Amanda followed the women downstairs and questioned them in Arabic. Within minutes, she'd identified an elderly woman as Marhoun's aunt, the wife of the older man upstairs. They were the parents of the younger man, as well as two of the women. The final woman was Marhoun's sister.
As she heard the call to Fajr, the dawn prayer, from a nearby mosque, Amanda crouched beside the aunt, whose name was Bushra. "I don't want to hurt your nephew. Please help me protect him from the soldiers."
