Content warning: This chapter includes a sexual assault which may be triggering for some readers, as well as pervasive humiliation, coercion, and objectification. If those themes don't interest you, you may wish to choose a different story. You've been warned!
Special thanks to NikkiSparrow for her extensive, insightful feedback and helpful suggestions.
Georgetown, District of Columbia, January 2008
Oh, God, are you ever going to finish, thought Amanda, as Werner flipped her onto her back, bodily tossed her toward the foot of the bed, grabbed her ankles, fell atop her, and resumed his relentless pounding. She cut her eyes toward the bedside clock, and saw it was after midnight. He'd been inside her forty-five minutes.
Initially, she'd welcomed his physicality and lubricated heavily, but now she was growing tired. Her only respite had been a moment inside her mouth, or more accurately, down her throat, before she'd pushed him off. She remembered her tiny bottle of lube, but it remained inside the zipped pocket of her Chanel handbag, on the desk in the other room.
She heard him snort repeatedly, and realized he was finally climaxing. You belong in a barnyard, she thought, not atop my Etru duvet, inside my $2,700-a-night suite with its view of the Potomac and the glittering lights beyond.
Why did you pick him up? she wondered. But she knew why: she couldn't bear another evening alone, thinking about Grant. How she longed to kiss his grinning face, to see the desire in his eyes, to be cradled within his powerful arms as he buried his face in her hair.
To be dominated, and controlled. To become his plaything, to be proudly displayed to others according to his whim. To be shared with whomever he wished. To bask for a moment in the hot glow of their needy, grasping admiration, and then be rescued.
To belong to him.
Werner rolled off her, snapped off his condom, and tossed it onto the nightstand next to her Van Cleef and Arpels diamond earrings. He wiped his hand on her hip.
Her lip curled, but she turned her face away. "Before you get up, could you, um, hold me for a minute?" Could you go down on me, she wanted to add, and tell me I'm beautiful? She extended her arm toward him, her fingers stretching, grasping, but not quite reaching his back.
He found his boxers and pulled them on. Sliding further out of reach, he lifted the phone. "Room service? Bring me two shrimp cocktails, two ribeyes well done with extra ketchup, two fries, two Budweisers, and two hot fudge sundaes. Room 1532."
He should have asked how she liked her steak, she thought. She preferred hers medium rare, au poivre, without the ketchup. But she hadn't eaten since lunch, and she was too ravenous to quibble.
"Did you want anything, um... babe?"
"Amanda."
"Huh?" He turned on the TV and switched the channel to WWE Wrestling.
"My name is Amanda, as I said when we met, and again in the elevator. And again, an hour ago, after you called me Abigail."
He pulled on his Dockers. "Don't get your panties in a wad."
Blood rushed to her face, and she clenched her fists and drew in a deep breath. "You --"
"Hush. Oh, my god, it's the Lingerie Pillow Fight. Ashley is going to fuck them up. Look at the tits on that girl. The best part is, even if she wins, they'll make her take everything off at the end."
The doorbell chimed, and he got up to open the door for the attendant, who wheeled a gleaming trolley into the living room. As she switched off the TV and pulled the duvet over herself, the man discreetly steered around her blouse, skirt, bra, and panties scattered over the carpet, leading like a trail of breadcrumbs from the door to the bed. Spreading a linen tablecloth over the coffee table, he laid out cutlery and prepared to serve.
Reaching behind him, Werner lifted a plate from the cart and began stuffing shrimp into his mouth. Cocktail sauce dribbled down his chin onto the carpet.
Amanda savored the steaks' aroma, and her stomach rumbled. While she watched, Werner tore some meat into ragged hunks and wolfed it down. She felt a powerful urge to join him, but the attendant was still scooping ice cream for the sundaes, and she had not a stitch to wear. Werner devoured his fries while he watched.
Finally, the attendant served the sundaes and turned to go. "Will there be anything else, sir?"
Werner held up his hand. "Babe, can you tip the man."
Shit. Her handbag was on the desk, in the living room. She considered asking Werner to retrieve two twenties, but the bag held a thick wad of hundreds and her black Amex card, not to mention her compact Sig Sauer P238 and her Agency ID.
Brass it out, she told herself, setting her jaw. Hopping up, she marched briskly toward the desk, fighting back the overwhelming impulse to cover herself with her hands, her face reddening in shame as the attendant's gaze skittered between her bare vulva and the sway of her unfettered breasts. Finding the bills, she turned, rolling her eyes when she found him still staring. "Here. Thank you. That'll be all. Yes, I'm sure. Run along now, thank you!"
Hearing the tinkling of a spoon against glass, she turned back to Werner to find him snickering at her, the wreckage of dinner strewn across the stained tablecloth. "His eyes popped out," he said, between bites of ice cream. "You could've at least put on your bra and panties. But when you have a body like yours, I guess it's fun to watch men's reactions."
"You asshole. You ate all of it."
He shrugged. "You didn't want anything."
She bared her teeth. "You're a disgusting pig. You eat like a pig. You talk like a pig. You're a pig in bed. And when you come, you snort like a fucking pig!"
His face darkened, and his eyes narrowed. "Yeah? Well, you're a lousy lay. You fuck like a dead woman. So, fuck you!" He snatched up his shirt and stormed toward the door. As he pulled it open, an ice cream bowl glanced off his shoulder, spattering him with fudge.
After the door closed, despair overwhelmed her. She cried so hard, her shoulders shook.
CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
The following morning, Amanda sat in a conference room, trying to focus on the task at hand. Weeks earlier, she'd been chosen to serve as an instructor for the next training class at the Farm, which prepared the most promising new agents to become field agents in the National Clandestine Service. Many CIA agents dreamed of joining NCS, but few were selected. To be picked to serve as an instructor was an even greater honor.
"That wasn't bad," said Jack Richards, the following morning. "But there's no need to go over the waivers again. Also, emphasize there are very few seats, so it's very competitive."
"The waivers remind them of what they already agreed," managed Amanda, her voice slightly hoarse, her mind muddled from lack of sleep. "Here, I uncovered an issue."
"Shame, she was quite a hottie. But fair enough." He lifted the phone. "Natasha, send in the next candidate."
As the woman entered, Amanda took out her next file. "You must be Ciara Erikson. I'm Amanda Stevens, and this is Jack Richards."
"Pleasure to meet you," said Ciara, smiling and shaking hands.
"We're here to evaluate you for training at the Farm. As you know, our next session begins in three weeks. Competition is stiff, so if you really want to become an NCS field agent, and serve at the tip of the spear, you need to outshine your peers."
Ciara nodded, her face expressionless.
Not a trace of fidgeting, thought Amanda. She's remarkably poised for a 22-year-old, and so cute with her little button nose, high cheekbones, pale, flawless skin, and ash-blonde hair spilling over her narrow shoulders.
"You'll recall the waivers you signed before being hired. We'll revisit those topics today, to measure your ability to withstand the unique stresses encountered by female agents."
Another nod.
Jack rose, looming over Ciara, glowering. "You're a skinny little bitch. Are you even five feet tall? How much do you weigh?"
Ciara tilted her head back and met his eye. "I'm a little muscular. I'm five feet two, and 108 pounds." Her tone was musical.
He scoffed. "You don't have much of a figure. Maybe you exercise too much. And your voice sounds stupid. Typical dumb blonde. Did you even finish high school?"
He's overdoing it, thought Amanda. To her eye, Ciara had a feminine shape.
The hint of a smile came to Ciara's lips. "I have a B.S. in Political Science from FSU, with a 3.6 GPA. I was also co-captain of the varsity gymnastics team. We won the regionals the year before last. Oh, and my IQ is 129."
Please, let him not ask her to put both feet behind her head, thought Amanda.
Jack waved his hand, then gave her a thin black leather collar. "Put this on."
Ciara raised one eyebrow, lifted her hair, and buckled the collar around her slender neck.
Jack clipped on a leather leash and jerked it. "Heel."
Ciara dropped to her hands and knees, following Jack across the carpet. When he stopped, she sat back on her haunches, holding her hands like paws, tongue protruding from the corner of her mouth, head tilted as she looked up at him.
Brilliant, thought Amanda, smiling.
"Give me the collar," said Jack with a sigh, his voice clipped.
As he sat down, Amanda rose. "Stand up."
Ciara complied, displaying perfect posture.
"Nice sweater. That shade of emerald is flattering. Is it cashmere?"
She shrugged her shoulders. "Merino wool."
"Give it here."
She glanced toward Jack. Taking a breath, she crossed her arms, grasped the lower edges of her sweater, and drew it upward. Avoiding his eyes, she dangled it from her outstretched hand.
Amanda's gaze lingered on Ciara's torso, taking in her dimensions, diminutive but much more pleasing than her loose-fitting sweater had suggested. Ciara pinked.
Amanda stepped behind her. "Give me your skirt."
