Everyone in this story is over 18, including the fantasy people described in the story.
Five weeks later, Nancy Mitchell was still fantasizing about Agent Christine Waters. The memory of the statuesque blond had put Nancy through her paces nearly every night and most mornings, when she would wake up before her alarm and pass the time with her fingers in her cunt and Agent Waters in her head. Usually it started as a simple workplace romance, cups of coffee and sharing lunches in the break room. One thing lead to another until a bottle of wine lead them to bed. Things would be going great until Nancy's perversions started to creep into their lovemaking. Agent Waters took Nancy's need for public humiliation and other kinks as a sign she wasn't enough for Nancy, and they argued then fought. They were on the verge of breaking up, but Nancy begged for one last chance, and Agent Waters spitefully agreed. But Nancy would have to prove she really needed these things, that they weren't just momentary kicks or some kind of weird test. And then, in a moment of anger that quickly became lust, Mistress Christine told Mosquito Bites to...
Told her to...
Told her to what? What did Agent Waters want from her? Why had that little smirk come across her face during the interview? Had she really whispered, "Miss Mosquito Bites" in her ear or had that just been part of Nancy's fantasy? Had Nancy imagined the whole thing, misread social cues and body language and misheard words until they became what her greedy pussy wanted them to become? The questions inevitably derailed her fantasies, and while Nancy could still get herself off eventually it was so much less satisfying than when she was deep in one of her invented worlds where she was the plaything of a sadistic fantasy top.
That was the problem. The tops in Nancy's fantasies had a motivation, or at least a reason, but often it was fairly shallow and Nancy never thought about it when she was jilling off. They mostly tormented the flat-chested shame sluts she invented because the flat-chested shame sluts needed someone to torment them. Good enough for the story, game on. Nancy had never needed more than that to get off, but whenever she tried to fantasize about Agent Waters and the cruel humiliations she wanted to imagine suffering at her hands, thoughts of what Waters did in her spare time kept intruding.
Did she have pets? What were her friends like, did they call her Christine, Christie, Chris, or Waters? Did they play board games in blue jeans and flannel shirts or wear little black dresses and garters and stockings to cocktail parties and talk about art and politics? Fuck, was she married to some guy named Chet she dated in high school and having boring missionary position sex under the covers with the lights out once a month? The questions consumed Nancy.
She had tried to find Agent Waters on social media, but she didn't have a profile or at least not a public one, and she hadn't appeared in any news stories. Agent Waters had done security clearance reviews for a few other people in Nancy's office, but none of them knew anything about her personal life. Nancy didn't have access to the kinds of databases that could get her private information on someone, especially someone in the Bureau. Agent Waters contact info in the Federal Crime Bureau directory was just that, a name a phone extension and an office number. They didn't even work in the same building, and Nancy had no reason to show up at the site where Waters' office was listed. And the security guards at the door would definitely not be impressed that she was there to stalk her fantasy dominatrix. Nancy knew nothing about the woman who had so captured her imagination. Who the hell was Agent Christine Waters when she wasn't in Nancy's head?
Nancy groaned and slid her fingers out of her rapidly cooling and drying pussy. She actually wanted to please Agent Waters more than she wanted to come, and it was frustrating as hell. She'd never met anyone like that before, and she didn't know a damn thing about the agent except she had big breasts and the same lousy retirement plan the Bureau gave everyone. Who she was, what she liked, not even what she was doing. Was Agent Waters as kinky as she was, but already seeing someone, sitting on their face at this exact moment and digging her fingernails into their nipples, pulling their tiny breasts up into sharp cones and taunting them between their screams? "Ooooh, I think I almost got a b-cup out of you that time! Keep licking me and I'll try to get a picture so you can see what you'd look like if you had tits!" Nancy felt a sudden stab of entirely irrational jealousy towards this woman (who might not even exist) competing with her for Agent Waters cruel affection and gave up on getting off for the morning. She swung her legs out of bed and stomped toward the shower.
Unfortunately, at the moment Agent Waters was not doing anything nearly as erotic as getting eaten out while she tortured her lover's tiny little titties. She was sitting in a conference room, waiting for a meeting to begin. She had arrived five minutes early, as she always did, and was going over her notes one last time when Assistant Director Bancroft walked in with her supervisor, Agent Elias Jones. The two sat down, put their ever present cups of coffee in front of them, and nodded.
"It's god-damn early, and I think this is everyone on the calendar invite. Waters, what are we here for?" AD Bancroft took a sip of coffee and looked at her beneath large, bushy eyebrows going gray.
Agent Waters nodded, and began speaking. "Sir, we've been trying to get someone into the Blue Angel for years, but the extreme activities in the club have made it difficult. Frankly, the public nudity and expectation to participate in sex acts make it difficult to find agents of either sex who are willing to volunteer because of a fear of damaging their career, and it would cost them credibility on a witness stand if they did. However, I believe I have found someone who addresses both of those issues. I've prepared a summary-"
Her supervisor, Jones, winced and held up a hand. "What happened at the Blue Angel wasn't your fault Waters, and I'm afraid this is turning into an obsession. I apologize AD Bancroft, but I think we should stop this here-"
Bancroft shook his head ruefully and interrupted. "Frostbite has become a priority again. Not an urgent one, but a priority. And the Blue Angel Club is the only lead we have to his or her identity. You've got good timing, if nothing else, Waters. Go ahead, I'd like to hear this."
Jones narrowed his eyes, and waited for Bancroft to elaborate. When the assistant director didn't, he just nodded at Waters. "All right, Waters, let's hear it."
Waters' ass un-clenched three full notches and she continued before she could smile. She had gotten past the first hurdle, the big one, now to take a dive in round two and set up what she really wanted out of the meeting in round three. "Thank you, sir. I believe that in order to infiltrate the Blue Angel, we don't need an undercover agent who can pretend to be an exhibitionist. We need an exhibitionist who can pretend to be an undercover agent." Waters slid over two manila folders which each contained an extremely detailed psychological profile of Nancy Mitchell that the Bureau shrinks had worked up for her based on Nancy's new security clearance dossier and existing file. "Sirs, allow me to introduce Nancy Mitchell, data analyst at the C-building."
Waters went on to summarize Nancy Mitchell's sexual fantasies in clinical terms that somehow made Nancy sound even more depraved than simply reading her stories would. Phrases like "libido excited by fantasies of emotional and physical pain, craves public exposure for the humiliation it provides, and extensive fantasies of surrendering control of orgasms and wardrobe to an antagonist" were all used. Words like "anal, large object insertion, and demotion fantasy" were spoken and examples from Nancy's stories were cited. Waters carefully avoided any mention of her own interest in the slim brunette, and kept her voice flat and unemotional. When she was done baring Nancy's soul to the two men in the room her pussy was drenched, but neither the AD nor her supervisor had any idea that this was anything but a professional meeting for her, albeit one that touched on a target she had worked before with bad results.
But a feeling was building inside of her. She had fantasized about controlling someone, humiliating them publicly, even destroying their career so they were entirely dependent on her and couldn't say no to anything she asked before. Taking someone's deepest, darkest secrets and sharing them with others for her own enjoyment was a fantasy she had gotten off to in the past, but to actually sit in a conference room and do it? Unf. Her security clearance reviews had gotten people fired, but she took no pleasure in that and often felt guilty even though it was necessary. But she had never done this before, humiliated someone so thoroughly to two men who could destroy their career with an email. The only thing missing was Nancy herself, listening in on a phone while tied to a bed with a vibrator mashed into her cunt, coming over and over as she was shamed in front of powerful men who didn't even know she existed before but now knew that a desperate humiliation pig worked in their organization. Or even better, Nancy could be crying under the table, hearing every word, her mouth full of pussy and begging and pleading for Waters to stop.
Waters finished her report with the recommendation that Nancy be offered the opportunity to be temporarily assigned to the field, with appropriate training of course, in order to infiltrate the Blue Angel Club and help ascertain the identity of Codename: Frostbite. She specifically did not request that she be put in charge of the operation, closed her folder, sat back, and waited patiently for the hammer to drop.
Bancroft closed his folder as well and looked at her across the table. "Absolutely not. No fucking way."
"Pardon sir?" Waters cocked her head in feigned confusion.
"Fantasies, Waters." Bancroft slid the folder back across the table and sighed. "These are fantasies. Fantasies as in 'not real.' I played 'Soldier' when I was a child but it didn't prepare me for war, and Nancy Mitchell has never experienced any of the things in these stories that your whole psych profile is built on, as far as we know. No real consequences, none of the pain or aftermath of doing these acts in real life. For example, even if she does torture her breasts while masturbating or go out in public in a shirt that shows her chest, she can stop the whole show whenever she wants to, before it goes too far. The animals in that club won't be so respectful. Your whole plan hinges on her embracing these fantasies when they're not fantasies anymore."
Bancroft continued mercilessly. "We send her in there and unless things go perfectly, which they never do, she comes out severely traumatized with a lifetime of PTSD, and that's a best case scenario. Worst case she freaks out and says or does something that gets her and anyone out there with her tortured and killed. It's an interesting connection and I like your initiative, but your eagerness to catch Frostbite and make up for past... events, let's say, lead you to equate Nancy's enthusiasm for fantasy with real world experience. And there's no way I'm risking anyone's life on Nancy Mitchell's dirty internet stories that contain no real world experience."
Waters let her shoulders slump and sighed. She took a deep breath and nodded. "But-I...yes. That's fair, sir. I apologize for wasting both of your time."
