Preface

Tasha wrote, taking a chance. Not enough. The words were too easy for her to say. I didn't know anything about her. But then she asked, offered, shared...it became more real; we seemed to be getting passed the bullshit. I thought I knew where she was coming from. She would tell me anything, anything, except who she really was. Fine by me, I didn't want to know anyway. Just having a little fun. I already have a life, you know.

She asked me to write a story about her, as I saw it. The uncensored version. The confession. All of it. Hmm, what could I say? Some of her fantasies brought to life, hopefully, delicately placed in my story framework. Not entirely my thing, but I knew I had to do it after I listened to her. Perhaps that is the way with muses. The inspiration is a compulsion. I think that is what it was while it lasted, a compulsion, a brief obsession. I'd like to think I was in her head for a while, a flash of understanding, a slight connection. Maybe a hint of reality in it. It is the internet. Who really knows?

Her needs were burning within her, more extreme than my own. She challenged my darkside, tried to draw me out. Not usually a good place for me to go, but I went, curious myself what I might find there. A bit of darkness became more comfortable after a while. Everything was good until her fears got the better of her, and she ran away. Perhaps from fear in what she had released? I warned her. Foolish slut. One thing she could never talk about, always a hint of a game: she could not trust, not even herself. She had so much tough talk. A few lies. Maybe it all was a lie, just the talk. It is the internet. 'Tis OK. It was never supposed to be real. Maybe it never was, probably.

I know her needy little bald cunt (she would think less of me if I used more polite terms) is still out there. The pixie I captured, a muse for a while, looking for a way to give her life meaning beyond just therapy. I know I left my mark on her too. Good. Do I still care? Maybe. Probably. Damn, it was really fun while it lasted. Yes, I cared for a brief while. A moth should always mind the flame. Sometimes the burn of the flames is real, even if it is only cyber flame obscured with network smoke.

The Tasha in this story is real, from the size 5 open-toed heels to the auburn hair, from the nipples that erect 13 millimeters to the tear drop panties, everything, down to her 25 millimeter aureoles. Remember her the next time you see that woman intensely working on her laptop at the coffee shop. She might be juicing in her panties and hoping her erect nipples don't show. Just saying. I bet you'll never see what's written on her computer screen.

The woman at work who seems to keep a low profile, dresses conservatively, but never forgets her high heels. Did you know she always wears the tiniest tear drop panties? Well, she does. The jogger in the tiny shorts who never seems to notice you. Remember her? Did you know running makes her horny as hell, and it can play to her insecurities if you don't watch her ass? No wonder Tasha keeps in shape.

Maybe there are few women like Tasha, but maybe not. Probably not, but that's just it, you never know. Perhaps one of the women you know is not quite what she seems either? Look at that woman you are currently infatuated with and realize that you don't really know shit about what goes on in the erotic corner of that pretty little head of hers. In that corner, you could find a shameless slut with quite the fantasy life, a secret fantasy life, a rather kinky fantasy life, but this is the internet. You can hide here for a while. Be who you want to be. Maybe what you will find in your own coffee shop is much more real. I hope so.

I know at least one woman will be reading this with a rabbit vibrator humming away while she tries to forget the stress, the pain and the emotional scars which still haunt her. She'll try to fill those deep needs for while, get through another day. I wonder how many times she will come reading this story. I'll keep wondering. That's the way it is.

Yes, dear reader, I didn't write this story for you, but the deal was that I would share. A muse brings responsibility, even if she just flies by for a short time. Her gift is never something you own and it is never for you alone. At least that's how I feel. The words are mine, but only some of the inspiration. Here it is, a story on a stage, to become what it will. One of the stories, I should say. You see, Tasha always wanted to be a spy, at least in her fantasies. Here is her chance to make it a little more real.


Chapter 1: Briefing

As various grainy telephoto pictures are projected onto a large screen in a dark room, Special Agent Simon Peters briefs two other members of the Domestic Counter-Terrorism Task Force, Supervisory Special Agent James Southworthy and Executive Director of Operations Ellison Timor.

"Harcourt Thomas Stryker. Former US military special-ops. Master survivalist. Political extremist and doomsday prepper. Motivations: various. Known terrorist ties in Pakistan, Egypt, Yemen, Israel, several other countries. Associated with Hatriot ideals. Previously only on the watch list, his status has been upgraded to known threat. Recently acquired at least one WMD, nuclear. Origin unknown, presumed former Soviet."

Simon paused while showing a few additional pictures, none of them clear and detailed. Stryker appeared to be about 6 feet tall with black hair. A square-faced man in his mid 40s. His precise facial features were impossible to determine from the grainy photos.

"Last known whereabouts: the deep woods of Virginia, hiding with scattered cells of loosely organized radicals with a similar history. It seems the owners of the stolen weaponry want it back. He hasn't had time to organize and needs help with the operation of the devices. It's not a simple big red button. Unknown if he has detonation codes."

"Thank you Simon. Lights please James," directed Timor. "Options."

"A large portion of our existing field operatives list has been compromised. Fucking hackers," Simon spat.

Southworthy didn't pause more than an eye-blink. "Even if that were not the case, no one is getting close to a suspicious man hiding in the woods surrounded by close associates--unless it's for a firefight. We can't risk any kind of random confrontation if we want to recover any rogue nukes."

"He hasn't had time to plan anything or even find a buyer," responded Timor. "He knows those woods like the back of his hand. He'll lay low there while making arrangements."

Simon asserted, "An infiltration operation is our best bet."

"Suicide," scoffed Southworthy.

"There aren't any other options. Once he deals with his acquisition problems, further arrangements won't take long. What do you want to see destroyed? Washington? New York? Los Angeles? He's only a car drive from the Capital building for Christ sakes!" retorted Simon heatedly. He regained composure and waited. "That's all assuming he only has one."

Southworthy, "I am forced to agree--however reluctantly. A large military operation is out of the question. We don't have the intel for a smaller surgical strike. We must draw him out to us instead."

"Something like that young Russian woman in West Berlin back in the '80s," Timor interjected.

Southworthy: "Hmm, that might just work."

Timor: "It could very well work with the right operative. Good looking, but not enough to seem suspicious. Willing to put out, but not eager enough to be easily distracted. Of course this is all off the record, as well as against policy and several laws. Times have changed since the Cold War. We have to watch accountability now."

Simon: "I'm not sure I like where this is heading, if I follow. There has to be another way...damn if I see it."

After a long pause considering, Timor made his choice. "Gentlemen, we don't have time to spend developing alternatives."

"It's agreed then, but who?" asked Simon.

"How about Agent Duffy from the pistol range?" suggested Southworthy. "She's reliable, a good record, hasn't been in the field for a while, but that's precisely why she would not be suspected. She wouldn't have been on the hijacked list."

Simon jumped on the answer immediately. "She looks like a freakin' tow truck driver! They'll never buy it. We need someone much more fitting for the part."

The men all seem to be considering. They trade names as they go over every pretty face and shapely ass in the place.

"We don't have a lot of time. I say we round up all the women who are a close match for testing," offered Southworthy.

Timor considered for a moment. "Make it happen, Simon, but make the pitch to each one individually, in person, off the record. Drop anyone from the list you feel is a risk."


Chapter 2: Declassification

Agent Ann Kassidy was finishing another day as a government drone: more files, more paperwork, more boredom. This was not what she signed up for, but it was how her career had ended up--a dead-end like so like so many initially promising government careers. Still, working for the Agency was a sweet deal: pension, full benefits, recession-proof employment, set for life. The salary was not great, but her expenses were low.

Today was Declassification Tuesday, at least to her. She liked to group her various tasks together. Little games like that made it easier somehow. Declassification was mostly about digging out old files, making copies, censoring as needed, and then sending materials up the line for approval. Ever since the Freedom of Information Act, UFO hunters and conspiracy freaks can't seem to get enough of old government records. It was interesting to read what they wanted to know more about. At least half of them were nut jobs from what she could tell. Just think they can vote. Declassification was fun sometimes. Just the other day someone wanted pictures of Deep Throat.

Of course, most of the older stuff was in the bottom drawers. Rummaging around would be a whole lot easier if it weren't for the anachronistic dress code, part of a jealously guarded conservative tradition at the Agency. Knee length skirts were required, so her "uniform" was pretty much always a business suit, black by preference. The requisite white dress shirt--silk, of course--was concealed behind suit buttons up the front to just above her breasts.

A long time ago she learned the benefits of custom tailoring and fine fabrics even if the expense could be a stretch on her Agency salary. She would not seem out of place in a law office or a corporate business meeting. Her suit was always contoured flawlessly to her shape, but was never overly tight and revealing. She completed the look by keeping her hair back in a bun and using only minimal make-up. She refused to wear flats, though, and always wore her 4" heels. They helped to even out her height a little with all the taller men she was around normally. She was the only woman who wore open toe shoes--a little rebellious mark of self-identity.

The files in the lowest drawers required careful maneuvering. She could bend over at the waist, displaying her ass to any potential onlookers, or she could bend her legs conservatively, trying to keep her knees together without falling over in her skirt and heels. She worked hard on her body and showing off her ass did not bother her a bit, but that was her little secret. She wanted to keep a conservative image. Still, she opted for bending over at the waist. It was just then that Special Agent Simon Peters appeared behind her. She never heard him coming and almost spilled the stack of folders she was holding in surprise. He most certainly got a good look at her tight, bent-over, rear. Maybe the quiet approach was on purpose. She wanted to think so.

She had never really talked with Peters, but knew who he was. He was one of the lucky ones that somehow cheated slow career death by bureaucracy and lived to climb the ladder of success. He was the ideal picture of a tall, handsome and fit field agent with stunning chiseled masculine facial features and broad shoulders.

Peters understood why Director Timor had noticed her. How could you not notice an ass like that? Shit. Peters told himself that he would have to come downstairs more often.

"Kassidy, right?" he said as he checked the ID hanging on her lapel. Ann noticed his eyes rudely lingering on her nearby globes. She was grateful for the third button of her suit jacket. He seemed to be pushy, young and arrogant to her, exactly the kind of asshole she avoided and the type of attention she could do without.

She took half a moment to find her voice after the surprise. When she heard herself say "yes," she was not happy about how timid she sounded.

"Do you have a few minutes to talk in private?"

Peters didn't wait for her answer and gestured for her to go first, down the hall to the small file room. A half dozen fears all started running through her mind. She had no idea what trouble she might be in, but was sure that something was up. Still, she made sure to walk carefully and confidently. Maybe she could project cool professionalism...and confident innocence.

Watching the scenery in front of him, Peters was getting a good feeling about this one. She couldn't be a prude with an ass wiggle like that and 4" heels. She was just scientific about how she presented herself, the tailored clothing a precise calculation. He wondered just what he would find under that suit.

"Have a seat Agent Kassidy."

Kassidy sat down feeling dread spreading through her body, but Peters remained standing. He pulled a small electronic device out of his suit jacket and started scanning the room. She realized that lack of windows, a telephone or much of anything else was part of the plan.

"The Agency has a bit of a problem right now. I'm not at liberty to discuss the details with you at this time, but it involves a field assignment."

Kassidy couldn't believe what she had just heard. After all this time? She had pretty much given up hope. Instantly, she fought to keep from getting too excited. He probably wanted some file, off the record, without the right paperwork or something. He sure didn't believe in small talk, that was good though, no fake sentiment.

"As you may know, I work on the Domestic Counter-Terrorism Task Force. We have need of a fully committed agent for a code one mission, a fully committed female agent."

This was the first time she had even heard of an active code one mission. "Code one" was the designation for a highly dangerous mission that was of utmost importance for national security--a suicide mission of last resort. She wasn't stupid either. The way he said "female" told her immediately that it would involve sex if needed. She had always daydreamed of the idea. She would fantasize of being captured and gang raped or of seducing an enemy agent. What would it be like? Could she handle it? Don't all female agents think about such things? Regardless, she knew that it was all just fantasy. The reality would be entirely different and much more terrible than her lurid imaginings.

This kind of mission was highly irregular regardless of the code one. The Agency didn't ask women to spread their legs for country anymore. Using female agents, even volunteers, to whore for information or anything else had been against policy for decades now. She had a million questions, but started with the first thing that came to mind. "Is the situation really that bad?"

Peters didn't hesitate for a moment, "Most certainly."

"When you said 'female' was the implication intentional?"

Peters hesitated. "I'll be perfectly up front. Yes. It involves most of the improper conduct I'm not ever allowed to talk about let alone ask of a fellow agent. The mission could involve sexual behavior which could leave you emotionally scarred or physically harmed. I would never risk my career even approaching you in such a way if the situation didn't warrant it."

Kassidy knew this was her moment. The moment; the one chance for her to do something great with her life and a chance to climb past the glass ceiling. Why did it have to be tainted with sexual antics and improper behavior? In the end, she knew that no one would ever know what great lengths some shadowy agent had taken for the safety of the nation. The details would be lost in another file under a restricted access label or on another encrypted hard drive in the terabyte forest. Few would know, least of all remember, how she broke through to rise up the ladder. She had seen it before on Black Ops missions.

She said it plainly and with conviction, "Where do I sign?"


Chapter 3: Thirty-Two

In Director Timor's office, Southworthy fumbled with some papers while Peters stared at his laptop screen. Timor leaned back thoughtfully in his leather office chair. "That didn't go well."

Southworthy scoffed, "Better to know now. We can't have a field agent breaking down like that on a mission."

Timor turned to Peters. "True enough. OK Simon, who's left?"

"We're down to two. Next is Ann Kassidy."

Timor raised an eyebrow, "Is that the little red-headed filing clerk with the nice ass on the 4th floor?"

"Auburn," interjected Peters.

Timor just looked at him quizzically.

"Her hair is more auburn," corrected Peters.

Southworthy was the first to respond, "The short one, glasses sometimes? I know who you mean. Her name is Kassidy? Are you sure she can handle it? I don't know how she even made it through the academy. She probably weighs all of a hundred and ten pounds. Definitely a quota-filler."

Peters ignored him and clicked away at his laptop. "Holy shit she's persistent. Thirty-one requests for a transfer to a field assignment. Each one shot down with thin, politically correct, excuses about her abilities, size, or the like. Her field qualifications are current. She hasn't given up. She re-qualified in pistol last month. Shoots a Glock 22 40-cal."

"No shit!" interjected Southworthy.

"Law school, a good one, passed the bar. Her physical fitness tests are good. Runs a 5-mile in about 48 minutes."

Timor seemed to be interested, "What else?"

"She's 5 foot 4, 120 pounds, 39 years old. Meets all of our other qualifications: no children, identity not compromised, no living parents, no dependents, no strong family ties. Clean record. She has a level 1C security clearance."

Southworthy was again surprised, "That's the same as mine! I guess that's why they have her in Records."

Peters paused. "We all know what will likely happen. I, too, have doubts whether she'll be able to handle it. Are we sure we're not going to regret this?"

Timor seemed to be getting impatient. "The tests will prove whether she can handle it soon enough. We'll be able to tell. Did she sign off yet?"

Peters seemed pleased with himself. "All the normal waivers for an undercover agent plus several additional 'eyes only' ones, signed and notarized. None of it in the computer."

Timor's face remained impassive as he looked towards Southworthy one more time. He saw the answer without asking. "A decisive one for a change. OK, send for her."

"Already did," answered Peters.


Chapter 4: Debriefing

As Kassidy walked down the hall to her interview, she felt both nervous and excited. She was ready for anything, but what would that anything be? Could she really handle a field assignment after all these years? The paperwork had been ominous, but she had seen such things before; she worked in Records after all. The waivers she signed gave total absolution to the Agency and the people involved for anything that happened to her. They would not even acknowledge her existence. The mission for which she was being considered was as Black Ops as it could get based on that alone, let alone the sexual overtones.

Sharon Bartholomew was returning the other direction. Kassidy knew her by reputation and a few break room conversations. She worked downstairs in the evidence room. As they got closer, Kassidy could see a hint of tears and puffy red eyes. Smears of black mascara were not quite wiped away cleanly. Her suit jacket was unbuttoned, and her blonde hair was a little messed up. Kassidy couldn't help but notice Sharon's nipples were budding through her blouse, more than a little.

"Everything OK?" Kassidy queried.

When Bartholomew hesitated, Kassidy started to regret asking her anything. She could see that Sharon just wanted to run off without talking, but she did answer. "I just couldn't do it. It was too much."

She looked at Kassidy a moment longer as if anticipating the "couldn't do what?" question which would naturally follow, then hurried off before it could be asked.

That was weird. The incident made her all the more nervous. She knew that multiple candidates were probably being considered for the mission and that Sharon was probably one of them. The building was pretty empty and it was already getting close to 7 o'clock. There wasn't any other likely reason for Sharon to still be here.

At the security door, Kassidy swiped her ID card and keyed in the access code that Peters gave her. This was her first time inside the Domestic Counter-Terrorism wing. No one was at the reception desk to greet her, but it was a whole different world than the rest of the building: a big three dimensional department logo cut in polished metal on cherry wood paneling, carpet, wooden doors, nice.

She could see down the hallway. An Army First Sergeant stood guard outside a door near the end, already watching her. He was probably 6'2" and looked more commando than government drone, any day, any time. She checked the room number. Yes, this is where she was supposed to go. "Ann Kassidy to see Simon Peters," she said to the sergeant. He barely moved as he opened the door and told her to go in using only a look.

She walked in cautiously. The large office was dimly lit with a Tiffany style lamp on a small ornate wooden table in the middle of the floor. The oriental rug spread out into the darkness away from the light. The normal furniture was pushed back towards the walls as evidenced by dimples still in the carpet. It all reminded her of a hotel lobby instead of an Agency office.

Obviously they wanted a clear view of her while hiding their own reactions, an old interrogation trick. Sitting behind a folding table, she could see Agent Peters's face in the light of his laptop screen. A camera was connected to the computer, easily missed in the dim light. It sat on a short 8-inch high mini-tripod on the table. The red "recording" light was off, for what that was worth. Two other men were in the room. One man behind fancy wooden desk and the other in what appeared to be a big padded leather chair which looked a bit Victorian. He would look right at home drinking from a brandy snifter and smoking a fat cigar.

Kassidy didn't wait for instructions. She steadily walked across the carpet to the middle of the room and stood near the light trying to look confident. Suddenly, she wondered what she should say, if anything. The silence was uncomfortable. The three men didn't seem to notice. It was as if they were considering, analyzing.

The man behind the desk spoke, "I'm Director Ellison Timor. This is Supervisory Special Agent James Southworthy. You already know Special Agent Peters."

The names were not surprising to Kassidy, but she still felt a bit awed. Both Timor and Southworthy were Agency legends with more stories to their names than she could remember--even if only half of them were true.

"It's been a long day Agent Kassidy so I'll get straight to the point. Agent Peters has briefed you on the risks involved and the special nature of the mission?"

Kassidy refocused in time to understand she was expected to answer.

"A little, mainly about the risks involved."

Timor paused as if evaluating every word. "You understand that there is a distinct possibility you may be sexually abused, raped and asked to use your body in any manner necessary to garner information?"

Nothing like the direct approach. In this case, she'd rather have all the cards face-up on the table anyways. Kassidy felt that Timor clearly wanted to hear her answer for himself, as if he had to convince himself that she could do it and that he was making the right choice. She expected no less of him. Kassidy decided on a measured answer. This was the kind of thing that could be reviewed by a Senate investigation someday so she knew she better get it right.

"I understand that the situation is dangerous and such things would not be preventable, given relevant circumstances."

Timor placed his elbows on the desk and touched his fingertips together. He stared at her, over his hands, with a thoughtful gaze. She knew that kind of gaze. She was no rookie and recognized it for what it was. He wanted to see if she would volunteer anything else or crack. Her will and determination were being tested.

Peters knew that look from Timor as well. So far, so good. The highly trained interrogator in him liked what he was seeing. She was showing mental toughness. Now they would find out just how tough she really was. Peters's body reacted already. He was getting hard thinking about it. He watched as Southworthy set the trap, following their plan. Southworthy was calm with the ruthlessness of a seal hunter. This was one of the few times Peters saw a hint of that stone cold assassin's temperament. When Southworthy spoke, Kassidy turned and looked him in the eye. No easy feat, even with the dim light.

"Just how committed are you, Agent Kassidy? There is no room for hesitation in this mission whatsoever."

They all watched carefully. Too quick a response indicated a lack of thought. Too hesitant and she was not really on-board.

"My commitment is maximal."

Was there hesitation there? Peters thought he saw it. Timor didn't even twitch at the answer. Southworthy simply continued.

"You would need to submit to whatever they might do to you. The slightest hint of professional training could blow your cover."

"I understand."

Peters noted Southworthy's increase in intensity and projection, as fine as any Shakespearean actor. He was trying to intimidate her.

"Do you? It would mean that if they want to rape you, then you put on a good show and try to enjoy it."

"I know." Kassidy couldn't help but feel a rush through her body the way he said that.

"It could involve permanent bodily damage."

"Since this is a code one mission, I understand that the stakes warrant paying such a cost if necessary?"

"So, no reservations?" asked Southworthy.

No reaction to her questioning tone. They weren't going to tell her anything yet. "Only concerns of my own abilities." Kassidy answered firmly even if her voice was a little soft. She wanted to believe her own answer. She did mean it; she thought.

"Naturally. You would be supremely overconfident if you didn't have doubts." Southworthy's tone seemed to be a little less harsh as he replied.

Peters believed she meant it. Her reactions seemed natural on the close-up. The scanner thought she was telling the truth. He also knew that she was now trapped either way. Southworthy, the ruthless hunter, had chased her into the pit and was moving in for the kill. Peters's hard-on was growing under the desk. He was waiting to see the look. The look that he knew would be there.

"Are you ready to prove your commitment?"

"How so?" Kassidy was getting a sinking feeling. Talk would not be enough for this interview. A couple hours ago, she was all set to go home at the end of the day, have that leftover salad from yesterday, cook a little herb chicken, and catch up with her reading, maybe a glass of wine. Now, here she was, the interview of her career, rather, the interview of her life.

"Ann, take off all your clothes and place them on Director Timor's desk."

Peters zoomed in on her face. There it was! The look ranged from outrage, to confusion, to defiance, to flight and then to resignation. The last part was the best part. He waited for it. There! Submission and a hint of arousal. Peters had it all in high-def. Exactly the pattern they had hoped for. The flash of resignation and submission at the end was what he cherished. The look when a woman knows you own her. That she must do your bidding, like it or not. That was one thing. However, the hint that perhaps it might turn her on to do so, holy shit, that's something special. She had that look, if only for a moment. In that moment, Peters knew Agent Ann Kassidy was the right woman for the job--or rather she would be.

Now I know why Sharon was so upset. Kassidy didn't think about running out the same way though. She was more in shock than anything else. Part of her had had this dream a hundred times. Humiliated in front of men. Forced to undress. One of her strongest fantasies. However, this was reality. She wouldn't be able to open her eyes and make it go away if she didn't like it. Maybe the test was to stick to the high ground and not do it? No, she could see three sets of lustful, predatory eyes in the dark waiting expectantly.

Peters knew it was his turn now. He must make Agent Ann Kassidy into Ann the convincing victim. Could her resolve be shattered? Could he break passed that earlier mental toughness? Her hands shook as she started to undo her jacket. He didn't even need to say a word yet. She didn't try to make excuses. He took his first clue from her perky nipples. Her bra and silk shirt were not enough to hide them. Perfect. A confirmation of arousal. Perhaps her body was already in tune with some hidden psychology, secret fantasies. Yes, those fantasies would be the key. She would give in willingly if the right buttons were pushed. Some further exploration was in order.

"Ann." Peters deliberately did not use her last name or her title. No professional etiquette now. She was nothing but a woman about to be naked to him now. "Have you done this before? Undressed for others?"

Her face was turning red, but her head gave a brief embarrassed shake, "No." More importantly, her hands did not stop. The last button was undone. Peters was seeing exactly the response he had hoped for. She knew better than to lie. Not answering was also not an option. They would just keep pressing or end the interview. She complied despite her reluctance. Peters knew she had just the qualities they needed. Hopefully it won't take too much therapy to straighten her out at the end of the mission.

Kassidy dropped her jacket carefully on the floor, flat to avoid wrinkles, then started to undo her shirt buttons. Peters noticed how she looked down towards the floor, the slight trembling in her hands, but most importantly, he noticed her body language. Her legs were not tight together in subconscious defense. Instead, they were slightly parted, open. Maybe she was careful of her balance in her high heels. More likely, she was showing an unconscious hint of receptivity and submission.

Kassidy felt their eyes as if they were an audience of hundreds. The moment of truth. This is some kind of game. They'll suddenly tell me to stop. They just want to see if I would have done it. Her fingers had a mind of their own. She was fighting them. I need this. I need to know if I can do it as much as they do. She tried to work up her nerve. She wanted to look confident. If this is what it takes, I can do it. I will do it. I'll never have another chance like this one.

Peters savored every slight movement as she undid the buttons of her shirt, a bit too rapidly, as if she was afraid she might not go through with it. After finishing the buttons, she carefully untucked the shirt from her skirt. This was where the last girl ran out, but this one wouldn't. He already knew. Ann reached up to pull the shirt off. It was then that Evan's saw it: she looked up, a quick scan of her eyes to each man in the room; she was more in control of herself than she was letting on. He wondered, willpower or curiosity?

Peters locked eyes with her for a moment as she peeled back her shirt. He felt her gaze was a challenge. She was daring him to look away first, to look at her chest. He doubted that she could see his eyes clearly in the dark, but she looked right at him nonetheless. She dropped the shirt on top of her jacket. He wanted to look at her bra. A woman's daily bra can say so much about her sexuality. Did she dress for comfort? To minimize? Maximize? Plain? Sexy? Padded? She had not been given a chance to go home before the interview. Whatever she was wearing was selected this morning for a normal work day. He wanted to look, but he also wanted to read her eyes. Did she mean to be so bold? What game was she playing?

All Peters could think was Fuck! She looked right into the camera, not for long, but her eyes spoke volumes. The strength she was exerting; this was really hard for her. Shyness, a hint of fear, a bit of anger. Most of all, though, an unmistakable undertone of raw lust, a visage of bedroom eyes. He knew he was right about her. Her bra confirmed it. It was an expensive looking, sexy bra, but also supportive and functional. Exactly the kind of woman they needed: sexy as well as functional and reliable.

Kassidy paused a little, looking more towards Timor than anyone else. Nothing. They weren't going to let her off the hook yet. OK, fine. If it's boobs they want, then it's boobs they get. She unceremoniously reached behind her back with that awkward, sexy, undignified self-grappling movement women have when they reach behind their back to undo their bra.

Despite her brave intentions, the moment her bra fell away she couldn't help but feel defenseless. Her erect nipples and small girlish aureoles were no secret now. Though self-conscious of her aureoles, she was rather proud of her proportioned, firm, C-cups. Her eyes were adjusted to the light more now. She could see their faces some. They weren't even looking at her chest. They were looking lower down at her skirt, waiting. Hell. This was no bluff.

The flood of thought and emotion paralyzed her. The hesitation before she could act seemed like an hour. Any second, they could say something, interview over. Instead, she felt like a lone antelope surrounded by hungry lions, circling her in the dark, waiting to devour her, looking for weakness. She steadied her nerves, took a breath, and dropped her skirt, immediately stepping forward out the cloth circle it left on the floor.

All three men gasped almost imperceptibly in the dark; their turn to try to hide their reactions. None of them managed it completely. Kassidy wore the tiniest of tiny tear drop panties. It hugged her mound, only her mound--her completely bald mound. The sheer white fabric was little more than a technicality. The panties didn't even hide her pussy lips effectively now that the fabric was wet from her arousal.

She looked at the floor, but it wasn't out of embarrassment any longer. She knew that the predators were considering. She wanted them to get a good look without seeming to challenge them back with her eye contact. She was posing as the horny submissive. She knew her arousal would just make her seem all the more sexy. This had become about pure raw sex the minute she dropped that skirt. She had little left to hide and with that she gained confidence, fueled by a freedom from caring. They were the ones who could worry about trying to hide those hard-ons she knew they all had.

She was breathing harder herself, the strength of her lust a complete surprise. Now that her nightmare/fantasy had been lived, the intensity of the experience was far greater than she would have guessed. She froze completely for half a minute, then her body starting to move on its own. She bent over and picked up her clothes then walked to Timor's desk. Leaning in slightly, her breasts only a foot or two away from Timor, she laid each article of clothing out neatly over a few closed folders marked "top secret." She turned slightly so that Southworthy and Peters were presented more directly with her bare ass, the g-string covering nothing. She pulled her wet panties off and put them directly in front of Timor, close, so he could smell the lust juice saturating them. She left her high heels on and then turned to walk back to her original spot in the middle of the floor.

They seemed to be staring at various parts of her anatomy. She felt awkward and exposed as she stood with her feet about shoulder width apart, arms at her sides, not knowing what else to do with them, but knowing that covering up anything in front with her arms would send the wrong impression. Regardless of her outward presentation, the confidence she had a minute ago was quickly evaporating.

Timor broke the silence, but he took his own sweet time before he did. "Well, that was a bit intense, I'm sure, but necessary."

Whew! I did it! Kassidy was a bit amazed with herself even. She didn't know how she suddenly found the strength.

Timor continued, "We need to be 100 percent positive that you can handle this mission. Now, if you would excuse us for a few minutes, we have matters to discuss before we start testing."

What the fuck! Start the test? Kassidy thought her head was going to explode. Really? Timor gave her a moment. Southworthy had an evil smirk. Bastard is enjoying this. Peters looks like he wants to jerk off under that table. Keep it calm. They are trying to put you off on purpose. Don't blow it now.

Southworthy spoke next. "While we deliberate, why don't you be a dear and go find the break room and get us some coffee? You'll probably need to make a fresh pot. Ask First Sergeant Hale if he would like some too please. Just bring a tray with some cream and sugar. Thanks."

Yes, he's definitely enjoying this. She paused. Was she supposed to get dressed first? Southworthy must have realized what she was thinking. "Don't worry dear, the place is empty except for us. No use getting dressed when you'll need to be naked again for the test anyways."

Kassidy was furious. She had never been asked to get coffee before. Something about it had become so incredibly demeaning in recent years. The tone of expectation of obedience in Southworthy's voice was what really irritated her though. What is this the Stone Age? She knew this was part of the test. Being naked didn't bother her. She knew that was a setup. Even so, everything Southworthy said pushed her buttons and she couldn't help feeling the way she felt, this was degrading. Was that the main effect they were trying to achieve?

"Close the door on your way out if you would dear."


Chapter 5: Interrogation

Timor spoke first. "Have you ever seen the like?"

Southworthy was just shaking his head, "That would be a 'No.' It's a long fucking way from the '80s that's all I can say. At least I get to see a pretty woman get my coffee one more time before I die."

Peters put some of the high def footage up on the screen. "The most interesting behavior is how she went from completely hesitant and meek to confident and brazen for a moment there. I thought she was going to run out of the room one minute and then she was ready to put on a striptease the next."

Timor picked up and felt her panties then held them up to his nose and sniffed deeply. "One thing's for sure, she was really getting off on it all."

Peters switched the high def to the time when Kassidy dropped her skirt before he replied, "Still, she's afraid. I suspect some past emotional baggage fuelling a fetish. She feels dirty and guilty to some degree, but some repressed part of her gets off on the exposure. She's probably quite twisted up mentally."

Southworthy nodded his head in agreement with Peters. "I agree. She doesn't seem to have much experience and probably doesn't really know the full extent of her own kinks. I suspect a strong submissive streak amongst whatever else is going on in her head. She's going to hate getting the coffee on one hand, but on the other hand will secretly enjoy the humiliation of being sent through the office nude at our bidding. Her understanding of accepted etiquette will be at odds with her more primitive emotional and sexual responses."

"All the indicators are there," added Peters. "I think you hit the nail on the head, latent submissive. The exhibitionism could easily be just a specific manifestation."

Timor seemed more doubtful. "Having the fantasies is one thing, but the reality of what she will face in the field will be quite another. We can assume her body responds like it does because of her hidden desires all we want, but she's still been a government drone for most of her career and left no track record of sexual interest or behavior the whole time. Sexy underwear doesn't prove she's slut enough for this mission. We need to be sure. When the shit hits the fan, her panties need to hit the floor."

Peters was nonplussed. "Everything about the way she dresses is well-calculated. She plays the part, but underneath the stock, by-the-book, exterior, she's a rebel with sexual compulsions too strong for her to ignore. Her secret indulgences show just how close to the line she is everyday. Part of her wants to live a life filled with those fantasies and never look back. She's almost certainly tried self-bondage. I'd bet on it. Maybe she's scared some boyfriends off. I'm not sure she's entirely stable mentally, but I'm sure she's right for the mission."

Southworthy actually stood up and faced Timor and Peters. "It doesn't seem hard to understand to me. She has some powerful hidden emotional elements, yes, but she has kept them under control for years. She shows what she wants to show, how much skin, how much curve, and she doesn't want to be burnt by social mores, so compensates. Those repressed elements will emerge as strengths serving the needs of this mission once they are brought out. Your kinks are part of you, like it or not. You can only discover new ones. You are what you are."

Peters didn't hesitate. "I think she can do it, but we still have the tests to finish before we decide. I don't see any reason not to proceed."

Timor still seemed doubtful, but approved with a quick nod. Southworthy's opinion went a long ways with him. "Stockholm syndrome? We don't want things getting worse."

"A distinct possibility, that's why we don't plan to let her have any choice in final activation. The technology is available," answered Peters.

Southworthy changed the subject. "Can you zoom in a little tighter?"

Peters framed Kassidy's bare pussy on the screen.

"Just as I thought," said Southworthy. "Not a follicle. Waxed not shaved. At least she doesn't have a bunch of tattoos and piercings like Rollins--that was a bit of a surprise. Can you switch to the hall cameras now?"

Kassidy couldn't help but look down the halls and walk cautiously. Concerned about cameras, she hadn't seen any, but you can fit one on the head of a pin these days. Her anger quickly faded. She wasn't going to let her feelings hold her back. She had her own mission here and now: the mission to get the mission. She would do what she had to do.

Kassidy never thought she would be walking through any Agency building naked, least of all the DCTTF headquarters. Of course, the location of the break room seemed to be some kind of secret of its own; she still couldn't find it. She took a minute to think about it and reasoned the break room should be near the main conference room.

The main conference room was easy to find. Matters affecting the safety of the whole country have been decided right here. Even the President has been right here in this room. Now Ann Kassidy is here too, naked as the day she was born.

The break room was nearby, sure enough. The flooring was high quality vinyl imitating hardwood. However, the countertops were real granite and the cabinets were real wood, at least as much as any cabinet is real wood these days. She started to dig around and found the coffee and filters, even a few cookies. Before long, she was standing around wondering what to do with herself while the coffee was brewing in the fancy stainless steel machine. She assembled a little tray of creamers, sugar, paper cups and stirring sticks. She took a chance and skipped the artificial sweeteners and milk. These guys didn't seem the type. She made some hot tea for herself just in case (no soy chai latte here).

If there is anything more awkward than walking around an office building naked, then it's standing around naked in a kitchen waiting for coffee to brew. She couldn't get her mind off it. She thought about busty blondes on beer bottles, french maids and scantily dressed cigarette girls from the 30's and 40's. Men seemed to love women in such servile roles. She never expected a corresponding effect as a result of being in such a role. In a moment of playfulness, she was the naked coffee girl--hot, creamy, sweet and highly stimulating. She practiced a seductive walk with the little serving tray laughing at herself. This is ridiculous.

She tried to tell herself it was just her nerves needing an outlet, but she knew it was probably a bit more than that. Soon she would be walking back into a fantasy made real, naked and on display to strangers, hopelessly horny, stubborn nipples still erect. Why does it get me going like this? Shit, I never realized the real experience would be this powerful. No matter how tempting, though, she kept her hands away and did not touch herself (except for a brief rub or two before realizing). This was not a fantasy she would be laughing off--naked seductress secret agent wannabee, saving the world one fuck at a time. It could happen. Get a grip on yourself.

Walking with the full tray was a bit tricky, she thought she was a pro at wearing heels, but this was a little different. She took it slowly and the tray remained intact somehow. First Sergeant Hale was waiting at the closed door. As she approached, he knocked on the door. She stopped to offer him some coffee, remembering Southworthy's instructions, and he took a cup along with a couple of sugar packets. Standing there naked, holding the tray out, affected her even though her modern sensibilities were outraged. Maybe the indignity was the turn on? From law school to nude eye-candy, look at me now! Even the large-breasted women on the beer bottles had clothes at least.

Dignified or not, she could practically smell the testosterone from Hale. He was a mountain of muscle. She felt so frail and small compared to him. Of course, he noticed her obstinately hard nipples. How could he not? Is that the hint of a smile? He finished stirring his coffee. How does he like his women? Strong? Sweet? In a moment of boldness, Ann looked down to check his crotch. Is that an erection under the camo? Seems like it.

OK, here goes. Ann took a deep breath to calm herself before going back in Timor's office. The result was quite the opposite of relaxation and only reminded her that she was a little cold and a lot exposed. She took another deep breath anyway.

Hale held the door open for her as she carefully walked in with the tray. She decided to follow hierarchy so started to walk towards Director Timor's desk. The expanse of oriental carpet trailing off into the dim light beyond the Tiffany lamp seemed to go on forever. There was a wooden chair next to the lamp stand now.

With every step into the room, she felt her lust boiling as well as a general sense of stage fright. She had to be blushing, at least it felt like it. She noticed her clothes were gone. No neat pile. No panties on the desk. She resisted the urge to look around for them. Even though she knew it was probably just another part of the test, it created an instinctive panic. She was exposed, on display, and going to stay that way for the foreseeable future. Her reaction was no doubt being scrutinized in detail.

Timor gave her a minute to walk halfway through the room. "Thank you, Ann, please put the tray over on the side table."

Ann followed his hand signal to her left and saw the narrow table beyond the pool of lamp light near Peters's desk. The walk would give them a good side profile and then a good view of her ass. God they're clever. As she approached the side table and her eyes adjusted, she noticed a steel cart on casters that looked like something from a hospital. Her hands started to shake a little when she saw it. She had to steady herself carefully to avoid spilling the tray, but she made it.

The cart had an assortment of devices neatly laid out. She recognized the gynecological instruments including a clear plastic disposable speculum in sterile packaging, associated purple nitrile gloves and KY lubricant. The intimidation factor quickly ramped up even more from there with wire leads, electrode pads, an assortment of dildos, vibrators, massagers and ass plugs, then lastly needles, alcohol pads and small bottles of drugs.

Evan's watched her carefully. He had the hi-def scan on visual tracking. He had watched each reaction from the time she entered starting with a mixture of reactions when she noticed the missing clothes. The recognition software he was running classified it as sexual arousal. He wouldn't disagree. She was relieved when Timor directed her to put down the tray. When she scanned the cart, she was fearful of the various objects, only natural. However, the dildos and massagers seemed almost comforting to her. She was scared the most of the ass plugs. Interesting profile, within the range of acceptable, but not at all typical.

Timor snapped her out of it. "Very good Ann, would you please have a seat? We have a few more questions." Her gestured towards the wooden chair. Ann didn't like the look of the chair. It was like something from an old police precinct, but she sat anyways, unconsciously crossing her legs as if wearing a dress.

Evan's was once again ready for another brutal assault from Southworthy. The cold-blooded killer was about to unleash a new round of viciousness. He felt bad for Ann in a way, but he also couldn't wait to see what her reactions would be.

Southworthy broke the uncomfortable silence. "As you might expect, this testing is rather intimate. Field situations might be much worse and we need to know what you can handle. The process might seem harsh, but it's in all of our best interests. Just do the best you can."

Ann simply nodded as if to save her strength.

"When you are ready, please stand up, turn around, bend over and place your hands on the chair, then spread your legs wide to show us your pussy."

Ann swallowed, taking a moment to steel herself. She let the shock of the request die down and refused to second guess what they asked. Maybe something like this could really happen. She felt determination winning over her fear. OK, one thing at a time. I can do this. She turned around slowly, half-pretending to balance carefully in her heels.

"Very good. Now reach up and spread your labia," instructed Southworthy.

Ann knew it. Her worst fear. There would be no hiding her arousal now. Go ahead, show them. It's a natural reaction. Maybe they want me to be aroused? What would pass this test? She took a few deep breaths. They waited patiently. Her arms didn't want to move at first, but finally she could relax a little. She moved decisively in order not to give herself her frail resolve a chance to collapse. As she spread herself, a few drops of her lust dripped onto the carpet.

"Spread your legs wider please. That's good. Please hold that position."

They have to be kidding.

"Careful now, don't fall. OK, that's good. Simon should have enough pictures now."

What? She straightened up quickly and turned back around.

Southworthy ignore her surprise. "How often do you masturbate?"

She hunted around, trying to find her voice. "Daily," creaked out.

Southworthy looked towards Peters who nodded his head yes slightly. Southworthy continued, "Do you prefer primarily clitoral stimulation or vagina pentration?"

How could that possibly matter? Ah...they are just testing my ability to answer. Thinking about it more, she knew this was all off the record anyways. No one else was going to know. Any recordings and pictures were never going to be any lower clearance than "eyes only" at minimum. Chances are they would never be retained since they could be incriminating. Fuck it. Time to go for it. Cards all in. "I like both, but find it much harder to come using only vaginal penetration."

"How long have you fantasized about a situation like this one?"

Peters didn't see that one coming: the utterly direct approach. Southworthy nailed it. Direct hit. He could see a minute slump in her shoulders, but a more determined look in her jawline. The more that was out in the open, the stronger it made Ann. Drawing out her secrets was the right thing to do. He was still convinced; she was the right woman for the job.

Ann hesitated. She didn't know how to answer. The truth is that she didn't really remember. It seemed like she always had that fantasy.

Southworthy didn't wait for an answer, "That long?"

Peters left the recorder in auto mode as he distributed the coffee. He was even nice and gave Ann the tea she had included on the tray for herself--along with a very healthy dose of one of the Agency's latest creations. She would become very relaxed and find that lying and not answering would be more difficult in about 10 to 15 minutes. In fact, most people volunteered quite a lot of extra information. Certain memory issues were a bit of a side effect, but usually that was just a nice bonus.

Peters felt like the interrogation had gone on for ages, but now even Timor was relatively satisfied with the results. The routine questions about her sexual past revealed a very repressed upbringing. Nothing entirely new with that, but the extent of control was tyrannical. Peters was constantly amazed at what parents did to their children in the name of religion. In this case, it was mainly her father. Her brothers had to recite Bible verses (Proverbs 22) when being punished with a belt--which seemed a regular event. She was sheltered with only friends from church. No dating. No make-up. She could only wear shorts when running track for school. The rest of the time it was knee length skirts. He even controlled her choice of underwear, cotton "granny panties." It all made an interesting mental foundation of obedience and rebellion.

The whole story spilled out. In the end, she broke ties with her family despite the repercussions. Now she was estranged, disowned and disavowed--excellent for the considerations of the mission. Peters thought she was really strong considering. She seemed to feel better after telling the her story. Too bad she probably won't remember any of it. The chemistry experiment he put in her tea could not have worked better. He would have to send a very positive report back to the R&D team.

She really had rather limited sexual experiences despite some attempts at enacting her fantasies and experiencing her fetishes when she was older. Things got a lot more interesting when she explained her past attempts. Southworthy didn't really probe as much as Peters would have liked about her exploits with self-bondage and failed love affairs. Once they heard about a few of her promiscuous stands, that was enough for him, but Peters wanted to know more. Still, the detailed accounts and demonstrations of masturbation techniques were classic. She was definitely full experienced there. She would have kept going and done the whole deed if Southworthy didn't make her stop. Southworthy was almost giddy ever since. It was like he had one of his own fantasies fulfilled.

Peters cursed his luck. How come he never found women like this? He wouldn't have been scared off like her previous lovers. If she wanted handcuffed to a bed, he would would have been happy to oblige. So she had some emotional baggage, it didn't matter. Everyone has reasons for why they are the way they are. Hopefully, she's really passed most of the old issues.

Soon Southworthy was wrapping it up. The unspoken visual exchange with Southworthy and Timor was positive. They were ready to proceed. The skeletons in her closet might even be an asset. Stryker and his gang had their own slant on religion. Ann would probably be able to hold her own with that quite well.

Peters was surprised when she kept talking well past the time the drugs were supposed to wear off. He could notice a little more embarrassment and hesitation, but she didn't hold back.

"I think that gives us all the information we need Ann," Southworthy announced.

There was a collective pause. Ann seemed to take a deep breath. She seemed relaxed, confessed...freed. However, her nipples will still erect. Her fetishes ran deep. She was still aroused and ever conscious of her exposure. Naked under the light, her skin practically glowed. She still had a noticeable blush of arousal. She was once again sitting, legs crossed, on the wooden chair, but Peters suspected the seat would be wet when she stood up. He hadn't forgotten her denied orgasm and was positive she hadn't either.

Southworthy stopped. Peters knew it was now or never time and took a breath to talk, but it was Timor that continued first. "Ann, we mentioned the possible physical risks, but we need to be certain that you can handle the real-life situations you might encounter. The next step of testing involves physical simulation. Are you OK with that? If so, please stand."

Ann felt a definite increase in wetness between her clenched legs. The ache at the apex of her thighs throbbed. She had been so close before, but that damn old man held her back. She had never been aroused for so long without acting on it. Her body did not wait to be directed to stand; it was trying to give the orders. She felt herself slowly rising from the seat.

Southworthy smiled. "Excellent."

Timor was still stearn, ever cautious. "To complete this mission, you will be sent to infiltrate a group of heavily armed and fanatical male terrorists in forested terrain using guile and sexual tactics to dissuade their suspicions."

He paused to let that sink in, then continued, "At this point, I'm going to ask you for a final commitment. If you agree, there will be no turning back. You will not be at liberty to abort the mission voluntarily."

Ann found her voice. Her tone seemed a bit sultry to her own ear. "My commitment is still maximal."


Chapter 6: 'Carpet' Diem

Peters went to the cart. He could see Ann's eyes widen as he wheeled it towards her, but she didn't move. He took several small plastic discs from the top shelf.

"Ann, these are for gathering biometrical data. The equipment is a bit like a polygraph, but it measures a different set of physical responses. Some of them go in rather intimate areas."

She wasn't sure if she was being asked a question or not, but since Peters waited as if expecting a reply she said, "OK." It came out so softly that she wasn't sure he would hear it, but he immediately started to position the sensors so he must have.

"Please hold your arms out to the side and hold still."

Each plastic sensor disc was a little over an inch across and about a quarter inch thick with a sticky resin pad to hold it in place. Four small evenly-spaced finger tabs protruded from the sides of the pad for later removal. The first two sensors went on either side of her spine at the base of her neck. He pushed them on firmly. She could tell they would be difficult to remove as he wiggled each one to test adhesion. Two more went near her tail bone, just above her hips, again on each side of the spine. Peters positioned another two on her head, near each temple. Next, he went to her chest, two above and two below each breast. He picked up the last pair and reached down low.

"Ann, please spread your legs a bit."

Peters leaned in close. Ann could feel his breath on her breast, specifically across her nipple. Her skin tingled a bit from the sensation. His lust hung in the air as he pressed the pads firmly onto her skin, first the left and then the right, on either side of her slit, framing her clit in the middle. When his hand was down there out of sight, she felt him rub her clit for a moment. It was very deliberate. She almost came on the spot--she was more than ready for stimulation before he touched her--but he stopped abruptly. What is he telling me?

Peters returned to his computer. After a few moments, he said, "All wireless connections established. Bio-neural harmonic sensor web established. I'm getting readings. First Serjeant Hale, please proceed."

Timor nodded towards her. It felt like he was returning a salute.

Ann already felt Hale behind her. It was no surprise when he seized her wrists and secured her hands, palms facing, with plastic zip cuffs. However, the speed and efficiency with which he restrained her was shocking. She didn't try to resist--uncertain if she ever had a chance anyways. She immediately wished she had tried when he started to pull her elbows together to secure them, touching, with another zip binder. The extent of her helplessness took on real meaning to her then. She was very flexible and practiced yoga regularly so the position wasn't terribly hard for her, but just the thought that her arms were no longer hers to use drove her wild.

Somehow, talking seemed wrong, and pointless, so she fought the urge to say anything. What could she really say anyways? "Take it easy?" They wouldn't listen and it would just appear to make her look weak...or pathetic.

The three men just left her struggle for a few minutes. Of course she had to test the restraints. She didn't think she had much of a chance, but once she tried, it was like scratching an itch; she just couldn't stop.

The zip ties held tight. Even with her slim 5 inch wrists and smallish hands, she couldn't slip loose. For some irrational reason, she always thought that she could escape plastic cuffs. They never impressed her--just plastic, right? Now she knew better; they are worse than metal cuffs, worse than ropes. There was no flexibility from a chain and no key. No stretch, not potential loose knot. She didn't think she would be able to free herself even with a pair of scissors.

Peters monitored the sensor readings. Her heart rate and breathing increased slightly, but not much. He would have expected as much from her high fitness level. Some indicators related to frustration were rising. Right alongside, her arousal levels were rising. They were already nearing the lower end of the "probable orgasm" range indicated by his software. Some women would come at this level of sexuo-neural activity. She was clearly having an additional sexual response to the bondage. The other readings were quite a jumble but humiliation and nudity were involved in 4 or 5 different evaluation profiles. He planned to run the data through the analysis software later. Maybe a more definitive pattern would emerge.

Timor nodded to Sergeant Hale again. Hale removed the wooden chair and pulled the cart around behind Ann. She looked straight ahead trying to anticipate, afraid that she might panic if she thought about what they might do.

Hale reached around her from behind and abruptly pulled her body back against his with one arm. The force of impact against his hard body stunned her momentarily. Apparently that was the plan. Almost immediately, before she recovered, Hale's other hand headed towards her mouth. She felt the rubber ball of a gag pushing hard against her teeth. Her natural reaction was to resist and not open her mouth. Big mistake. Hale released the grip of his left arm around her midsection long enough to give her a harsh slap across her right breast. She knew he was holding back, but sharp pain took her breath away. She didn't want to feel that again. Fuck no. Her jaw dropped instantly. He mercilessly seated the ball in deep behind her teeth then buckled the straps painfully tight, under her chin and behind her head.

Peters saw the spike in readings from the slap, but the pain also caused a corresponding effect on her sexual arousal. Clearly one of Ann's latent tendencies was sexual arousal from pain. She is a masochist on some level whether she knows it or not. Excellent. Such responses could only help her effectiveness in the field on this mission. Hale was doing well so far. The plan was for everything to be harsh and brutal, shock and awe. Take control of her rapidly then put her through a series of tests while her head was still spinning.

Ann was grateful the gag had a breathing hole in it, but her jaw was already protesting. For the first time, she was starting to question whether or not she wanted to do this mission, rather, whether or not she could do it. Hale's skill overwhelmed her. She might be completely out of her league in the field.

Hale left her struggle to free herself pointlessly for a minute. He thought about spanking her or otherwise trying to teach her a lesson for not co-operating with the gag, but decided that just holding her should be enough. He pushed his crotch in against her side so that she could feel his erection. He wanted her to know he was aroused. Instantly, her struggles resumed, maybe a little more energetically than before. His message was received loud and clear.

Hale decided to use the armbinder next, the blindfold could come later when she didn't need her balance. He stood her up on her own. With those high heels, she wasn't going to be getting away easily anyways. He had personally picked this armbinder. They sell it through Mercenary of Fortune magazine and similar channels where Stryker and his crew might find it. Everyone had their fantasies. Getting to play "captured female agent" could easily be one of theirs.

The binder would make any backwoods redneck dominant proud. It was a monoglove design and made of heavy nylon, camo pattern, with just the right amount of stretch. Her arms would be constricted tight and relentlessly, but it was not so tight that it would cut off any circulation. It was complete overkill for restraining a woman like her, but that was the point. He wanted her to feel completely and utterly helpless--no chance to free herself whatsoever, demoralized.

He started with her hands. The binder had a small pocket for them. Once the zipper was pulled, her wrists would be forced together and her hands would effectively be balled up uselessly inside. He didn't want to leave the plastic zip tie on underneath. One of the reasons for the armbinder was so that she couldn't hurt herself while struggling. By the look of her wrists, her struggles were already doing some damage. Plastic cuffs could be treacherous. He had one of the special removal cutters in his pocket. Lining the tool up, he squeezed it with a click as he yanked the plastic off. He immediately pulled the zipper up a few inches. She tried to pull her hands away as soon as she felt the plastic loosen, but she was too slow. The elbow straps probably didn't help matters for her either. He liked that she still had spirit and hadn't given up trying to get free. He loved spunk.

Next, Hale continued zip the armbinder up. The heavy zipper made a clear and definitive noise as final as the click of handcuffs or the snick of a door lock. He could see her tensing up as she heard it. No matter. It was already too late for her. He removed the elbow tie and tossed the plastic aside.

Ann was fuming mad. She would have fought like hell to stay out of the armbinder, but they had robbed her of the chance. Using the zip cuffs first was clever, the way Hale neatly exchanged the zip ties for the binder made her feel cheated and humiliated, like she never even put up a struggle. Is this what it would be like in the field? Will they simply take her and do what they want? For the first time in her life, she truly felt like she was nothing but a toy. Her self-image took a punch to the chin. Had they been right to keep her in an office all these years? An anguished cry of frustration rose unbidden from deep within her. Even with the gag, it sounded like the death cry of a wounded animal. Southworthy looked up, but Peters and Timor didn't seem to notice. Hale was the one that pissed her off. Laughing bastard.

Hale loved the way he could zip the armbinder all the way to the top. She was so flexible. Her struggles were slowing now. Maybe the binder just didn't leave any more play than that. He fastened the shoulder straps next. They had oversized plastic backpack buckles. Each strap started at the T-shaped single strap that ran up her spine and split around her neck like some athletic bras. The second half of the straps attached to the binder under her armpits and came up to meet on the shoulder. He let each one click, nice and loud, for effect, and then cinched them down snugly.

As he pulled, the tightness forced her shoulders back and chest out delightfully. He made sure to let her know that he had noticed by fondling each of her breasts. She started to breathe a little harder before her anger and frustration caused another round of struggling. Hale saw through it though. Her anger was not all that sincere. She was just outraged at the indignity. It's one thing to be bound when and how you want it and quite another when it is on someone else's terms. This bitch is kinky. These guys might have doubts about her suitability for the mission, but he didn't.

Each shoulder strap connected to the other via a remaining strap that ran across her upper chest. Once fastened she would not be able to slip the shoulder straps off. The last chance for escape, even for a contortionist, would be gone. After the final click, he pulled the chest strap tight.

At the planning meeting, Timor's instructions had been to play the part so he moved around behind her and whispered in her ear, "I own you now bitch. You're mine." As he did so, he reached around her upper body with his left arm pinning her once again to his chest as he cupped her right breast. He fondled it roughly and appreciatively. At the same time, his other hand wrapped around her from the right, over her hip, as he explored further down between her legs. She was wet and swollen with arousal. He could hear some garbled cries from the gag, but it didn't sound like she was trying to form words.

"So, our little records clerk is really a slut. Would you like me to fuck you now slut?"

Ann didn't know how to react, but she didn't panic. Did they want her to give in easily and play along? She was completely turned on, but rationally, she didn't want this asshole fucking her in front of these men. She also realized that the sensors on her were recording her reactions. She decided to go with her instinct and how she really felt.

Hale saw Ann hesitate then react violently to his comment. She was shaking her head "no" while trying to say unintelligible things though the gag. She tried to pull away, but he had a good grip on her. He tightened his grip on her breast to a sharp squeeze in order to get her attention, but she seemed to be mindless with panic and it didn't help. A little late for her to fight in earnest now. The gag seemed to be the focus of her attention. He didn't think she had been gagged before the way she was struggling with it. Soon she would learn that she couldn't push it out or stop drooling on herself.

She just wasn't calming down. Too bad, he would have bet she'd make it the rest of the way through the tests. She just kept struggling and lost both her shoes in the process. He held her tighter so that she couldn't fall down.

With her thrashing around, putting on the blindfold was a bit difficult until he thought to grab her under the chin and hold her head. Hale was amazed how much more timid she got once she couldn't see. Finally, the panic seemed to be over. She was almost swooning, momentarily spent. Stryker and his men were going to have quite a lot of fun with this one was all he could think.

Peters came over to put her high heels back on (the change in equilibrium could affect his readings). She started to struggle when he first grabbed her foot. Hale took care of it and spoke in her ear again, "Don't make me hurt you." That was all it took. Now she was starting to notice the pressure on her breast. He eased up a little. Hopefully he didn't bruise her too badly. He still continued to hold her with both arms, across her body and hips, keeping firm pressure on her breast as he cupped her mound firmly with his right hand. He loved the smooth hairless softness of her most-private flesh.

After her shoes were back on, Peters used some bright neon pink self-clinging bandage, Vet wrap, to fasten them on. The stuff was almost as useful as duct tape, but even better for purposes such as this since it wouldn't stick to her skin or shoes. She wouldn't be kicking them off now. Peters stopped at the cart to select then lay out some nipple clamps and weights before giving Hale a nod to continue before returning to his computer.

Hale decided to push her a bit more to see what happened. After all, the whole point was to make sure her breaking point wasn't a problem, a sort of boot camp. Timor, Peters and Southworthy seemed to be happy with how he was handling it so he was just going to let loose even more.

"You know, I think I will fuck you. I'm sure you've never had a cock as huge as mine. I like a tight little cunt."

Hale almost laughed at the instant response from Ann. She had almost no balance and no idea where to go with the blindfold and heels, but she was desperate to go somewhere. She tried for a moment to break away from his hold. A quick solid slap to her mound shocked the hell out of her and set off a round of gasping breaths. She was really at a loss now, but he could tell she was thinking, trying to find a way out. She was far from broken.

Hale would have to consider this his best assignment ever. He could only imagine what secret fantasies were coming to life in her head. He leaned towards her ear again, making sure that she felt his breath as he spoke. "Kneel bitch."

No response.

Ann was in overload. The pain in her mound was still throbbing. She couldn't believe Hale had hit her there of all places. She wanted to take a deep breath to calm herself, but the gag wasn't making that easy. The drool was so humiliating. When she envisioned being bound and gagged, somehow it never included drool or her breath whistling through a small hole. The compound predicament caused by the blindness, her bound arms and keeping her balance was causing her mind to race, but her attention kept coming back to the damn drool. She could feel it running down between her breasts towards Serjeant Hale's arm. Damn the man is strong. She had never struggled against a man like him and had no idea such men were so powerful. He was on a whole different scale than her past boyfriends. How might such a man fuck? It seemed she would be finding out shortly and it scared the hell out of her.

The arm binder was quite different than she imagined, even though she had always wanted to know what it was like to be in one. Now her bondage fantasies were finally meeting some reality--harsh, real, inescapable, strapped on, tight as hell, reality. Aside from a little playing with rope and handcuffs, her experience was limited to the internet. Previously limited, that is. Strangely, the binder was comfortable, but at the same time she couldn't stand it. Every move was either impossible or met with complete resistance. Every bend of her arms was only temporary. She could only fight the stretchy material for a short time before her arms gave out and she was forced back into position with her arms down the middle of her back. Her shoulders were starting to feeling a little tight as well. She had to get out of this thing before it started to really hurt.

Ann didn't know how much more she could take. She hated it and loved it at the same time. Her body didn't care what she thought. It was craving stimulation, hormones shouting. She never knew being this horny without coming was even possible. Under different circumstances, she would love it, a fantasy come true, maybe, but not here, not now. She just couldn't get her head around it. This was not her, not who she was, not what she wanted to do--her fantasies were being...abused--used against her.

They had to be doing this on purpose. Pushing her buttons. She tried to tell herself that It was all really about the mission. Yes, the mission. A means to an end. They wanted her to be their tool. Bedroom interrogator? Sexual distraction? Diversion? Fuck bait? She would find out when they were ready. They were making sure she could handle it, that she was not another Sharon Bartholomew. The difficulty of the testing already told her that the mission was not going to be easy. Going through this for some great purpose, a code 1, did make it different. How many lives would be saved by her sacrifices? Would the real mission be worse? She could do it for that, probably. She started to relax. She could do this. Her thoughts turned back to the moment. What did Hale say?

Hale could tell she was still struggling, but this time in her mind. Women. They have to figure everything out first. Half of fucking them was fucking with their head first. He could almost smell the emotional soup being stirred. With some of the other women, the bondage actually freed them. They could let the mental shit go and accept that they weren't in control. Not this one. She was still thinking about it. Time to give her something else to think about. He didn't know if she was ignoring him or not, but she wasn't trying to kneel.

Ann heard some kind of jingling as Hale's hand came off her pussy. His hand left hand started to squeeze her nipple. Shit! She hadn't done what he said, whatever it was. Oh fuck, this can't be good. It wasn't. She felt the nipple clamp squeeze down sharply at the base of her nipple. Holy shit does that hurt!

Hale really didn't know how tight to make the nipple clamp. This was the first woman to make it this far in the test. It must hurt the way she's fighting. It didn't seem like it would stay on if he loosened it any. In fact, he thought he should tighten it down some more. He figured that if nothing turns purple then it wasn't doing any real harm so he loosened the little screw some to let the spring squeeze harder. He gave it a tug and it seemed like it was on firmly now. She was practically screaming through the gag. Hale did have some medic training. He reasoned that the pain would work like getting poked with a needle: it would hurt a lot at first, then the pain would subside. He gave her a minute before clamping the other nipple and letting the weight of the small chain fall under her cleavage.

He stepped back just a little to leave her balance on her own, but kept close by in case she started to fall. It worked. Between the disorientation, balancing and the pain of the clamps, she stood still, if a bit wobbly. She had given up trying to scream so the clamps were probably hurting a little less now. Again, her mind was still working though. He watched her try to shake the clamps loose only to stop quickly. Yeah, he didn't think that was a good idea. She fought the arm binder next, trying to reach around. Mostly because she didn't have any other options, he presumed. Reactions are like that sometimes. You just do what you can whether it makes sense or not. Now he could tell she was more frustrated than in pain, so he continued.

"You seem to have a listening problem. I told you to kneel, bitch."

Hale knew that she would find it almost impossible to kneel without falling over under these circumstances. Even without the blindfold or heels, it would be a bit tricky just because of the armbinder. The question was whether she even tried. She did. She tried bending on one leg, testing whether she could do it, but realized it wasn't going to work. She was trying to speak again, probably trying to say she couldn't do it. Maybe. Could be cursing, begging or something--mostly likely a bit of everything.

Hale grabbed her at the hips from the front. "Bend your legs. I'll help you. Maybe I'll take the clamps off if you cooperate." There. How much nicer could he be? Was she ready to listen now? She wasn't really trying to bend. Still thinking all the time, hesitating. He took his hands off her and heard another round of garbled gag-speak. It was starting to sound a little more like words. She was figuring out how to talk with a ball gag. A few of the earlier women could talk all too well with the smaller-sized balls they were using at first. He chose to ignore it anyway.

When he clipped the first weight on her left nipple, she seemed to be saying something like "not fair." Maybe she was right, but this wasn't about fairness. It was about limitations. She was moving up and down pointlessly now. Again, reactions for reaction's sake for those times where you just had to do something, even something pointless. As he leaned in to clip on the other weight, he again spoke close to her ear so that she could feel his breath on her neck, "Next time when I tell you to do something, do it instantly or you'll regret it more than you might believe."

He stepped back a little and grabbed her hips again then yelled at her, "Fucking kneel! NOW!"

She bent her legs immediately, almost jumping into his grasp as her feet came off the floor. Falling had become the least of worries. Suddenly, it was more important to obey. She was momentarily terrified at what he might do if she defied him. The way he yelled sent shivers up her spine. Hale held her. She didn't know that he would, but it only seemed natural now.

Hale slowly lowered her to the floor, gently even, and guided her legs under her. He knew compliance had implications. He had scared her. She only obeyed because of the implied threat he had made. Good. That kind of fear might just save her life during the mission.

Hale didn't give her time to think. Instead, he grabbed two wide leather straps from under the cart and immediately started to secure her bent legs. She didn't resist in the slightest, surprise or compliance? Ankles to thighs, he used the 2" wide straps to frog tie her in the kneeling position. Yes, this had to be the best assignment ever except that it was all covert and he wouldn't be able to tell anyone about it. OK, time to work her up a little bit more. He didn't see any discoloration on her nipples.

"I think you need those clamps for a while yet. Good nipple training. Besides, I like the way they look."

Ann started struggling again. Bastard! The clamps throbbed. Small movements sent the weights swinging. She took a chance and tried a more drastic swing, maybe the weight will pull off the clamp. Fuck, ow, ow, ow. It didn't.

She was essentially strapped into a very familiar virasana yoga pose. She could kneel this way for hours if she had to. What she wasn't used to was how the arm binder affected her posture and forced her to lean forward some. She also never tried hobbling around on the floor in such a position before. Exploring, she found she could move around on the carpet some with her legs in this position using a sort of rocking walk. If she was careful, the nipple weights didn't swing too much.

Peters followed the readings on his monitor. The graphs were quite revealing. He motioned for Timor and Southworthy to join him. She couldn't see anyways.

He whispered, "The pink line here. That's her sexual arousal level, or rather a collected average of nervous activity associated with sexual response. The black line indicates pain. Notice how pain increases her arousal? Only to a certain level, but still, she is definitely a pain slut, a masochist."

Southworthy whispered back, "Obvious just from watching her. I could tell without all of this techocrap. She's also submissive, but only suspects it. Bondage turns her on big time and she has some exhibitionist tendencies."

Peters looked a little dismayed. "Yes, that's essentially what the readings...confirm."

Timor asked, "I'm concerned about the hesitation."

Peters pulled up some more graphs, "Let me isolate the blue and purple lines. The purple line is frustration. She's unusually frustrated. The levels are far more elevated than they should be even if she thinks she can still escape. The blue line primarily indicates neural activity associated with conscious thought. Despite all of what's happening, she's still thinking and analyzing. Let your guard down on this one for a minute and she's going to take advantage."

Southworthy was clearly concerned but managed to keep his voice down, "We don't want her to fucking escape."

Timor overrode his concerns. "Not completely, but they will expect her to attempt it. If she doesn't try, that would be suspicious as well. My bet is on them. They'll find some way to keep her from escaping. I think we have a good profile here. We just need to see some sexual responses now."

Finally, thought Peters. He motioned for Hale to come over to them. Hale walked quietly over leaving Ann to continue testing her bonds on the carpet. "I suspect Sergeant Hale already has a few ideas."


Chapter 7: The Highest Levels

"Perfect." Peters was happy with the plan. "Take it slow. Lube up the dildo really well. Use the gloves since she hasn't been tested yet. For the spanking, start out easy and get harder until I motion for you to stop. I need a range of baseline values. Mix up the pace so she can't anticipate. It needs to be good and hard--can't sit down for a week hard."

Ann could tell something was up. Hale hadn't done anything to her in a little while. She heard soft voices a couple times, but couldn't make out any words over her own breath and pounding heartbeat. They were up to something. Hopefully they weren't about to call off the test and send her away after she had been so far. She didn't know what else should could have done differently.

Her fears were confirmed. She heard subdued laughing over towards Peters's table, no doubt at her expense. They must be loving this even if it was all in the line of duty, primitive masculine instincts getting some playtime. The other women were probably not so turned by on by all of this. The interrogation was blurry in her mind, strangely blurry actually. Regardless, she knew that she had told them far too much about her secret desires. She must seem like quite the slut to them. She even told them about her magician's assistant fantasy--she never told anyone about that one. She regretted it all now and didn't know what got into her. Embarrassment washed over her as she blushed head to toe. I will not cry. I won't. Fuck this damn drool! At least the drool might disguise the other wet drips she was leaving on the carpet.

She felt Hale's approaching steps through the floor, that fucking bastard. She was starting to hate him. He was loving his job too much. Was she a joke to him? Another slut? Another wet pussy?

Ann tried to relax, not that she had an alternative. Her inevitable fucking wouldn't be long now. The lack of attention to her pussy, so far, was part of the theatrical buildup. The pattern was all too obvious, not that it made a difference. She was still angry as hell and frustrated. Hugely frustrated. No: gigantically frustrated. They were playing her like a fiddle. She knew it, but it still worked. The frustration fed her anger, but it also fed her lust. Yes, horny and frustrated was more like it, in that order. She wanted to be freed or fucked. No, wrong again, not fucked. She just wanted to come. I need an orgasm. Is that so wrong? What about my primitive responses?

She felt herself starting to lose it. Holding still was taking a lot of her precious remaining willpower. Fuck these damn nipple clamps! God they're awful! Bastard! She needed relief from the tension of just kneeling there trying to resist the urge to struggle, trying not to scratch the itch. Don't get the weights swinging again. Hold still.

She could spread her legs wider and try rubbing her pussy on the carpet. Yeah, they would love that. She was almost desperate enough to try it. Why don't they just get on with it?

Accepting that she was helplessness was something she just couldn't do, even though she was completely out of escape ideas. Escape was preoccupying all the thoughts not connected to her unquenchable lust; the simulation was too good. She knew that Hale was just playing a part, but she hated him for it anyway. She hated his smug attitude. His touch. His strength. His...ownership. In her blacked out, blindfolded world, he was the hands that touched her, hurt her. He had become the enemy. She would not be the instrument of his pleasure if she could help it. She couldn't wait around, trussed up, until he raped her. There, she said it. That word. It would feel like that. She couldn't stand the idea of him inside her. Will I feel the same way in the field? Can I really do this?

She half-heartedly re-tested her bonds. She was just too worn out to put up much fight now. As good as fucked. How will he do it? Hopefully, he would wear a condom. She wasn't on any birth control. Somehow it wouldn't seem as bad if she didn't have his seed inside her after it was done. Should she try to fight it? She just about had to didn't she? But. Yes, the "but." If I fight him, he'll hurt me until I stop. That's what they'll do in the field.

She was also embarrassed that she wanted it. Well, not really. She was embarrassed that they knew she wanted it so bad. The orgasm that is, not the fucking. Yes, that's right, the result, not the method. It would all be recorded by the little spying sensors. Her lust captured as data and graphed out. More embarrassment. OK, get on with it Hale, please, for the love of God.

Almost immediately, she wished she was still waiting. The sharp backwards yank of her hair told her Hale was ready.

"Lay on your back bitch. Spread your legs. Lift that pussy up."

Ann let him pull her all the way down to the floor by her hair, laying on her bound arms, almost the familiar supta virasana yoga pose. Not hard at all.

"Wider slut." He gave each leg a hard slap on the inside of her thighs.

She wiggled around until she could get her legs apart more. The thigh straps forced an inch-by-inch approach as her folded legs rocked back and forth. At least the nipple weights weren't quite as bad while laying horizontal.

Ann gasped around the gag as Hale slowly pulled the chain between the nipple clamps just to the point where there was tension. "You're not going to move are you?"

As he pulled the chain stretching her nipples more, Ann could feel the clamps squeeze tighter on her pinched buds. They must have some kind of spring. She frantically said, "No!" as best as she could through the gag and tried to shake her head "no."

The cold head of a dildo pressed against her already engorged lower lips. It only took her moments to realize some gel lubed plastic invader was penetrating her. Unceremoniously, Hale just kept pushing it in deeper and deeper. It was short and soon the entire length was inside, well past her vulval vestibule. She felt him slip his fingertips back out and her labia resume their original swollen pucker.

"Oh holy fuck!" She wanted to start squirming on the floor. She couldn't believe she didn't come all over the place when he shoved it in. It just wasn't quite enough, but oh so close. Bastard! He knew he wasn't going to fuck me all along. She felt harsh pain on her nipple clamps as the chain was pulled tight again.

"I told you not to move slut."

Ann froze as best she could. He's not done? Oh God, what else? She felt something slipping up her body. A stiff fabric covered rod was riding up her ass crack. In front, there was some kind of reinforced fabric pad. As Hale continued, it felt like some kind of panty. Tension from the rod (probably plastic) in her ass crack was balanced by the patch of fabric over her mound. The fit was firm and snug. She remembered seeing something like it online, a c-string, she thought.

As Hale slipped the clip on panties the rest of the way on, both sides neatly fell into place cupping her sex and gripping her ass crack from behind. It was then that she noticed something extra. Some kind of round knob also slipped into place right over her clit. It pushed rather firmly. Within a second, it started to vibrate. "Oh!......OH! UUUUCCKKKKK!!" The dildo inside her came to life as well, probably by remote control. Her nipples erupted in agony as Hale snatched the clamps off. The returning circulation was equally as painful as the original clamping, maybe worse. "Hooaaallllyyyy hhhittttt!" The combination of sensations turned both keys and hit the launch sequence. She detonated. The orgasm electrified her whole body. She was starting to feel faint as her eyes rolled back into her head and her legs twitched within their straps. The spasms went on and on. Ann couldn't remember coming so hard before.

Southworthy and Timor watched the graph with Evans. The pink line was way near the top edge of the plot area, almost off the scale. Evans spoke softly so that Ann could not hear. "That indicates her sexuo-neuro response level is higher than all previous samples."

Southworthy scoffed. "So much for a baseline. How many samples?"

"They included data for an assortment of a thousand women ranging from housewives to whores."

"So, you're saying..."

"That our horny little file clerk had an orgasm with more neural activity than the previously sampled one thousand women."

"Damn."

"I suspect they were in some kind of controlled lab setting though," corrected Peters.

Timor considered for a moment. "Judging by this other line, quite a lot more neural activity. Skip the baseline then. We know everything we need to know. She can fuck with the best of them. Hopefully she's a good lay too. Good enough. Let's move on to pain tolerance."

Peter's clicked away on the computer, saving the results. "We'll need to give her a half-hour or so to rest up and recover. I'll dial back her little friends and we can just let her simmer for a while. Judging from these readings, she can handle being in the arm binder for quite a while yet." He picked up a black remote control and pushed a button repeatedly. The number on small display drops from 7 down to 2. He picked up a second white remote control and turned a knob all the way to the left.

Timor pointed to the pink line on the computer. "How come the line is still going up and down like that?"

"Aftershocks. She's still having some mild orgasmic contractions," answered Peters. "Is there any more of that coffee left?"

Ann tried rolling on her stomach for a while. She had managed to sit back up and carefully fall back down. In the end, she found that she could maneuver herself into a few different positions with some exertion and difficulty. What she couldn't do was find a way to get the straps off her frog-tied legs. Hale had positioned them within the natural curve of her ankles and behind the widest part of her thigh. Nice trick, asshole. It reminded her how little she knew and how she was in way over her head. It didn't matter. All that mattered is whether or not she could take it. She just needed to get through the mission.

The armbinder was completely hopeless; she knew that it would be from the outset, but she was optimistic about her chances with the other gear. Wrong. The results were demoralizing. The blindfold proved impossible. She had even tried sliding her face along the carpet. She couldn't even get the clip-on panties off and she thought that was a sure thing. It didn't seem like they were on all that securely. The gag was its own variety of impossible. Is it possible to completely fatigue your tongue? Yes it is. Do you ever stop drooling? That remained to be seen.

At this point, the frustration was overcome by exhaustion and she gave up trying to get free. She hadn't given up completely, just for now, time to switch priorities. She needed to conserve her strength and the relentless vibrations teasing her sex were now impossible to ignore. She desperately wanted to come. She would have been horny even without the vibrators. Bondage had always been a turn on for her, but the real thing, being truly helpless and at someone's mercy, was like the turbocharged version of her own self-bondage attempts.

She suspected Hale was deliberately increasing the speed of the vibrators in measured amounts while making sure not to give her a chance to climax. It was probably all neatly graphed out using the sensor data, keep her below the line. They were wearing her down. Trying to break her will. Torturing her with denial and frustration. It was working. Again, knowing the plan was no help.

The anger was returning. She could hear the muffled talking, sugar packets being torn open...they were even eating the cookies she had found in the kitchen for them. Hope they like the show! Next time I'll fucking make them popcorn.

She rolled back to her stomach. If she humped the carpet a little, she could feel a little extra sensation. Maybe it would work? Suddenly she was all too conscious that they were watching her. It was easy to forget in her darkened world. She had limits to how much humiliation she was willing to endure or have recorded. She rolled over on her back again and tried to calm down. Damn. Back to her stomach, she kept forgetting the drool was hard to swallow when her head was back.

"Hhoooaaa! heeeyy!," Ann protested as she felt arms on each side lifting her up using the armbinder straps, and her thigh straps like luggage handles. Did they intend to spread her legs that wide on purpose? They set her down on something higher up. Her breasts were pressed against cold polished wood. Timor's Desk. She could smell papers, tobacco, ink, photocopies, coffee. Her legs dangled over the side. Thank God! She felt them unstrap her legs. She carefully stretched her legs out. Pleasant pain. Significant stiffness. She wasn't going to be walking for a bit. She could feel the floor with her tip toes. At least the heels were useful for something. Fuck! The freedom was only temporary as she felt her ankles being bound together with a strap. As if that wasn't enough, they fastened another strap above her knees.

Shit, what now? Firm hands gripped the shoulder straps of her armbinder. They were smaller, not Hale's. "Yaooooh! ucccck!" The slap on her ass took her by surprise. What the hell? Again, the other buttock. What? Am I a naughty schoolgirl now?

The flurry of spanks that came overwhelmed Ann completely. Hale worked up and down each ass cheek, harder and harder. She tried not to make a sound, tried to be the stoic agent. Name. Rank. Serial Number. She tried to hide in some dark corner of her mind, wait it out. UFO abductions? Really? Area 51? That's what my mind wants to distract me with? Her body kept trying to call her back, but it wasn't the pain in her rear doing the calling. The slow simmer of lust was boiling now. Did they turn the vibrators up again? They had to have.

"Aaaaaaooooww!" The spanks were really hard now. They shook her whole body. Each smack sounded like a thunderclap. She couldn't take it anymore. She started to fight, but the hands kept her shoulders down. She squirmed and twisted, thrashed and arched. "Uuuuucckk!" She couldn't evade the slaps.

Peters checked the black line on the monitor. He needed a bit more. So far so good. He motioned for Hale to come closer and whispered, "Harder yet if you would sergeant."

"My hand is stinging as it is sir. Is there a belt or a whip? I don't see anything on the cart."

"Must be those big hands of yours."

"Here," Southworthy volunteered and took off his thick leather belt.

Hale folded it in half and tested it against his hand. "This should do nicely."

"OK, sergeant, about 6 good strikes should do it. Start high and work down to her lower cheeks. Put the last one at the bottom of her cheeks, just at the edge of her upper thighs, the sensitive area."

Hale could hear her breathing. It sounded like she had been crying to him. He felt bad for her, but she needed be able to do this. Too many lives were at stake for her to lose it just from a little spanking.

The pause was welcome at first, but then the surprise blow came. Ann tried to arch straight up with the pain. They were using some sort of strap now. Holy Fuck. She caught the hands holding her shoulders down by surprise, but was quickly slammed back down on the desk. The pain from her crushed breasts momentarily equaled that of her ass. Her ass was actually more sensitive now, must be the swelling. Hale tried to be quick. He didn't want to give her time to recover. He swung quickly, still remembering to stagger the rhythm.

"Aaatthhherrr! peeaassee ssstooop! I..ill bee oooodd! I woonnnt oo iiit agaaiiin."

Hale finished the last strike right as Peters said, top of the thighs, bottom of the ass. She was fighting the restraints like a tigress. He stepped back to admire his work. Wow, she was red and puffy looking. He suspected a lot of black and blue tomorrow.

After he stopped, she still kept fighting. Her energy level was impressive. He realized she had no way to know it wasn't over, then he heard the buzzing and understood. Peters was still working on her. They were quiet though and motioned for him to be quiet. It was then that he saw Director Timor was on the red phone.

"Yes, Mr. President," said Timor as he pushed the speakerphone button.

"She's right here on the desk, but still gagged," said Timor a little louder towards the microphone.

"Video feed established," stated Peters. He reached over to turn on Timor's desk lamp, lighting up Ann better for the camera.

"Wow, that's quite a red ass. I should have you over to the White House First Sergeant. You could help keep the First Lady in line for me," laughed the President.

"What's the buzzing?" asked Timor. "Just a moment sir, we'll take care of that."

Peters stepped closer to the phone, "Sorry sir, I'm still using the vibrators on her, finishing up the biometric response data. The vibration is travelling through the desktop to the microphone."

Ann felt the hands again pulling her up by the shoulders. She couldn't step, but she didn't need to. She was lifted backwards and placed on a wooden chair, probably the same one as before. The hard wood hurt like hell. The soreness in her ass was way worse than any of the times she had been punished as a child.

They removed the blindfold. She didn't know what to expect, but she found she was looking at a small camera lens on one side and Director Timor on the other. Not exactly how I wanted to meet the President.

She felt a sinking feeling in her stomach. Hey, they aren't removing the gag! What the fuck! She was on camera with the President, drooling around a ball gag. Come on Peters! Turn off the fucking vibrators!

"I just discussed your plan with the joint chiefs. I'm giving you the green light. This project is a go at the highest levels if you think this you've found the right agent," said the President.

Timor responded, "She's completely committed and the tests look good. We'll prepare her as well as we can."

"You have 10 days, no more."

Timor looked at Peters. Peters nodded reluctantly.

"Acknowledged, sir."

Ann felt the vibrations increase. Oh God, I can't hold it back.

"On behalf of a grateful nation, I'd like to thank you ahead of time for your upcoming service Miss. Best of luck."

The President laughed, "You have my permission to launch the fireworks."

Ann's eyes rolled back and her whole body shook. She felt Hale's hands on her shoulders steady her and prevent her from falling off the chair. The orgasm tore through her. She couldn't help make a few grunting noises behind the gag and thrash around with the spasms. The throbbing tension echoed in a long, slowly diminishing, series of contractions. She couldn't help trying to squeeze her legs to make it last a little longer. It was just so delicious after the endless teasing, but, ashamed as she was to admit it, the spanking had really fueled the fire.

The President laughed. "Can't say she isn't extremely willing to support her country. Quite the patriot."

Ann was mortified, but at the same time she felt a cold chill from the President's choice of words. They could be using those same words again soon, this time with the flag and funeral to go with them.


Chapter 8: Forest Nymph

At Domestic Counter-Terrorism Task Force Headquarters, Special Agent Simon Peters and Supervisory Special Agent James Southworthy took their familiar seats in the office of Executive Director of Operations Ellison Timor.

Timor's hand showed slight tremors as he set his coffee cup down, "I just got off the phone with the President. The disappearance of those Russian detonators escalates mission Forest Nymph."

"As it should, Stryker has to be associated," interjected Southworthy.

Peters looked up from his computer screen. "No tracking beacon results, but it's unlikely they have been smuggled into the country yet. The FBI and CIA have activated all responses."

"Regardless, we need to look at accelerating the deployment," said Timor. "I need full status."

"All identity measures are in place. Agent Ann Kassidy died in a decidedly typical car accident last week. Now Tasha Cassidy, unemployed legal assistant, has recently inherited an old farm just outside of Harlow, suspected locality. Thorough covers established. All documentation transitioned using witness protection program assets. Operative has been extensively trained and drilled."

"Drilled?" interjected Southworthy with a smirk.

"That's an important point," Peters countered as he ignored the remark. "She has not been sexually trained in any way. Mission simulations indicate non-contributive."

"Good," said Timor. "Has she been weaponized?"

"Yes. She has a one of a kind prototype stealth device that should even pass an ultrasound test. Fully healed. All exams passed clean. She has also received the full range of vaccines and preventatives, including a special package of classifieds straight from Plum Island. She has a long-life birth-control implant as well as some specialized hormone treatments."

Southworthy perked up. "Hormone treatments?"

"No unnatural influences, but her hormones will remain at her monthly peak, essentially like she's ovulating all the time."

"That should make her a little more gung ho," scoffed Southworthy.

"What about insertion plans?" asked Timor.

Southworthy smiled and Peters shook his head.

"Monitoring was the biggest problem, but we have some new prototype equipment for that now. Styker is very strict about anything electronic. They'll scan her, so no bugs, no tracking beacons, nothing. Otherwise, it all seems in order. We've ran it past Seal Team 6 tactical, and the whole thing has been approved. Need to know."

"Are you telling me that she's ready?"

Peters hesitated. "Another day or two would be better."

Timor paused considering. "Southworthy?"

"No objections."

"OK Peters, scramble Forest Nymph. I'll call the President."


Chapter 9: Thump and Knock

Tasha drove her compact RV down a narrow dirt road through a remote section of George Washington National Forest looking for the trail head indicated on her GPS. It wasn't exactly easy to find even with the coordinates. Adjacent George Washington and Jefferson National Forests, administratively combined in 1995, have about 2,000 miles of official trails, but this was not one of them. In fact, most of the forest, about 1 million of the 1.8 million acres, was remote wilderness, including over 200,000 acres of old-growth, virgin forest never disturbed by human hands. This was no Yogi Bear national park with flocks of tourists, shuttle buses, souvenir shops, restaurants and rangers everywhere. This was the raw Appalachian Mountains, including a large section of the famed Blue-Ridge Mountain physiographic province, owned by the government and put to limited use here and there.

Somewhere out there was Stryker and his associates, mostly likely scattered into small groups. She wasn't briefed in the methods used, but the intelligence team, including some specialists from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives that normally find illegal moonshine stills, was slowly narrowing down possible locations: too steep, too wet, too rocky, too far from a road, too close to a horse trail. They were certain Stryker's team would need access to trails connected to a back road--exactly like the trail she was searching for.

Since she was too remote for cell phone reception and a radio transmission was almost a dead giveaway, they were sending her out for three or four days at a time with a list of trail coordinates to check. During that time, she was essentially on her own, undercover. They could be watching from behind any tree and most likely had an array of tactical surveillance gear, infrared and night vision for certain.

She found the trail shortly before dark. As usual, there wasn't a parking area, but she managed to fit the camper back off the road, mostly out of sight, between a couple beech trees.

The trail started off at the bottom of a large hill. The Appalachians are an old, weathered, worn-down, mountain range so it's not always clear what's considered a hill and what's considered a mountain by local custom--even though there are some definite mountains. She'd call this one a hill. Regardless, she had a bit of a climb first thing in the morning.

For now, she could relax, cook a little pasta on the propane stove, then catch a few hours sleep. About one in the morning, she would go squatching for a while; bigfoot hunting was her primary cover. She really did want to find a bigfoot. What the hell, why not be serious about it? Besides, she didn't want to risk blowing her cover.

Tasha used to think sasquatches were just a myth that some people took way too seriously and others exaggerated for profit, selling movies, books and souvenirs. Somewhere during mission prep, she changed her mind and began to question: maybe it is possible for them to exist, even if unlikely.

Mission prep training covered everything in painstaking detail, including everything she need to know about squatching, or sasquatch hunting. It included lots of rote learning and endless drills and rehearsals, but they used top secret techniques, including drugs and computer guided conditioning--every trick in the book they had learned since World War II. Most often, they would lock her inside a pod which used an assortment of pain and pleasure giving devices--they didn't seem to care which they used. Videos and voice instructions guided her. At the same time, they monitored her brain with a sensor web. They could tell if she was really learning and make "motivational adjustments" if needed. Once she was setup, they essentially just hit "play" and left the machine do its work.

In the end, she wasn't entirely certain about a lot of things after training. Even deep-seated memories that she thought were a part of who she was, such as her original name, had a half-remembered quality to them that made them fuzzy and uncertain. Though not aware of any specific brainwashing, she had handled enough requests for such information to know such programs and techniques existed decades ago (those files were still classified) and were certain to be much more advanced by now. Even if she didn't trust her memories, at least her judgement and decisions seemed to be entirely unaffected. While a weird feeling, it was alright with her, a temporary effect for sure, and reassuring actually. When captured, they would not be able to force much out of her, no matter what they did, since she wasn't certain herself.

After dinner, Tasha took a few minutes to turn on the motion activated cameras, and crank the mast of her roof-mounted listening dish up into position. Both were state of the art bigfoot hunting gear (and also reasonably good surveillance systems for some law enforcement agencies). The motion cameras would record infrared and nightvision video of anything approaching within 100 feet of the RV. Anything large would trigger an electronic warning beep which some squatchers liked to call "the door bell." The listening system would record whenever the motion sensors picked up anything or if loud sounds were detected.

Bigfoots were supposed to be curious and known to look in windows so Tasha closed all the blinds and pulled the curtain across the front of the camper to block the view in or out of the windshield. As much as she wanted to find one, being alone in the wilderness...yeah, there were limits to her bravery--even if her camper was specially re-enforced and had bulletproof glass. She knew she should be more afraid than she was, but it didn't bother her as much as she knew it should. Timor told her millions of lives could be at stake if Styker and his terrorists succeeded; her fears were not a priority.

About ten minutes before she was due to make her night patrol, a loud crack and thump outside woke Tasha. She snapped awake instantly, more excited than scared. In just her panties, she quickly headed to the monitors. Definitely not lightning, it had sounded like a tree falling, but maybe it was a bear knocking something over. She had one two nights ago walking around like it owned the place. The "door bell" went off before the computer screens warmed up, and her heart started racing. Something had to be moving towards the camper.

As her eyes adjusted to the light of the monitors, she heard something hit the side of the RV. It sounded like a rock against the corrugated metal siding. She didn't see anything at first then, on the northeast facing camera she saw a flash of heat signature on the monitor, at what was probably the maximum range of the motion sensors, and heard another rock land on the roof. She saw another brief, fuzzy heat signature in the same area: a warm red main body with a fringe of less warm orange, then a thin yellow outline.

She sat there, heart pounding and goosebumps prickling, for five minutes or more, then her cell phone alarm clock went off and snapped her out of the daze. It was bipedal! She reversed the video and watched again. First she saw the large tree limb fall just outside the camper. Was it thrown or did it fall from a tree? Impossible to tell. Then a big blob of thermal imagery flashed for a second. The trees were thicker over there. It could be a bear, a human, maybe a deer...or a sasquatch, but it wasn't clear enough to tell. The blob appeared again. Was that an arm throwing? She zoomed in, but it was too blurry. Then, the third time she saw the blob, it stepped to the side, and she saw a gap between its legs. She couldn't prove it, but she only thought she saw two legs.

She had a recording of knocks and vocalizations that were supposed to be from a bigfoot; they are thought to knock on trees and throw rocks as well as call out to each other through the forest. She played it over the external loudspeakers (doesn't every squatcher have them?) and waited. Nothing. She played it again, then immediately heard a loud double knock, tree branch on tree trunk.

Over the next couple hours, she kept trying more knocks and calls, off and on, with no further response. She watched the video again and again, and was convinced it had to be a human or a bigfoot. It could be a real contact, but there was no way she was going out there tonight to look for it.


Chapter 10: The Trail Less Traveled

Tasha slept later than she should have. Even so, she was still tired after a long, tense night watching the monitors for further activity--and resisting the urge to abort the mission and drive back to town. She would never have made it had she not turned off the speakers for the audio system. Trying to identify the forest sounds amplified from the roof-mounted parabolic dish had her paranoid imagination running wild in no time; she could go back to the recording later if needed. Thankfully, the rest of the night was uneventful, and her little RV was well insulated from the spooky noises outside, or she would have never been able to get any sleep at all.

No more motion sensor alerts were logged by the monitoring system during the night, after she finally did fall asleep--only a curious squirrel, not long after dawn. Whatever she saw had not come back (at least not close enough to be detected), so she felt comfortable enough to go outside to see what evidence she could find. Last night, she wouldn't have done it on a bet.

She slipped on her government-issued hoodie and sweats, black (thankfully) with "Juicy" written on the seat of her sweatpants in large pink script (she'd never be caught dead in them normally), grabbed her camera and headed to the location where she saw the...creature...last night. Crosschecking with the video, she found it was right near the hard-packed, rocky ground of the trail. A few partial boot prints could be found in the softer earth nearby, including one set of boots with a rather odd spiked pattern to the sole, but they could easily be leftover from people using the trail. None of the tracks appeared to be all that fresh, making it debatable whether they were from last night, and there were none of the giant barefoot tracks one expects to see from a squatch. She had nothing.

The tree limb, which awoke her during the night, was about 16 feet long and heavy. No human could have thrown it; maybe a squatch couldn't even throw it. The broken end had a trace of rot and had landed hard enough to embed in the ground. The leafy turf bore no sideways scuff marks to indicate a direction of travel other than straight down, and the leaves and bark matched the trees above, even though she couldn't see a matching stub or split. She had to conclude the most likely answer was that the branch fell naturally, just a coincidence--one that could have been deadly if the timing had been different.

To complete her investigation, Tasha checked the camper and found a round dent in the metal siding high above the rearmost passenger-side window, same side as the door and facing the direction of the trail. On the ground in front was a tennis ball sized rock, lying on top of freshly fallen leaves. Climbing the attached service ladder in back, she found another rock like it on the roof. Clearly both had been thrown last night. Interestingly, she found a third rock behind the camper. It matched the other two and was also on top of recently fallen leaves.

In the question of man or beast, the evidence, though not conclusive, leaned towards man, or possibly men, which only raised more questions...and fears; the beast having been the preferred option. She didn't try to answer the individual questions, yet knew they could be answered collectively: she was getting too close to someone--but to who (or what)? Stryker need not be the only one up to something in these woods. For starters, plenty of poachers, pot growers, and moonshiners considered this their backyard too.

After collecting the rocks for potential further analysis, Tasha was anxious to get going. Today was the third day, so after she ran the trail, she could head back to town to report her findings then take a short break before picking up the next list of suspected locations. Despite her anxiousness, she could not cut corners. Mission parameters were quite clear: explore at least the first three miles of each trail (deemed effective coverage by the intelligence team); look for signs of subject movement or patrols, report back any found; attempt to lure subjects into open; validate subject association with Harcourt Stryker; allow capture and infiltrate. 

The day promised to be perfect, not a cloud in the sky, and the cool air was much to her liking; the ground was dry and hard, so the trail would be fast. The hills, though, were going to be a challenge. At least this mission was really getting her in shape if nothing else. That small, but stubborn, tummy bump she hated was finally gone, and her ass looked spectacular.

As she got ready, her training kicked in and the residual jitters of last night faded. This was something she had to do. Besides, no one would setup a still or planting near the main trail. Just another day on the trail, she assured herself.

The comfortable pattern of her morning routine was so firmly ingrained that it seemed as if she had been doing it her whole life. Soon, she was on autopilot. She didn't eat before running. Instead, she took time to savor her coffee, decadent with cream and sugar by her otherwise strict dietary standards, along with some no added sugar organic peach mango juice. She only planned to go the minimum three miles (one way) so preferred a light stomach.

Tasha changed into her running gear, each article of which was a compromise between her own preferences and those of mission command: very short, tight, black lycra shorts (her choice); slightly loose, neon blue tank top (their choice); bright pink and purple trail running shoes (her brand, their horrible colors).

Her shoes and socks were the end of the ritual. She took extra care putting on her low-cut toe socks, working each toe into its sock finger carefully--especially her second toe, uncharacteristically the longest, which had a tendency to catch the toenail. She tied each shoe lace precisely so that her shoes didn't slip, but weren't too tight.

She filled her water bottle then tucked it into the special pocket of her streamlined, teardrop backpack. The pack was too heavy to ever be comfortable, but she would have hated running with it even if empty. Normally, she ran without any pack, not even a fanny pack.

Before heading out, she setup her camper according to the mission parameters. She never changed the book rack full of bondage erotica, "how-to" guides, cryptozoology books and field guides, so they were OK as is. During training, they were all effectively programmed into her memory anyways; she hoped she remembered everything after the mission, especially the knots and ropes guide. Monitoring system in "away mode," check. Curtains and blinds open, check. RV seats converted to a bed, check. Spritz of perfume in the air, check. Drawer beside the bed open three inches, check. Keys in ignition, check. Purse with idenTtification behind driver's seat, check. Laptop on table and open, check. Journal...she forgot to update the journal, so quickly dashed out an entry: Thrown rocks and indeterminate bipedal thermal images at 00:50. No further contact. Nighttime foray aborted. Answering knocks recorded, indeterminate origin. She tried to sound like some kind of professional wannabee-type that thinks they know all the lingo.

She took her extra-wide yoga mat outside to stretch. Sitting down, she spread her legs wide for her first stretch, nearly a split. Stretching was not specified in the mission parameters so she just used the same exercises she had been using for years. As she bent at the waist towards her right leg, she realized she might be giving someone a show--paranoia or wishful thinking? She wasn't sure. If she was being watched, a high-powered scope could be zoomed in on her crotch right now--in her current position, the fabric was stretched tight over her mound. As she flattened her body tight along her leg, giving her hamstrings and lower back a good stretch, she made sure to keep her arm clear--no use obstructing the view. Those men had been out in the woods for well over a month now. That's bound to get a man thinking about sex. It was her task to get them thinking even more. Before a predator takes the bait, he has to want it. The more he wants it, the bolder he will get. Still, her actions had to appear natural. How suspicious and cautious they were had drilled that into her over and over again during training. She had to stick to the plan--but that didn't mean she couldn't take extra time on a few of the more potentially wanton stretches, especially when bent over so that her ass was up above her head.

Halfway through her set, she could feel her body responding. Her nipples were hardening, and things were getting a little wet down there. Exercise and running always made her horny. Back in her teens, with hormones raging, the sexual urges would be so strong that she used to sneak off into the woods during track practice to masturbate. At least those urges had helped her stay motivated and in shape over the years. Little did she expect that her secret fantasies and sexual responses would be probed, measured and analyzed in such great detail, or that they would become fundamental elements of a top secret mission; her body classified as a Department of Domestic Counter Terrorism strategic asset (identification number DCT00593-342-06991). If she had sexual relations with a subject, known terrorist or otherwise, it could not be held against her. She would just be deploying a government asset. She was an object, a weapon, in official terms. James Bond had a license to kill. Tasha Cassidy had a license to fuck.

Finally, she could get started. She left the mat out for cool down stretching upon her return, punched in the deliberately simple security code to lock the camper door (2580, straight down the middle), then started off slowly. Not far from the spot she where she sighted the creature, the trail started to narrow and steepen.

She took it at a cautious jog, giving her muscles time to warm and adapt. Besides, she needed to be alert and ready as she ran--which wasn't easy. The temptation was to watch the ground all the time. There might be tracks or signs along the trail for one thing, but the frequent patches of treacherous, ankle twisting, embedded rocks that she had battled since the beginning of the mission were the main focus. She was used to picking through them now. Nevertheless, they still commanded attention and respect; the last thing she needed was a sprained ankle. At the same time, she also needed to keep her eyes up to watch the forest. She needed to see anyone, human or otherwise, before they saw her. She was directed to be as quiet and as fast as possible, for the advantage of surprise. As if that wasn't enough, she had to keep a special eye out for her arch nemesis: brush overhanging the trail. Trail running with bare legs is not the smartest thing. Plain branches were bad enough, but a surprisingly large amount of foliage had little needly thorns. Fortunately, she hadn't seen any poison ivy yet.

Today's run was going to be difficult. The top of the hill was just the first part of a series of upward slopes separated by stretches of flat trail and short downhills. The combined climb might be the highest of the mission; she didn't know. The trail course wasn't on her map and mission command thought that it would be too risky for her to be seen using a GPS. From a distance, it could look like a radio or something similarly suspicious.

Using a short stepping stride and leaning in towards the hill, like they had taught during training, was essential on the steep parts of the slope. Since proper technique involved using the balls of her feet, it reminded her of stepping in high heels and only encouraged her urges.

By the time she reached the summit, she was hot and sweaty. Her nipples were hard, a consequence of her autonomic arousal. Past experience told her they would stay that way for the rest of the run. Pausing for a sip of water, there was no rare air vista, just more trees, a few large rocks and some undergrowth. The top of the hill turned out to be the top edge of a low mountain ridge. Now the trail headed slowly downwards into a hollow.

Aside from an earlier pair of deer and lots of squirrels and birds, she seemed to be alone. No tracks or other signs of recent human passing. An accidental encounter with recreational hikers was highly unlikely, so she decided it was time to proceed with phase 2.

The summit was a perfect location to start: good line of sight and the right distance, about a mile, maybe a mile and a half from the road. Tasha gratefully set down the backpack--it felt so good to be free of the weight of the damn thing--stretched her back, then took off her sweaty tanktop. The air was a little chill at first in just her black lycra sports bra--described by the manufacturer as having an ultra-tight, second-skin fit that delivers a locked-in feel (they said the same thing about her shorts). She had been wearing the same brand for a number of years. Under the circumstances, it was as reassuring as an old friend.

She found a horizontal branch alongside trail and hung her top on it by the shoulder straps, making it a sort of flag, in her case more like a bread crumb--or a welcome mat. The hideous neon blue really did stand out. The thought of leaving it behind was heady. Having the fantasy and actually living it were quite different, the reality had such a greater intensity to it, even if the fantasy had played a thousand times in her head. Just the thought of a guy--or curious squatch, she reminded herself, trying to keep her head in the mindset of the mission--finding a trail of musky, sweaty clothes in the woods and tracking her down...God.Those urges were getting significantly more urgent. She had to get moving.

Backpack in place, she continued down the trail, faster than before, nipples proudly pointing the way. Out of sight of the tanktop, about a half mile further down the trail, Tasha took off her shorts, wrestling them over her shoes without falling down. Training had definitely helped her balance. She was left a skimpy hot pink spandex exercise thong for coverage; she wore it a size too small to make sure it was snug.

The debate over her panties had been heated. It seemed that every member of mission command had his (there were no other females) own ideas. Eventually, another of her secret fantasies got the better of her, and she "succumbed" to insistent requests, veiled as half-joking suggestions, that she model the different options, walking down the main conference room table barefoot like an awkward lingerie model on a walnut catwalk. (She wondered if real models got horny doing their job.) It was cute how a couple of them tried to spare her "the humiliation" of "dressing like a tramp" while openly gawking. Little did they know. At least it showed that they hadn't seen Peters' video of her "interview." One said that the thong was too sexy to be believable, she wanted to give him a medal--after she got done blushing. To resolve the issue, Timor himself had picked: another historical matter of monumental importance affecting the fate of the nation decided in the Domestic Counter-Terrorism Task Force Board Room.

The fascination with hot pink was beyond her comprehension. She had always hated the color. It is a terrible match for her skin tone and hair color, even worse than the neon blue top, but despite the different opinions on style of panties, it was almost unanimously preferred. To make matters worse, the pink didn't conceal enough. Anyone looking could already see wetness soaking through, despite the quick drying fabric. Once wet, the fabric was rendered translucent, and her engorged pussy was plainly visible. The pink was also as bright as a surveyor's tape, so her crotch was probably visible at least a half mile away against the earth tones of the forest.

She hung her shorts on a small sapling that stood on the very edge an otherwise straight section of trail. They would be plainly visible for quite a ways, even though black. She wondered if a squatch really could smell her scent (and lust) on them. Supposedly, they have a keen sense of smell and both the males and females are rather curious about human women, but whether in a sexual way or not was unknown.

Tasha was preoccupied with lust as she continued down the trail. From this point forward, her exposure was undeniable to anyone she encountered: she was definitely running in her underwear. This wasn't a California volleyball beach where a thong might go unnoticed.

Indulging her inner pervert's depraved fantasy was immensely erotic and a powerful aphrodisiac, but her socially programmed inhibitions still had it so repressed that making it real was completely surreal with an I'm-not-really-here-and-doing-this quality to it. Part of her might even believe nothing bad could ever happen; she would just wake up from the dream.

Less than a half-mile further down the trial, when she took off her bra, she could barely concentrate on the mission. Perhaps it was a coping mechanism, or perhaps it was just another time where duty was an excuse to liberate those pent up desires previously suppressed, but with dignity and modesty no longer options, her body had its own mission from here on--a strictly biological one. It had no concerns of fantasy or reality. It just wanted to get fucked.

She left her bra hung by a single shoulder strap, a 34C guidon of black, thinly trimmed with white, to mark her incursion into enemy territory. Topless, her pace automatically slowed a bit to compensate for the lack of "mid-impact support" and "locked-in feel."

Around the curvature of a low hill, a little over a quarter mile further, a mountain stream crossed the trail. The water was cold, clear, and fast moving; the kind that makes good moonshine, or a good water source for men hiding in the backwoods. In theory, following it might be a better and more direct approach, but it would automatically look suspicious, like she was searching, so was specifically prohibited; she was to keep sight of the trail at all times.

The muddy ground near the water showed no squatch or human tracks, despite a few raccoon and deer tracks, both classic matches to the field guides. She didn't expect to find any since a set of deliberately placed stepping stones made an easy, hard-surfaced, crossing for bipedal passersby.

The stream crossing seemed like a good place to leave her last shred of modesty. She found a small tree, safely clear of the water--returning to find that her panties had disappeared downstream would not be good. As she hung up her thong, she smiled at the subtle innuendo of the tree being a prominent, stiff, ironwood inside her panties. 

Truth be told, she didn't feel a significant change in physical exposure without the small patch of cloth over her bald mound, but mentally, she had thrown the switch to full-on Naked! A number of neural circuits were now engaged, several of them hardwired to her vagina. As she continued to run, her nakedness became more and more final and a particular fantasy became more and more real. The nymph in flight. The barbarian stalking her.

Despite the distractions, her training eventually asserted itself, and she was back on task: scanning the forest, picking a path through rocks and looking for a location for the next phase. For phase 3, she would bind herself for anyone to find, helpless. In the cover story version, a squatch would feel it safe to indulge their curiosity and approach, knowing she was harmless. For the mission, the story was much the same--safe to approach, harmless, exposed, vulnerable...available--but the motives were, hopefully, a lot less innocent than simple curiosity; success depended on it.

She had to run further away from her panties than she would have liked before finding a good spot, but it was worth it. The location she found was perfect. The trail ran through a wider, open area with good visibility. To one side was a steep slope topped by a flat terrace, the kind of vantage point that gave a tactical advantage. Opposite of it was a small hillock with a gradual slope--a good stage for her show. Best of all, on the side of the hillock were two stout chestnut trees, about a foot in diameter, with just the right spacing. She would practically be leaving a written invitation.

Tasha laid the contents of the backpack out on the ground in the prescribed arrangement, all twenty-six and a half pounds of strong, lightweight gear. The layout mirrored the final setup, with some adjustments for order of use, so made it easier for her keep track as she worked. Closest to the trees were the climbing stirrups, then four rows in order: wrist restraints, topmost cable, motor unit, pulley, pulley strap and ratchet strap receiver brackets; waist belt, two long ratchet straps and two more receivers; ankle restraints, bottom cable and another motor unit, pulley, strap and pair of receivers; lastly, bigfoot "howler," ball gag with chin strap, motion sensor camera, bumblebee vibrator, control box and remote controls for each.

She could take the self-bondage rig apart and put it back together again like a Marine Corps sharpshooter cleaning a rifle. After all, she built the thing herself as part of mission prep training. (She still wondered where they got the plans, and who did the research. Probably had been a great internship project for some engineering student.) You couldn't find a rig like this on the internet, but you could find all the parts to build one easily enough. The tree climbing stirrups and ratchet strap receivers were straight from a hunting supply store and were normally used for tree stands. The small motor units, aircraft cable and aluminum pulleys came from theatre and movie supply companies. The restraints and vibrator...well, any pervert already knows a few websites for those.  

Realizing that she was getting ahead of herself, she did a quick check of the area. No signs of human or squatch activity. No anthills, bee's nests or dead tree branches overhead ready to fall on her. She did a few more stretches and took a few more sips of water, that last thing she needed was a muscle cramp.

She set up the motion sensor camera on the trunk of a small hemlock tree about 15 feet away--not as easy as it sounds when naked. The small needles might be soft, but the branches were scratchy. Anytime the camera detected movement it would snap three pictures then wait two minutes. Between the tree bark pattern camo case and the abundant branches, the camera was practically invisible. She'd get some extra pictures when the branches swayed in the wind near the sensor, but that was OK. The angle was good. She'd get her own backside from an angle (she could live with that) and should get the face of anyone or anything that approached her from the front.

Next, she started to rig the chestnut trees. The stirrups were little more than small steps that strapped to the tree trunk. Normally a series of them would make a ladder, but she only needed to reach a foot or two above her tip toes. She ratcheted the stirrup straps tight, about two and a half feet from the base of each tree. All the straps in her kit had a small metal clasp with an integrated ratchet, like the bigger versions commonly used to strap things down on trucks. The clasp also acted as a lever for the ratchet. Each time the clasp handle was pulled, the strap tightened a notch or two as the ratchet made distinctive click sounds. Pushing the clasp closed locked the strap in place. A little metal tab released it.

Using the steps, she strapped three receiver brackets tightly to each tree. She positioned the first pair as high up as she could reach while standing on the step; the second pair lower down, just above the height of her waist; and the last pair at the base of each tree, just above the root flare. It was simple, really: hands, waist and feet. The receivers were just metal mounts with a hole that accepted a number of attachments (such as a tree stand seat or gun holder for a hunter, originally). 

The top cable and motor unit was the hardest to position. The motor unit was a little bigger than a beer can and had a mounting tab that slid straight into the right-hand receiver bracket. Opposite the motor was a pulley which mounted to the other receiver bracket via a longer ratchet strap. Since the cable between the motor and pulley was a fixed length, the ratchet strap adjusted to make up the remaining distance. Fortunately, the two chestnut trees were almost perfectly spaced so little adjustment was needed.

The design of the top and bottom cables was clever in its simplicity; a simple loop around two pulleys, the standalone pulley and the main one inside the the motor unit, all rigged horizontal to the ground. The clever part was the two fixed "travelers," or mounting rings, permanently fixed to the cable on opposite sides of the loop. Because they were on opposite sides, they moved in opposite directions. Both would move towards the middle if the cable was turned clockwise while they would separate during counterclockwise movement.  The arrangement was often used for theatre draw curtains so that both sides could be closed and opened in unison. In this case, her arms and legs would be the curtain. 

Each motor unit had high-powered compact lithium ion batteries and electronic controls that synced with the wireless control box. Inside were two pulleys, a main load bearing one and a smaller one spring loaded to ensure tension and friction. The combination firmly gripped the shoelace thin, high-strength aircraft cable even if wet. Though slow, the high torque motor in each unit was more than powerful enough to tear her joints apart so had a built-in electronic strain gauge cut-off for safety.

With the hard part of the preparation done, her body was beyond rational control and thoroughly flushed with arousal; she could feel the heat radiating off her bare skin. Her fantasy was supposed to have been one of those dark fantasies that one never shares, that stays deep in one's own mind and is never even talked about, much less lived for real; a simple, primal urge to masturbate to and nothing more. Real life had no place for such things, too many consequences, too much real horror behind the lust. Yet, here she was about to bind herself, naked and helpless, hoping to be found by random strangers; her body offered up--begging to be taken.

Each time the feelings got more and more intense. She dreamed of being found, but at the same time dreaded the possibility deep down in the pit of her stomach. She couldn't take much more--like putting a hand back into the fire. How much longer could she keep doing it? Did Timor and the others knew that she was starting to crack up? Did they even care?

Tasha calmed herself down the same way she had the last couple of weeks: she went faster. She knew that once bound, once the choice had been removed, the stress and fears would float away. The forced meditation would allow her to forget, for a while, what she could not control.

She placed the howler on a fallen log down in the clear area at the bottom of the slope, a ways from the chestnut trees. It was one damn annoying little box. At random 15 to 45 minute intervals, it would screech out a randomly selected bigfoot call from a rather extensive set of recordings. Sticking to the mission parameters, she picked up a thick dead branch and whacked a tree three times. 

Now that the squatches were notified, and anyone else for a half mile or more, Tasha stepped into the leg straps of the bumblebee vibrator. Sliding it up into position, she tightened the waist strap so that the black and yellow striped hemisphere of silicone was tight against her pussy. The cupped underside of it fit her contours nicely, even if the honeybee motif, along with the crudely molded insectoid shape, was rather graceless. She moved around a little to make sure the bumblebee was settled into position and not likely to shift (that happened once and it was a horrible tease), but she didn't turn it on yet. 

She clipped the empty wrist restraints to the short steel cables that dangled from the travelers on the upper cable so that she could reach them later. The remote for the control box dangled about six inches from the right restraint by a lanyard, while the remote control for the bumblebee dangled from the left. She hooked the ball gag strap on the right-hand restraint as well. She always waited until the last minute to put it in and would have preferred to skip it all together, but (supposed) computer simulations showed a much higher probability that she would be approached if she was gagged, especially with an easily seen bright red gag ball. Tasha wasn't buying it. Even though Southworthy wasn't on the mission command team, he had to be behind it, laughing about it; she just knew it.

She clipped the straps for the waist belt into position ahead of time too, then set the release time on the control box for 11:00, giving her a little over two hours. The display on it showed that the motor units were synced wirelessly, so she double-checked everything then hit "set."

Her self-bondage began in earnest with the ankle restraints. They were essentially heavy nylon cuffs with a few stout D-rings along the outside and a sewn-in attachment strap that was terminated with an O-ring. The cuffs were tapered so that tension from the attachment strap was distributed evenly. Her trail running shoes did not interfere as she closed the buckles, but she would have preferred to wear high heels, like in her fantasy.

The attachment strap O-ring clipped directly onto the travelers on the bottom cable with a snap link, leaving very little slack for movement. No need for a lock since she would never be able to reach them anyways. For now, her feet were close together. She double-checked that she had the correct rings clipped to the correct travelers so that her legs would be pulled apart and not crossed when she activated the motor.

The waist belt was simply a wide, reinforced nylon belt that cinched around her waist with a large buckle in the back. D-rings were sewn into each side, with an extra large ring in the front. Normally, handcuffs would be threaded through the front ring if the belt was being used for its primary purpose.

At first, she hated the belt since it wasn't what she envisioned during her fantasy and seemed to ruin the curves of her slender, sculpted waist, but in practice, she found that it really did help stabilize her body and made long bondage sessions much more comfortable--the added feeling of helplessness turned out to be a nice bonus as well. The straps were already hooked into the receivers and clipped to the side rings so she reached behind her back and awkwardly buckled the belt snugly around her waist, then pulled the straps tight, careful to stay centered under the cable, before ratcheting them a several clicks. Her body wasn't going to sway in the middle now.  

Her hands were next, so she had to put the gag in first. She couldn't cheat on it and leave it a little loose. Mission command was very concerned about a realistic look. The straps were deliberately cut short so that the first prong hole for the buckle could not be reached unless the straps where very tight. The chin strap was already buckled so she pushed the gag ball deep into her mouth, behind her teeth, then clenched her jaw enough to hold it in place. The hard silicone ball yielded very little, but at least it didn't taste like rubber. She slipped the chin strap into position under her jaw before fastening the strap around the back of her head. The gag was the one part of her bondage that she didn't like. Regardless, some deep down fetish reacted favorably to it, increasing her arousal.

She unclipped the wrist restraints, their design mirroring that of the ankle restraints, and put them on, one hand buckling the other. The top cable was too high to reach directly so a short length of aircraft cable with permanently crimped loops made up the difference between the travelers and wrist restraints. She took a deep breath before clipping the attachment straps back onto the cables.

Grabbing the remote for the bumblebee by its lanyard, she passed it to its host hand using the other. It had a small display with a variety of settings. The bumblebee had been specifically selected because of the programmable features and the strength of the vibrator, but she still didn't like the "stinger." Two studded metal contact strips were embedded in the silicone leaving just enough space for her clit in the middle. The bumblebee was capable of producing varying levels of electric current across them. It wasn't advertised as a punishment feature, but she couldn't see how any woman enjoyed getting shocked right there. Needless to say, she kept that feature turned off.

Getting anxious, Tasha quickly double checked that the settings were correct. She was supposed to use level 2 so that the bumblebee was not too distracting, but it was just an annoying tease turned on that low, and two hours of teasing was not what she had in mind. While she could cum on level 3, level 4 was much better. Lately even that wasn't quite as thrilling. Today she was going to graduate herself to level 5, fuck the mission parameters. Who would ever know? Besides, the setting went clear to 10 so she was still being rather conservative. All set, she pushed the start button on the "increasing happy joy" program, smiling at the poor translation on the imported toy.

She dropped the bumblebee control, leaving it to dangle on its lanyard, and grabbed the remote for the control box with her left hand and put it in her right. It was all pretty easy when one hand could help the other, but that was about to change. Tasha pushed the bottom "open" button on the remote and the lower motor unit immediately whirred to life. As she held the button, her legs were slowly pulled apart. She wiggled her feet so they didn't get caught on anything as they were dragged across the ground by the powerful motor. When her feet were a past her shoulders in a wide "V", she switched to the top "open" button on the remote and waited excitedly as her arms were spread. Once close to the right position, she adjusted back and forth between the "open" and "close" buttons, gradually tightening and loosening the rig until she was stretched tight in a spread eagle position with her feet still on the ground.

Some women might find the position difficult, but Tasha was very flexible, and holding it for two hours really wasn't a challenge for her, even though her hands always went numb from being up above her head. She waited for five minutes just to make sure everything was alright and that she was as comfortable as possible before hitting the "start" button. The control box beeped once and the motor units clicked as they shutdown and their magnetic locks engaged (which would unlock if the batteries died). 

Even though she knew she was helpless, Tasha couldn't resist testing her bonds. None of them would hurt her beyond some chaffing no matter how hard she struggled, and it felt good to struggle: a physical confirmation that her fantasy was real. Her hands could not reach the snap links above her or the buckle at her wrist. As she struggled, her nipples grew harder and her arousal grew, but the way her legs were spread wide, exposing her wantonly to the world, was the real turn on. She tried to close them just to savor the futility of the effort.

An horrific screech that reminded her of a wounded animal snapped her out of her compulsive struggling. The bigfoot howler had gone off. Once the damn thing finished, she almost laughed at her situation. Strung up naked between two trees. Her nipples like rocks and her pussy...yes, her pussy..ah, lips engorged, clit firm, but the vibrations were faint. Her "happy joy" still needed to do a lot more increasing, but it would, eventually--and there was nothing she could do to stop it; the remote was hanging below her wrist about 6 inches out of reach.

The real world fell away and her fantasy enveloped her. Every sense was keenly sharpened. She could smell the leaves, feel the breeze of pure, clean air, even hear the rushing water of the stream faintly in the distance. She was strung tightly enough that she could feel the slight sway of the chestnut trees holding her as they answered the wind with their strength. Closing her eyes, she could feel the shaft of sunlight that somehow made its way through the trees to her left leg. Bliss washed over her. She felt so alive. So sensual. So...exposed. So...vulnerable. So--holy fuck--helpless. Tasha's eyes snapped open at the thought. She scanned the woods. Is there someone out there? Someone she can't see? Was that sound footsteps walking on leaves?

In her fantasy, one of the football players, big and strong, would find her. His cock tenting his shorts like a steel rod. Sometimes a random bird watcher, binoculars and camera, a little geeky guy with a thick, stubby cock and a funny voice, "that's it baby, that's it." What would he do with the pictures? Sometimes a park ranger would find her. Like a cop, he has handcuffs. Oh yes officer, I'm guilty. I'm a very bad girl. I know, very bad. In her fantasy, they all teased her, tormented her and fucked her, then left her bound, naked, sweaty and worked over. They couldn't resist her, and how could she blame them? What else would a woman who tied herself up in the woods naked want?

The bumblebee was bringing her a little more "happy joy," but it was still far from enough. She needed lots of happy joy. Her pussy ached for happy joy. Even though it would eventually make her cum, it wasn't fulfilling enough. She wanted something inside her. Since the start, penetration had not been allowed. Mission command was very firm about it. She was not allowed a dildo or even a long handled hairbrush--nothing remotely phallic. They told her that they needed a realistic and seemingly naive reaction in the field, during the mission, but she was sure it was another head game--and it was working. Normally she was quite satisfied by clitoral stimulation alone. Now, she longed to remember what it was like to have something inside, stretching her, rubbing her walls. How long had it been? Truthfully, she wasn't sure. Since sometime way before training started, but that didn't tell her anything. She had no idea how long training had been even. Most of it was a blur despite her remembering everything she had been taught as if it were all yesterday.

The opossum is the only marsupial in North America and has such a strong immune system that it rarely has rabies. The raccoon gets its name from the Powhatan term for "one who rubs, scrubs and scratches with its hands." When tracking white-tailed deer, a buck has wider front tracks. Sasquatches are thought to be attracted to sexually aroused human females and able to detect their lust from a distance, perhaps because the pheromones are similar to a sexual aroused female squatch. You can't fight back. It will reveal your training and blow your cover. "If they want to rape you, then you put on a good show and try to enjoy it."

The facts in her head weren't content to just wait for her to remember them. Sometimes, they burst out, like pop-up messages. It was more than a bit disturbing, and she was worried that it wouldn't go away after the mission. They had definitely scrambled a few things in her brain. She was also worried about what she couldn't remember--vague wisps of things she couldn't put a name to, but that should be part of her life and who she really was.

The bumblebee increased. Now it would buzz slowly for a several seconds, then hit her with three seriously attention-getting high vibration pulses before going back to slow again. She could try to relax, but the pulses drew her attention straight back to her pussy a few times times every minute. Keeping her mind off her arousal was impossible, but that's where it ended. She was never going to get off from it.

She knew she was supposed to keep an active watch and stay focused on the mission, but in this mission, she was, after all, little more than man bait, bait that a staff of intelligence agents was trying to dangle in front of dangerous terrorists. It was better to forget the mission--thinking about it just made her anxious--and easier to just enjoy herself. Until the little control box released her, she was free to be Tasha the slut and not Tasha the agent and that's exactly what she was going to do.

The bumblebee finally switched modes. The slow vibration would steadily rise. Near the end of the crescendo, the speed would suddenly surge faster then warble up and down for several almost painful oscillations. This mode was even more attention getting than the last. During the crescendo, she knew the oscillations were coming so it was hard to think about anything else.

So far, she hadn't noticed a difference from the level 5 setting, but the "increasing happy joy" program was set to gradually increase for over an hour (with random changes to make things interesting) then maintain the peak setting afterwards. It assumed you had the remote control to turn it off when you had enough. These early modes were just to create a build up and were essentially all various forms of teasing.

Tasha could feel her legs trying to clench closed each time the bumblebee did the high frequency warble. It had a delightfully annoying tickle-like quality to it that she hated, so it was perfect for self-bondage, at least for a while. Bondage wasn't as satisfying if you didn't want to get free at least part of the time. She'd love to reach the remote to hit the ">>" button for the next mode or to free a hand to move the bumblebee just a little to the side so it wasn't directly pressing her clit. No matter how much she tried to wriggle her hips, it wouldn't move.

Soon she found herself sweaty from struggling again. She kept forcing herself to relax, but would lose focus to find her body was, once again, unconsciously working to get free. She decided to try some deep breathing yoga exercises. Out with the bad air, in with the good. Breathe in through the nose and out through the...well, breathing out through the mouth was only a partial option with the gag ball, even though she did insist on one with a breathing hole through the ball. She did what she could, heedless of the flying drool.

She closed her eyes, savoring her predicament and having a moment of reverie, feeling the sway of the trees, the slight gusts of wind, the patches of warm sunlight, the stretch of her limbs and the sudden surges of rubbery movement against her loins. She could feel the sexual energy building in her body--energy that cried for release, yet grew from the lack of it.

The bumblebee switched to the next tease. She felt nothing at all, then three pulses, short, short, long. It was slightly more annoying than the last mode. She tried to settle back into her reverie again, but a loud buzzing sound distracted her.

Opening her eyes, she saw a huge green dragonfly, a giant darner, a nax walsinghami, like she had seen many times in the woods, but this one was absolutely huge, over 5 inches long. It was buzzing around, hovering peculiarly like they do--the fact that they can fly close to 60 miles per hour popped into her head.

The dragonfly gave her the shivers. She didn't like bugs, even beautiful big shiny ones. All she could do was cringe and wait for it to leave, but it didn't. It kept buzzing around her. As if out of insectoid camaraderie, it buzzed near the bumblebee vibrator at her crotch before darting over to the control box and perching upon it, staring at her with its creepy red eyes.

She closed her eyes again, trying to ignore the dragonfly, in an attempt to regain her previous state of contentment. The distractions of the bumblebee came to her rescue. It buzzed: short, short, long. Short, short, long. More, more, I need more. Short, short, long.  Please, please, let me cum.

Tasha waited through several more modes and a couple of surprise calls from the fucking bigfoot howler. So far, level 5 did not seem any more intense than the level 4 setting. The "increasing happy joy" was more like "growing frustrated torment." Each mode was slightly more stimulating than the last, promising that it would eventually end--eventually being the key word. When she opened her eyes, the creepy dragonfly was gone, thankfully, but the time on the control box was still over a half hour from the 11:00 release time.

Abruptly, the bumblebee stopped. Another rest mode. Rest mode was a safety feature to prevent the constant vibration from doing damage to her nerve endings. The vibrator could cause some weird desensitization and numbing effects if used too much. The wait was just another torment, as if someone paused the movie at the start of the big action-packed finale.

Her body throbbed as it marked time. Just then, the damn howler went off again. Unlike the last couple times, it wasn't a normal call. It was some kind of terrible, haunting howl that sent a chill up her spine as she "jumped" and felt a rush of adrenaline. Her body prepared to run like hell. The shock passed, though, and within couple minutes, her body forgot about running and wanted to be fucked again--more than ever. The fading effects of the scare reignited her arousal while the ache of her hard nipples added a spice of pain to the mix of sensations. For her, frights always translated to lust.

When the bumblebee started up again, it was definitely not teasing and was definitely on level five. Slow, slow, fast, slow, fast, slow, fast, fast, slow, fast, fast, fast.  The pulsing oscillations were up and down all over the place, but never stopped. Soon she had to remember to breathe and was reminded why she had to use the gradually building "increasing happy joy" program. After several minutes of happy, happy, happy, she felt the joy. First was the tingle in her pussy, like a sneeze on the way, then the throbbing, body shuddering, scream-out-what-a-fucking-slut-you-are joy as her clit felt like it was trying to turn itself inside out.

As she hung limp, recovering, her head still spinning like a fuck drunk spider in its web, the bumblebee kept going, still happily working away and trying to bring more joy. It definitely wasn't pleasant to be stimulated after cumming, but fortunately she wasn't particularly sensitive after an orgasm. She just had to tough out the next few minutes while her pussy reset back to "pre-fucked." The next stimulation mode selected, however, was much more subdued. In fact, more "increasing" and no real "joy" was all she got for the next few mode switches. Soon, she was aching for another climax. Her arms were sore from their unbidden attempts to pull free, and her legs felt like rubber. She was going to need to stretch out good and rest before she could even think about trying to run back to her camper.

The clock on the control box was counting down the whole time, approaching release time, but the bumblebee operated independently. The next mode throbbed and vibrated powerfully. In fact, it was slightly painful and a bit too much. She would have turned it down instantly if she could have. Instead, she closed her eyes, bit down on the gag, and tried to clench her legs as she tried to ride out the mode. Within a minute, she was breathing hard as she fought against her bonds, but it was not from resisting the intensity now. It was because her body adapted and now if felt amazing. She felt ready to explode with sexual tension. The emptiness inside her vagina was like a black hole pulling in her lust, consuming it and attracting more.

Just then another loud groaning call startled her. She just couldn't get used to the howler. This time it growled out a deep guttural sound with a strangely sexual quality to it.  In the aftermath of her moment of fear, Tasha was rocked with and intense orgasm. She echoed her own growl from behind her gag. The growl of a wild female hominid experiencing pure sexual ecstasy. The resulting sound of two bigfoots cumming echoed through the woods, one more subdued than the other, but still quite loud, thanks to the gag.

Tasha opened her eyes, toughing out the post orgasmic sensitivity, when she noticed the control box. It said 11:05. What! It should have sent the signal to pull her hands and legs back together. As the panic started to surge up within her, she saw a little dot on to bottom time, next to the "11" for the 11:00 release setting. She stared in disbelief. She always checked that, but there it was, simple and undeniable: the dot for PM. She would not be released for another twelve hours!