An Inquisitive Federal Agent

An Inquisitive Federal Agent

East Coast Slaver Organization Story - XII

Chapter 01 – Intrigued by the Mystery (or What are You … Umph!)

By: Desert Dog

Special Agent Sam Valiant threw the file she had been studying aside with a sigh of exasperation. She rubbed her aching temples with her fingertips while glancing at her notes displayed on the twenty-one-inch monitor and her desktop littered with piles of files. Despite her headache, her brain kept up a whirl of thoughts and possibilities while she waited for her fingers to get the throbbing to subside. Finally, she returned her fingers to the keyboard where they first moved hesitantly and then began to flicker quickly from key to key. She was becoming excited. “Maybe there is a connection,” she muttered with enthusiasm.

“Shit!” she muttered, angrily kicking out at the desk as her latest thought didn't bear fruit. Sam had been building a complicated set of interconnection diagrams between telephone numbers of possible suspects in a series of drug-related murders in Miami , Florida . The charts tied personalities, phones, locations, and in some cases, taped cell intercepts and wiretaps of conversations. “The problem is,” she griped, “that there is no clear connection between the drug organizations and the team of killers.”

Taking a deep breath, she glanced about the darkened sea of cubicles around her. “As usual,” she complained, “they're all gone. It's no wonder this is driving me nuts; nobody even cares about the deaths of a buncha drug organization thugs and their missing bimbos.” Since the office was clearly empty at nine thirty on a Friday night, Sam safely leaned back and stretched her arms high over her head, thrusting her full D-cup breasts up and straining the buttoned suit jacket she wore nearly to the bursting point. Deciding none of her chauvinistic male colleagues were around, she stood up to remove her jacket and got comfortable with a grateful sigh. “It's a fucking disaster having to work with these Neanderthal morons,” she thought. Sam's heavy-duty bra, built to carry her pendulous breasts, was evident as an extra-wide band of lace under her blouse and camisole top. Her breasts were both a symbolic bane to her existence and paradoxically, one of her most prized possessions.

Sam Valiant, born Samantha Louise Valiant, was twenty-eight years old and a one-year veteran of the Miami Field Office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Driven and focused, Sam had always known she was going to be a cop. She took local community college courses in criminology while still in high school and then moved on to earn a Bachelor of Science in Criminal Justice Programs at nearby Florida Metropolitan University . After deciding the course work was far simpler than she had expected, Sam raised the standards of her goals significantly and went on to complete her law degree at Florida State University . She easily passed her Florida Board of Bar Examiners test and became a legally practicing attorney. With her intelligence and focused dedication proven, Samantha Valiant easily wowed the F.B.I. interview team and she was accepted as a trainee at the F.B.I. Academy in Quantico , Virginia . As a new agent, Sam spent much of her time engrossed in studies at the Forensic Science Research and Training Unit and the Behavioral Science Unit. Special Agent Valiant's first posting was to an office in her old stomping grounds; she was assigned to the Miami Field Office. Sam's hoped for niche in the F.B.I . was as an investigator because she had little interest in becoming a supervising field agent despite her physical prowess.

When Sam reported for duty in Miami , her physical attributes simply overwhelmed her male colleagues. At the time, she was twenty-six, stood five-feet-eleven-inches tall in her bare feet, and weighed in at one hundred and sixty-five pounds. Solid muscle packed into an athlete's body, Sam found time every day to drive herself to exhaustion with a grueling two-hour workout. Through college, and later working for the FBI, Sam budgeted money for her gym membership and a personal trainer to hold her to her exacting standards. Despite her solid build, Samantha Louis Valiant had a body to die for with wide hips and a perfectly sculpted ass, an amazingly tiny waist, and natural hooters that a Las Vegas callgirl would have paid tens of thousands of dollars to have. Samantha was, in common terms, ‘built like a brick shithouse' and had a body that every man in the field office dreamed of trading their souls to possess, even for a single night. Sam, not even remotely interested in dating or a relationship of any kind, was extremely protective of her privacy and coldly rebuffed any attempt by her horny colleagues to get to know her. Because of her cold attitude, many of the men in the office came to distrust her and fear working beside her, despite her proven track record with solving cold cases. The few professional women and the secretarial staff in the office followed the lead of the males, distancing themselves from what they saw as an overly competitive Amazon, who although rumored to have zero interest in sex, was clearly the kind of woman that could easily pluck any scrumptious catch right out of their hands. Sam was a threat to every woman in the F.B.I. Field Office.

Like all F.B.I. agents, Sam's style of dress was conservative and immaculate. She always wore a dark tailored jacket, usually expensive white blouses, and either a matching skirt or slacks. Sam wore panties, pantyhose, and a camisole top to work every day regardless of her choice of skirt or slacks and she wore footwear that was comfortable at a sprint or during her normal fourteen-hour-workday. Amazingly, Sam didn't own a single set of sexy underwear, alluring eveningwear, or glamorous outfits for the bedroom; instead, she was business personified, focusing solely on work, and taking no time off for vacations or relaxation.

Several things about the clearly related murders and disappearances in her current case were very troubling to Sam. First, only men had been killed in the bloody confrontations; the drug dealers' girlfriends, partygirls, and other women placed at the murder scenes had simply disappeared without a trace. Second, while bodies were found, they were only from a single drug organization and no bodies were ever found from the attacking organization. Third, while the police made a point of heralding the amount of drugs and cash found at each of the scenes, the whole thing was fishy. Sam felt that no drugs or cash should have been found because the survivors of the shootouts would have taken everything. Fourth, while police agents had been on stakeout at one of the sites, no law enforcement agents were killed. The last piece of the puzzle that bothered Sam was that the only females to reappear were members of the very counterdrug task force charged with monitoring one of the drug organizations.

She took a deep breath, pleased with the feel of her large breasts lurching under the expensively tailored woman's blouse. Because of her tiny waist and overly large muscular shoulders, no off the shelf blouse looked right without extensive tailoring. Ignoring Sam's breasts, her chest measurement alone was a solid thirty-eight inches of muscle. Plopping D-cup jugs atop a chest that rivaled a male gymnast, gave Samantha Louise Valiant a whopping 44-D bra size. Actually, it was a point of honor for Sam to squeeze her giant milk bags into the D-cup bra even though she clearly would be more comfortable in an E-cup. The slightly too small D-cups more tightly restrained her mountainous breasts, holding them in place from moving about in a distracting manner during work. She had found that even F.B.I. agents lost at least thirty IQ points when they noticed her massive mammaries. An unexpected jiggle or two and no man in the office could maintain any thread of coherent thought. Sam was tired of the brainless babbling of the twits that worked beside her.

Special Agent Valiant looked again at the listing of dead and missing persons. “The first incident was at the legal office of an attorney suspected of laundering funds for the Oscar Lynden Organization,” she mumbled aloud. “Only one body had been found in the charred remains of the office structure, Nathanial Itzel Archibold, the attorney. His paralegal and secretary were never found.” She traced her fingers across the drug trafficking chart she had built. “Then, just days later, the Lynden Organization virtually ceases to exist. Oscar Lynden, his primary lieutenant James Lee, and at least six of his enforcers die at two different locations in the Miami area.” Her other interconnection diagram had confirmed ties within the Lynden Organization to key area dealers, banking connections, and Mexican, Caribbean , and Colombian connections. “The part that bothers me is that supposedly they had a run in with an expansion of the Arellano Felix Organization of Mexico who released their enforcers, the Las Zetas, on them. There is just no substantiation of that theory. I haven't found a single connection between the Lynden Organization and Arellano Felix, Jamaicans, or Las Zetas. This just looks fishy to me.”

“At the same time,” she continued thinking aloud, “Oscar's bimbo, his lieutenant's undercover girlfriend, a cocaine party-girl-housewife and her girlfriend, and two agents in an undercover surveillance mission all turn up missing. It just doesn't make sense.” Another unproved connection to the demise of the largest crack and prostitution ring in Miami also bothered her. “Next Guy Brent, his trophy wife, his mistress sisters, and three key thugs disappear along with most of the evidence that could have led to the millions he had stashed away.” She took another look at the data and muttered, “In fact, … the forensic teams never found any leads to other drugs, cash, illegal off-shore accounts, or to suppliers and customers. All the off-shore accounts had already been raided by someone.” She frowned again and added, “That's partially why I'm so suspicious of the three law enforcement agents who so miraculously showed up with detailed proof of this supposed failed scheme by the Arellano Felix Organization to take over in Miami.” Even though many arrests and the seizure of drugs and cash followed, Sam thought it was all too weak, too implausible given that no outside evidence backed up the story given by the three female agents.

“It stinks worse than a whore after servicing a platoon of crab-infested Marines,” she grinned at her private humor. Samantha Louise Valiant would never crack an off-color joke except to herself. Her own special brand of wit demonstrated the weakness of males of her species in making lousy judgments when it came to getting their craniums to overcome the smaller brain lodged in the front of their cocks. Sam didn't hate men, their cocks, or heterosexual liaisons; no, she simply didn't want to put up with the childish nature of the men she knew and didn't want to waste time in searching for a better man.

Deaths and Missing Persons Under Investigation:

Legend

Missing, presumed dead

Missing, no indication of death

Nathanial Itzell Archibold :	Dead - lawyer, associate of Oscar Lynden
Katria Sjogreen :	Missing - paralegal (26, blonde)
Wanda Alvernon :	Missing - legal secretary (22, brunette)
Oscar Lynden :	Dead - drug kingpin
James Lee :	Dead - drug dealer's lieutenant
Michael Mueller :	Missing, unknown status – accountant, associate of Lynden
June Curl :	Missing - Oscar's girlfriend (25, black hair)
Karen Rigden :	Missing - Lee's girlfriend, undercover agent (24, 5'3", blonde)
Emily Davis :	Missing - trophy housewife (26, blonde)
Pamela Bondi :	Missing - friend of trophy housewife (25, brunette)
Helen Powell :	Missing - Fla. law enforcement rep (27, black hair)
Regina Tyre :	Missing - Fla. Bureau Statewide Prosecution (26, brunette)
Six Enforcers :	Dead - low-level enforcers in Lynden's organization
Guy Brent :	Missing, presumed dead - crack dealer, forced prostitution
Cynthia Brent :	Missing - Guy's trophy wife (36)
Gloria Petrillo :	Missing - Guy's current love interest (23)
Danielle Petrillo :	Missing - Guy's current love interest (21)
Mick Canniffe :	Missing, presumed dead - dealer's enforcer (Irish)
Raul de Souza :	Missing, presumed dead - dealer's enforcer (Brazilian)
Muhammad Poole :	Missing, presumed dead - dealer's enforcer (black)

Agent Valiant made a final tabulation; thirteen bad guys dead or presumed dead and eleven women missing. “What are the freaking odds of that,” she thought. Sam dumped pictures of the women out of a folder. “Hmmm,” she mused, “the only connection is that they are all pretty. In fact, even the trophy housewife who wandered too deeply into cocaine parties had a gorgeous girlfriend watching over her the night she went to buy drugs from James Lee.” Sam's intelligence profile on James Lee indicated that he often got his lieutenants to cull the prettiest customers from the herd and bring them to his home to get them hooked on free coke at his notorious fuck-a-thon cocaine parties. “Emily probably got what she deserved, but I'm not so sure about her friend, Pamela Bondi. Oh, well, … that's the problem with getting too close to fire, sometimes it gets out of control and burns you.”

Despite Sam's certainty that all men were ruled by their cocks, she had difficulty accepting her least favorite, and most unlikely, scenario to explain their disappearance. “Slavers,” she thought with distain, “How is it possible for slavers to exist in the United States ? Sure, … overseas where there is a huge business for third-world women to work in whorehouses worldwide. But, … here in Miami ?” Sam berated herself for even thinking the idea. “No,” she spit, “the women's disappearance has to be tied to something else, and I'm just too dense to see it.” She turned back to her files and tried to think of new approaches.

Sam was truly intrigued by the case and it wasn't that she was jealous and envied the attention and accolades that the three female lawmen had received. No, it was simply that the inability to tie loose ends together in this case offended her. What Agent Valiant didn't know, and was unlikely to discover, was that after novice slaver Aaron Clarke found riches at every turn while establishing his business in Miami , he allowed his conscience to adjust his business model. He still had no qualms about killing or enslaving those he judged evil or guilty of crimes. However, he did arrange for something he called a ‘catch and release program' for those he had already enslaved that were innocents. He first tested this crazy idea (clearly derived by a rapist scoundrel of a murdering slaver) on the three captured law enforcement agents: Karen Rigden, a twenty-four year-old undercover agent from Customs Immigration and Enforcement masquerading as the girlfriend to a drug dealer's chief lieutenant; Helen Powell, a twenty-seven year-old special task force representative from the Florida law enforcement community; and Regina Tyre, a twenty-six year-old lawyer on the special task force from the Florida Bureau of Statewide Prosecution. He arranged for Helen and Regina to escape and kept Karen as ‘hostage' for their good behavior. In his words, “A sort of velvet prison thing; like in the Middle Ages.”

Aaron's plan was that Helen and Regina would leave with videos and ironclad evidence for use by the F.B.I. the widespread criminal enterprises. Helen and Regina had spun an artful tale of Karen's successful undercover operation and the compromise of the investigative task force by an incompetent Miami police force. The fabricated story was that Karen Rigden heroically rescued Regina and Helen and delivered a captured drug accountant into their hands for questioning. Supposedly, while still hidden aboard a fishing ship enroute to Cartegena , Colombia for a load of drugs, they interrogated the accountant who provided key intelligence on the drug trade in the southeastern United States . Karen had to remain behind in an undercover role as confidant and lover to one of Oscar Lynden's key South American contacts in order to finalize the escape. Helen and Regina claimed that Karen covered for them but was forced to disappear with the dangerous drug dealer into the jungles of northern Colombia . Subsequently, the women arranged to share two full-time F.B.I. positions between the three of them, an infrequently employed personnel practice that a grateful F.B.I. was pleased to do for the much acclaimed women. Aaron Clarke also agreed to pay each woman three hundred thousand dollars and promised to continue to feed them intelligence on organized crime targets. The agents were obligated to perform additional tasks for the slaver that would, in each case, result in the arrest of more criminals. Each special act would result in compensation depending upon how much money Aaron made from the shutting down of each criminal enterprise.

--L--A--T--E--R--

Sam stared at the purchase she had made in her latest attempt to find answers to the baffling case she was working on. “It's obscene,” she thought with a quiver of disgust. Ever the clinician, she turned the video camera on to record this crazy forensics test and carefully focused it upon the object that so disturbed her. She had already moved her bedroom television set into the bathroom to display the video feed from the camera, a clear picture of the tiled edge of her Jacuzzi tub. With another quiver of revulsion, she faced herself in the full-length mirror beside her vanity. She saw herself, demurely covered in a floor-length white terrycloth bathrobe. With a sigh at the sacrifices she had to make in furthering her forensics research, she shrugged the heavy robe off her shoulders and admired the exposure of her statuesque form as the heavy robe slid to the tiles below. Sam was naked before her mirror and the quietly running high-quality digital video camera.

“Agent Valiant is an amazing piece of ass,” Sam observed aloud in appreciation. She turned sideways and admired both her jutting ass cheeks and her architectural wonders, the twin peaks of her D-cup tits and the one-inch nipples that capped them. She dreamily thought, “Hooters, … that's what men would call these.” Even her large hands and fingers could never cover the broad expanse of her milk pods. Playing with herself in front of the mirror was one of her favorite pastimes, although, with her normal disciplinary approach to everything in her life, she rarely did it more than once a week. Her face lost its smile of joy and she scooped a glob of thick sex grease from an open container on her vanity. She squatted momentarily, and spread a generous amount of the cool concoction across her labia before standing erect. Still facing the mirror, Sam deliberately rubbed the excess lube off her fingers by rubbing them across her bushy pubic hair. The thick forest of brunette hair that covered her pubic mound was another of her vanities; it was a badge of unconventional honor that she never trimmed the thick jungle of wiry hair. “After all,” she frequently told herself, “it's not like I'll ever wear a two-piece bikini swimsuit or even bikini underwear for that matter.” Even though she shaved her legs and underarms, Sam had always thought a trimmed bush was unnatural looking and decidedly unsexy.

Finished with any possible delays, she stepped into her Jacuzzi with one foot and waddled gingerly forward with her other foot outside the tub to stand over her purchase. Standing over it, she reached over to finish a last task before starting, activating a digital timer set for three hours and three minutes. Refusing to look toward her furry crotch, Sam fixated on her image on the television and reached below her with both hands. The knob she encountered was the size of a small apple atop an obscenely veined fake cock pole attached to the tub below her with a large suction cup. With another grimace of distaste, she lowered herself until the apple-sized cock knob rested outside her outer labia. She rotated both her hips and the fake cock below her, slathering sex lube across the horrid manmade beast nudging against her sex hole. Her fingers also brought some of the excess sex grease down the long bumpy stalk below the head. She sighed aloud and threw her head back before she sunk relentlessly down upon the rubber and plastic phallic post below her. The sigh quickly turned into a drawn out grunt as ten full inches of the monster cock took possession of her seldom-used cunt. Never one to stint on a task, she set her full weight into the chore and the final inch disappeared into her widely-stretched opening. As her gynecologist had told her by telephone the day before in a rather humiliating conversation, “I shudder to wonder why you are asking this question, Sam, … but, at almost six feet tall, you should easily be able to take eleven inches up your vagina without bruising your cervix.” Sam's little grunts of discomfort became louder as her first downward thrust was a little too exuberant and her clit and pubic bone bottomed out on the half-inch ‘clitoral fingers' mounted all around the base of the shaft. Sam gingerly rose up and looked at the glistening black shaft that her pussy lips clung so tightly to on the upward motion. She rotated her hips to straighten out her vaginal sheath, and to get more uncomfortable with the largest object ever to grace her cunt, before sinking all the way back down again, taking the full eleven inches of slightly curved dick meat.

While roaming several adult novelty shops and searching for a large dildo with a suction cup mounting base, the only ones she observed that fit her criteria had been black, an observation that made Sam pause in wonder. She knew from clinical experience that black males were not unique in having large equipment. “Maybe the men and women that buy these things have a fantasy they want fulfilled,” she had thought while searching for her purchase. Daunted at the variety she found, and needing the largest cock she could accommodate for her experiment, she had been forced to call her gynecologist for advice before returning to get her purchase. Visiting an adult store twice in two days had been humiliation enough; sorting through the garish boxes of dildos while a fat and greasy-haired man watched with unconcealed lust in his eyes had been far worse. “Two days in a row,” she had complained to herself, “I had to see that pathetic, wimp of a fish-belly doughboy twice. What a pathetic loser he was.”

Sam looked at her digital timer and found she had thirty seconds before she needed to begin her test. Her plan was to see if she could approximate the damage seen on the abused pussies of the two federal agents that escaped from the drug dealers, supposedly after a long, drawn-out gangbang. Not believing the story, Sam needed to prove photographically what type damage a gang rape could inflict given that nothing in her forensic references came close to the damage she had seen in the pictures. Visits to local rape crisis centers had not resulted in any rape cases with remotely similar damage. The timer wound down to a full three hours remaining and Sam rose her body up a full ten inches on the fake cock before slamming herself back down onto the nubby fingers at the base of the cock. Her grunt of discomfort was louder this time. Undaunted, she held her position for a full second or so and then rose up again until she felt the fat apple atop the cock trying to escape her cunt lips. She drove herself down again, even harder than before. Her mouth opened like a fish and she grunted again as her full one hundred and sixty-five pounds fell upon the bruising fingers arrayed around the base of the monstrous cock. An athlete that never gave up on a goal, Sam grimly focused on the television screen and watched her breasts bounce up and down with each equally energetic downward rape she made onto the unfeeling dildo. “Fuck,” she moaned, “three freaking hours. God! Samantha Louise Valiant, this better be something of value, else you're liable to have made yourself a cripple for no good reason.” Sam grunted again as she fell down hard on the cock, feeling the fat apple-sized knob rub the full length of her inner sheath. Grimly setting her mouth, she sped up the pace, keeping an eye the whole time on her wildly bouncing mammaries.

An engineer would have noted that Sam found her heavy boobs' natural harmonic frequency in that she reached the precise up and down fucking motion that triggered the wildest possible flailing and gyration of her multi-pound tit orbs. They moved so quickly and so far around in repetitious circles that it appeared the flying boobs were defying gravity. Like a carnival ride out of control, her wondrous breasts looked as if they were going to zip off from her body, ripping any connective tissue to her shoulders. Each hurling orb stretched out impossibly long in the motions, making her breasts appear longer and fatter by far then was truly the case. Sam became mesmerized by the thumping, hurtling masses and continued to mindlessly fuck herself oblivious to anything except her breasts and the need to maintain their wild flailing. Only later, when she reviewed the tape on her larger living room television would she become truly appalled at how many orgasms she had announced in wailing, grunting, animalistic yowls to the recording eye of the video camera as her sweaty, groaning and moaning form fucked robotically away. Only the repeated dinging of the timer, heralding that her three hours was well finished, was able to awaken Sam from her trancelike state. When she pulled herself off the bumpy surface of the cock, she discovered that a sea of blood had dripped onto the monster cock's base and across the tiled surface of the tub.

Fearful she was going to bleed to death, Sam had quickly douched herself with a refreshing rinse. Instead of relief, she had rolled around her bathroom floor in agony as the vinegary solution scorched her shredded vagina. The pain lingered, but at least the bleeding had stopped. Sam gingerly patted herself dry and then waddled toward her bed with a damp cloth in hand. She had fallen exhausted onto her sheets and slept the night without stirring once.

At work the next morning, Sam walked carefully in order to disguise her nearly crippled state. Her swollen pussy lips were five times their normal size, looking more like a cauliflower rather than the entrance to a feminine pleasure cave. A thick feminine pad was tucked between her sensible white panties and her swollen crotch to absorb the near constant flow of tiny bloody clots and clear fluid coming off her bruised inner flesh. She sat gingerly at her desk, unable to fidget because of the intense itching and dull throbbing pain from between her legs. Thankfully, the desk's privacy screen hid her decidedly unladylike leg stance with her knees wide apart. Her first order of business was to lay out the pictures taken when Helen Powell and Regina Tyre ‘escaped' from their kidnappers and torturers. She set down two eight by ten glossy photographs of each abused pussy and then added two that she had taken of her own labia before coming to work. “It doesn't look like the damage on my pussy is anything like that on Helen and Regina ,” she thought. She pulled out a magnifying glass and carefully compared tears in the flesh, swelling, bruising, color, and puffiness.

Unable to make a connection between her photos and those of Helen and Regina , she hesitated and then picked up the phone and asked for a favor from one of the medical technicians specializing in human body forensics. “Christine, do you have time to look at some photos and give me an informal read on what you see?” she asked.

Within thirty minutes, Christine Taylor, a forty-two year-old Forensic Technician pulled up a chair beside the stunning Special Agent. The bespectacled matronly woman looked carefully at the pictures and asked for a rundown on the facts and suppositions about the events that caused the damage to the three pussies. She pointed to the unlabeled pictures of Sam's own cunt and asked, “You mean this is the sex organ of a prostitute that had been in a gangbang for three hours the evening before?”

Sam barely managed to keep from blushing and nodded mutely saying, “Yes, that's what she told the police.”

“Well, girl,” Christine answered with a grin, “you clearly don't know your way around a hooker's sex organs. If you look closely, you see that her anal star is clearly visible. That alone should tell you what inconsistency in her story that I'm going to point out. In fact, the unshaved mass of pubic hair is another indicator of the falsity of this streetwalker's claim.”

Mystified at what Christine was getting to, she once again nodded as she saw her own light brown anal star clearly staring from between the meaty cheeks of her ass and the wild jungle of pubic hair. Then she shrugged her shoulders in confusion.

“You see,” Christine continued, “this is certainly no seasoned whore. In fact, whoever this pussy belongs to, it probably didn't even see a gangbang. If anything, she had three hours of plain old vanilla sex with a lot of men. My informal opinion, … this is either a spinster or a sexually inexperienced housewife that got in over her head with a group of relatively well-behaved men, probably from a social club of some kind.”

Sam looked at the technician in amazement. “How the heck did you come to that conclusion?” she asked.

“Elementary, my dear,” Christine beamed, enjoying putting one over her normally savvy co-worker. “If you look at her anal ring again you will note that there is no damage at all. In addition, the rectal sphincter is thin and a beautiful light brown indicating that it has rarely, if ever, experienced anal sex. Lastly, note the unruly pubic hair that has never seen a pair of sexy panties. None of this matches the profile of a prostitute, whore, or even a normally sexually active adult.”

Sam was stunned that Christine had so quickly poked holes in her story about the comparative photos.

“In fact,” Christine teased, “if I had to guess, I'd say that you were closer to matching the profile of this woman than any sex worker in Miami .”

Not realizing how close to the mark she'd gotten, Christine abruptly giggled and punched Sam in the side. “Only kidding,” she laughed. Suddenly businesslike, she turned to the other four pictures and said, “Your problem is that you've exclusively focused on only one aspect of the injuries these women have received.” She pulled out the remainder of Helen and Regina 's pictures and started pointing out specific details, “Lookie here, … both women show signs of being roped at wrists, ankles, and above the elbows by a rope aficionado who had plenty of time to torture them – note the parallel bruises made by symmetrical rope coils. Also, … look at the whip marks across their backs, legs, and belly, … these are all parallel and clearly done in a cool, calculating way to inflict maximum pain and localized bruising without causing long-term scarring. Their bloodwork analysis indicates serious trauma and some internal bleeding, confirmed by these massive bruises on their abdomens and faces. But, … and I think this is significant, … all the trauma team had to do was clean and protect all these superficial wounds from infection. They had no broken bones, not even their noses, and needed no stitches; subsequent medical exams show no scarring.

Christine spent a few more minutes reviewing her option as to the causative factors for the extensive damage done to each woman. Finally, not making any further progress, she said, “Well, that's all I can do for you on this case. Good luck, babe,” and returned to her office. Undaunted by the lack of progress, Sam returned to her work.

No amount of forensic evaluation and detective work would ever show that in order to provide irrefutable proof of their abusive treatment by the drug dealers, Aaron Clarke had made each woman agree to be beaten. The two 5'6” women had bravely stripped themselves and locked their own ankles into ankle cuffs. Regina Tyre had been the most timid, standing as if shell-shocked; not ready to willingly participate in getting ready for her own torture. As a young prosecutor, she was less prepared to face such a wretched physical fate than was Helen with her field experience. Regina had trembled in fear and hesitated before she leaned down gracefully to lock her ankles into the already waiting leather cuffs chained to the floor. Her breasts jiggled enticingly as she stood erect and awkwardly latched a wristcuff onto her left wrist. Aaron had tried to reassure Regina while he cuffed her other wrist by saying, “What follows is necessary and will be as dispassionate as possible. We will avoid any further humiliation than is required to protect your cover story.”

Aaron had cupped a hand on one shapely ass cheek, and while he knelt down to check the security of her leg cuffs, sniffed the tantalizing whiff of womanly odor wafting from the frightened woman's pale brown patch of pubic hair. Aaron barely resisted the impulse to bury his face against her tempting pussy. “Hmmm,” he had told himself, “it sucks to have to stand by my promise to limit the humiliation of this session; especially since Regina Tyre has such a willing and talented pussy.”

Under orders from Aaron Clarke, their colleague Karen Rigden and Aaron's slave Ingrid Gaviard had donned leather punching bag gloves. Karen started on Helen's left thigh with a viscous punch. The meaty smack was followed instantly by a deep grunt of pain. Karen continued with measured right- and left-handed blows to the woman's left leg. She worked silently for more than five minutes as she covered the woman's calves, thighs, ass cheeks, and pussy mound with a flurry of painful blows. Finally, she stepped back and wiped sweat of her brow with the back of one wrist. After this first round, Ingrid and Karen switched places. Ingrid and Karen repeated their attack against the women's lower bodies, only now working on a different victim. The third and fourth rounds of beatings concentrated on the women's torsos and deeply bruised their abdomens, ribs, breasts, and kidneys. Each would piss blood in their urine for several days and they would require rib bandages to ease the pain of breathing.

Aaron alone administered the last part of the session. Ingrid stood behind the first victim, Helen Powell, and tightly clasped her black hair in one hand while her other steadied the back of her head. Aaron carefully struck blow after blow with his leather-covered right fist only. He started with the woman's forehead and eyes, moved to her ears, and finished up on her nose and mouth. Aaron wanted tissue damage and bruising, but no broken noses. As expected, his final blows split Helen's luscious lips superficially in multiple places. Aaron signaled Karen to move the now unconscious woman away while he and Ingrid turned their attention to Regina .

Thirty minutes later, Helen and Regina were side-by-side, secured similarly belly-down on low black leather ottomans. Their arms and legs were tightly strapped down, each with their delectable ass and pussy helplessly upthrust. They were ready for the next stage of abuse. None of the women knew what was to transpire. Aaron made final adjustments on two mechanical fucking machines. Each girl's thinly stretched pussy lips were wrapped around a fat, nine-inch rubber cock with deep ridges. The twin cocks glistened with a thick layer of slithery-slick sex lube. Aaron turned the machine on and observed the hydraulic rams silently and remorselessly fuck the women with deep in and out strokes. Helen and Regina were too tightly bound to wriggle their hips either to ease the fucking strokes or to evade them.

Aaron sat in his comfortable chair, alone and silent, while he observed the beginning action of this session. He had ordered the other women away to other duties, half afraid they would object to this round of abuse and intervene. Aaron knew that he had to inflict significantly more damage to their tender membranes than a lube-slick dildo would generate. He grimly reminded himself that obvious signs of repeated rape and torture were needed in order to maintain full believability of their accounts of what occurred.

Beside the silently observing man were a vicious-looking cat-o-nine-tails with heavy whipping straps and a bucket of coarse crystalline children's play-box sand. The sand was a last-minute addition brought in from a local lumberyard. Aaron dipped one hand into the bucket and brought up a fistful of the white sand. Not fully certain how the next part of the session would damage the girls, he let a few grains escape to sparsely scatter along the length of the glistening shafts.

Neither girl reacted as the increased friction on the shafts started to pull the pouting pussy lips out along the shaft on out-strokes and drag the quickly swelling lips into the pussies during the in-strokes. The increased friction and abrasive effect went unnoticed by the women due to the strong topical numbing agent Aaron blended with the sex lube. The girls would be unaware that the thrusting cocks were ‘sanding off' sensitive flesh in and around their assholes and cunts. Aaron let more sand dribble down to more fully coat the fake cocks. Sand also soon coated the pussy lips and pussy mounds of each woman; becoming increasingly red and swollen from the gritty fucking.

As the relentless fucking continued, Aaron pinched Regina 's slowly undulating ass cheek and eased a needle into the captured mound. The syringe plunger sent a powerful muscle relaxant into her system. She would be unconscious before her abusive assfuck started.

Aaron turned off the hydraulic pump and exchanged the bloody nine-inch cocks with clean six-inch ones better suited for anal sex. He eased the first inch of the slippery dildo into Helen's tight anal ring and remembered her fondness for rough anal sex. As the hydraulic ram started another relentless fuck, he turned to Regina and inspected her bloody pussy lips that clung limply to the sandy shaft still embedded in her pussy. Soon a slenderer and shorter cock was gliding in and out of her asshole.

Aaron picked up the whip and stared again at the now sandy assholes. The inward strokes of the punishing cocks made the brown anal sphincters disappear deeply into the rectums. “These are gonna hurt so bad tomorrow,” Aaron muttered as his arm swept back for the first whipping stroke he would administer. Even in her nearly unconscious state, Helen's back had arched up at each stroke of the whip. Aaron carefully left deep wheals of red stripes across their backs, sides, asses, and legs without once breaking the skin. He attempted to preserve their flawless skin and not leave any permanent scars.

Well before dawn the next morning, Aaron drove them to a quiet beach site near the highway stretching south to the Florida Keys . The two law enforcement agents stumbled along the rocky shoreline to a nearby parking area with a working pay phone. The penniless agents simply dialed 911 and waited for medical and police assistance.

Sam was still doggedly sifting through her case files trying to find a new angle when her phone rang. It was Christine Taylor.

“Hey lady,” Christine started cheerfully, “I've had some ideas that we should talk about during lunch.”

“Hmmm,” Sam replied guardedly, “I usually eat in so I don't waste too much time.”

Christine's voice took on a decidedly bossy tone, “Look, Special Agent! You're stuck in a rut on this case and we both know it. If you want help, grab your notepad and meet me in fifteen minutes in the Federal Building 's cafeteria. Ciao!”

Before Sam could reply yes or no, Christine hung up. Stunned at the abruptly ended conversation, Sam sat unmoving for several minutes before she shook her head and busied herself straightening her desk

Sam strode confidently into the cafeteria, enjoying the feel of the slight motion of her heavy breasts moving ponderously from her springy step. It was easy to spot her matronly looking lunch date and Sam headed directly there, noting that Christine was busy writing something on a sheet of paper laid beside her full lunch tray. Before Sam could greet her coworker, Christine hurriedly slid the paper into an official case folder and primly placed the folder in her leather satchel. Sam stopped by the table and cocked an eyebrow high while archly declaring, “Being a little loose with your document security rules?”

Christine beamed a cheerful smile and altogether too happily for Sam replied, “Yes, I suppose so. However, this file is one of the things we will be talking about over lunch. So, forget about it for now and sashay that pretty butt of yours on over to the lunch line to get your food.” Christine then ignored Sam and started taking her food off her tray and arranging the plates, silverware, and her iced tea on the table.

Sam and Christine spoke of innocuous things while they ate their lunch. Finally, Christine decided it was time to get down to business. “Sam,” she started, “I've been thinking about all the angles to this case that you mentioned earlier and I have some ideas.”

“It's about time,” Sam thought.

“Well,” Christine started, “I'm only gonna share these thoughts on your case because it seems you are extraordinarily committed to this one and you'll never make any progress alone.”

“Jesus, woman,” Sam was thinking, “tell me something I don't already know.”

“You don't have enough background knowledge in the prurient aspects of this case to fully appreciate the few pieces of evidence hidden in your files. I pointed out some of the obvious things to you this morning. Don't get me wrong, I can't solve the case, but I can point you in a new direction. I've taken the liberty of contacting a ‘friend' who has agreed to free up some time for you. If you are careful in how you handle him, you will pick up some new angles on this case and you oughta be safe enough.”

Sam was nodding through this commentary thinking, “Yes, maybe I do need some outside help on this case. But, … what does she mean, ‘safe enough'.”

Then, Christine's next statement threw her for a loop when she said, “Who knows, if you decide to turn him loose, you'll get the best sexing of your life.”

“What-a-minute!” Agent Valiant interrupted, “What the hell does that mean? Who is this guy and how did you come to fuck him?”

“Honey,” the homely Forensic Technician smirked, while she patronizingly reached out a fingertip to rub across the back of the much prettier woman's wrist, “to meet good men you have to have outside hobbies or special interests; and, believe me, I've got a helluva special interest going. I may be twice your age, and not have a fraction of your beauty, but, … I've had more earth shattering sex than you'll ever have at the rate you're going. You're stuck in a rut with only your work to show for your life. But, … as I said, I'd never give you this research clue except for what you showed me this morning. The man I've found, Robert Morgan, is an expert at the ugly parts of life that put those women in their awful state. He is into the ‘scene' if you know what I mean. But, … my warning about you being careful is very real, watch your step so you don't get in over your head.”

Special Agent Samantha Louise Valiant was getting a little tired of the condescending attitude from this frumpy old biddy. “You bitch,” Sam sputtered, “how dare you talk about my personal life like this, … and, … I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself.” Her anger was fueled as Christine Taylor kept smiling back in her superior way.

A surprisingly strong hand shot out across the table and pinned Sam's gesturing right hand down onto the tabletop with an audible thump. Pain shot up Sam's arm and before she could respond, she heard the woman quietly hiss back at her, “Shut the fuck up! You have the big city street smarts of a fourteen-year-old virgin from the backwoods of Missouri . You've forced me to make a point with you about how fast things will spin out of control if you're not careful. Take a look at this you silly cunt.”

Sam's surprise went up a notch when Christine's free hand somehow plopped down the official government file she had been working on earlier and a single sheet of paper slid out. “It's got my name on it,” she thought with an uncharacteristic lack of observation, her mental processes jumbled from the turn of events.

Christine's eyes locked onto her confused look and she smirked again as she flipped the paper over. The blood drained from Sam's face and she nearly peed herself right there in the cafeteria. “It's my photo from this morning,” she cried to herself in fear. “She stole it from my desk, … worse, she's marked it up with bodily identifications.”

“I take it you recognize your unruly pubic bush and nasty little pussy from this morning's discussion. God! You're so fucking naïve. Sam, do you realize how dangerous this photo is to you. I've worked the F.B.I. for years and I've never seen an official photograph without any reference markings or captions. You obviously printed this from your workstation after scanning it from a home photo. Photographically, it's nice and crisp, but it's not even printed on photo paper. I've highlighted some of your pussy's identifying features so we can confirm it's you. Believe me; this would make nice water cooler fodder for the men in our office.”

Samantha had never lost control of any situation like this in her life. She was speechless and unable to come up with a reply. Her only thought was the incongruous one of, “My brain just shorted out like the male bimbos at work that I so despise.”

Sam felt something cold snap against her wrist and her body was abruptly hauled up out of her chair by the much shorter woman she was with. None of her F.B.I. training clicked in to help her as she was turned and her other wrist was also handcuffed behind her back. Before she even knew what had just occurred, she was being force marched past the few tables between them and the ladies' restroom. When she finally broke out of her daze, she was being pushed backward into a toilet stall to thump hard onto the lowered seat of a toilet. Soft, fatty bosoms pushed into her face as Christine fumbled behind her back at her wrists. Another click heralded the imprisonment of her wrists to the toilet plumbing behind her back. Sam finally opened her mouth to angrily protest the inappropriate and highly illegal handling of her body.

Something awful tasting thumped hard against her teeth and the heel of Christine's hand pushed it into her with a twisting motion, viciously countered by a hand holding the back of her head steady. The large round object slipped past her front teeth and Sam belatedly realized that the frumpy lab technician had just gagged her; her over-stretched jaws already ached with a deep pain. Special Agent Valiant heard the faint swishing of the woman's skirt as she spread her legs widely to straddle Sam's own skirt-covered legs and sit down on her lap. The woman fumbled around the back of her head, tightening the gag's leather holding straps, and her hot ragged breath whispered in her ear, “You just settle down like a nice little bondage newbie and I'll explain what's going on. You're investigating a case where a bondage expert well versed in inflicting pain on women was able to capture, bind, torture, and interrogate three law enforcement agents. I think this man was likely active in the Miami BDSM scene and I'm sure you have no fucking idea what any of this means.” Sam's left nipple exploded in agony as the woman grasped it through her bra with her fingertips, tightly pinched it between sharp fingernails, and twisted it halfway around. “This is nothing like the correction you will get if you fuck up with Robert Morgan, the man I've contacted to teach you what BDSM means. You want insight into this case, … well now you're gonna get it. God help you if it's not what you want, cause it's too fucking late.”

Sam was still as a statue as the woman leaned back and fumbled in her oversize purse. Still thinking with a muddled brain, Sam could only wonder that the woman had been able to overwhelm her and get her into the restroom without help and still manage to have brought two purses and a file folder along as well.

Christine pulled out a piece of white medical tape she had precut into a two-inch circle. With the Special Agent watching in fascination and fear, Christine peeled it off a protective backing, set a ball of cotton in the middle of it, and stuck it squarely over Sam's left eye. Blinded in one eye, handcuffed with her hands locked behind her back, her legs tightly retrained on the toilet seat by the woman on her lap, ballgagged, and with a nipple that felt like it had been half torn from her body, she could only sit placidly while the final piece of tape and cotton took away the rest of her eyesight. This time, Sam did piss herself; hot urine flowed uncontrollably from her urethra, soaking quickly through her pantyhose, panties, and expensive suit skirt.

Her tormentor's voice laughed quietly in her ear and said, “Good! You deserve to find out you're no different from the rest of us. I bet those three women felt the same way when they were captured and immobilized despite their vaunted special training. Lesson number two; caution newbie because you are putty in the hands of a BDSM expert. Look what a novice like me was able to do.” Then her voice continued in a dry manner, “And, … obviously lesson number one went over your too-pretty head; don't fucking lose control of any situation when you're dealing with Robert or any BDSM Master, else you might be in this position permanently.”

Sam felt the woman move off her lap and heard her fumbling around, “Probably hanging our purses on the purse hook,” she thought smugly somehow taking a small pleasure from this disastrous situation by figuring out one small detail.

Actually, Christine Taylor was doing just that. However, what Sam had no way of knowing was that a very expensive and high quality digital camera borrowed from the F.B.I. lab had just been taken from Christine's purse and was now being focused on a full-body shot of the trapped and gagged F.B.I. Special Agent. Christine grinned like the wolf that had just swallowed Little Red Riding Hood and focused her next shot on the amazing torpedoes protruding from the heaving chest of the woman before her.

Christine quietly hung the camera strap over the shoulder straps of the two purses and straddled Sam's shapely legs once again. This time, each of her hands took partial possession of a bra-encased fun bag before she leaned in to breathe into Sam's ear, “Don't worry honey, I'm not gay.” Then she licked her way up Sam's neck and hissed, “But, … even I can appreciate true art when I see it. And, … make no doubt about it, … these are some masterpieces, baby!” With that said she squeezed her grip tighter and rotated the huge orbs around in half circles. “Yeah, baby, … whatta set of hooters.”

“Can it get any worse?” Sam asked herself. She never considered herself anything except helpless in the hands of this woman who had moved so devastatingly against her. Her role as helpless submissive in her hands was only reinforced when, for the first time in her life, a woman latched onto her breasts and kneaded and manipulated them like toys before hurting them with too vigorous twists. Then the voice spoke into her ear again, “I bet you think BDSM is all about sex. You will learn much in the next week but I'm sure that nobody will ever have to remind you that BDSM is always first and foremost about loss of control, obedience, and humiliation.” The hands left her throbbing breasts and gently took control of her forehead. Sam felt Christine's lips softly kiss her on the forehead and cheeks before she continued, “Lesson number three; nothing is free in life and money is never the currency employed to pay off a BDSM debt. Despite your fears and your piss-filled panties, you owe me big-time for what I'm doing to teach you to protect yourself. Also, there's the matter of the tutor I've found you.” The soft lips returned to kiss away a tear at the corner of each of Sam's eyes before she continued a little more gently, “Anyway, … those are your debts. For the first, you owe me a little autograph on the front of your nice little self-portrait to protect me from any retaliation for this little episode. The second debt is equally easy to pay; I want your underwear for a souvenir.” The fingers returned to grasp and punish each of her tender nipples this time. Sam grunted into her gag like a hurt pig and then listened in tearful silence as Christine hissed angrily, “And, … you better follow directions or I'll really let you know what pain is.”

Sam became a very obedient and compliant victim as she raised her butt off the toilet on command and her co-worker zipped the tight waistband of her skirt loose to get to her disgusting panties and pantyhose. Sam's now bare feet felt the cold tile of the bathroom floor as she held her ass up and she was repulsed at the idea of standing barefoot on a filthy bathroom floor. Once again, Sam's dazed brain was slow to realize that it was her bare ass that plunked down upon the body-temperature toilet seat and that her skirt had been slipped off along with her wet panties and pantyhose. Her grunt of disapproval halted immediately when a warning hand settled over her left nipple. Tears were now flowing freely at her near naked state in a semi-public bathroom in the Miami Federal Building .

While Sam was feeling sorry for her predicament, Christine was being a good little Forensic Technician; she had carefully bagged the soaking panties in an evidence bag and carefully written on the label, “Soiled panties from unidentified female prostitute and alleged rape victim, Miami Dade Prison, Criminal In-processing Unit.” The pantyhose went into a second clear bag that was labeled, “Soiled pantyhose from unidentified female prostitute and alleged rape victim, Miami Dade Prison, Criminal In-processing Unit.” Christine then grabbed her camera and kicked her victim's legs out enough to clearly display her hairy gash above the contrasting white toilet seat cover. After a zoomed-in photo was taken of the bare pubic area, Christine continued to hold the camera in place while she reached in with a pair of scissors to photograph them nestled in amongst the thick and wiry thatch. Setting the camera down for a moment, Christine hummed happily as she reached in with a left hand, strongly grasped a hunk of pubic hair from just below the horrified woman's bellybutton, and cut off a handful to be safeguarded in yet another evidence bag. This time the careful marking was, “Pubic hair from unidentified female prostitute and alleged rape victim, Miami Dade Prison, Criminal In-processing Unit.” Christine then carefully annotated a date from two months prior and printed and signed the name of a well-known lesbian prosecutor recently fired in a public furor for using her job position to curry sexual favors from arrested prostitutes that she hired as maids and cooks in her extensive Miami mansion. She had already labeled a folder as case jacket for the fabricated case of a prostitute arrested and processed at the Miami Dade Prison Intake Unit. The falsified records would show that the woman had been repeatedly gang raped just prior to her arrest at a bachelor party gone out of control. Other evidence bags were already prepared for the set of photographs being taken as well as the fingerprint card, a set of vaginal swabs, and the blood sample that Christine would take later on. Christine Taylor was a very through and efficient Forensic Technician.

Done with Agent Valiant's lower body, Christine knelt down by her victim's ankles and fed a loop of heavy binding cord behind the ceramic base of the toilet. Thinking how wonderful it was to have some of her self-bondage toys handy at work, Christine was getting very wet and stimulated from overcoming her co-worker so effectively. “Robert Morgan will be so very proud of how I've handled this,” she thought as she eagerly reviewed how she could garner his praise, “And, … maybe a round of sex from his so amazing sex organ,” she added happily as she quickly captured a trim ankle in a looped end of the bondage rope and roughly captured its twin, forcing both ankles far under Sam's body, almost all the way behind the toilet base.

Christine Taylor now sat down on the very naked and very widespread legs of her captive student in BDSM. She whispered into her shocked victim's ear, “Thanks for the panties and the hose. I've thoughtfully set your skirt and shoes aside so you can dress when we're through here.” Christine looked back over her shoulder at the ruined remainder of Special Agent Valiant's skirt. Two thirds of its length was now missing because she had carefully trimmed off the bulk of the skirt's material. The skirt was now officially a miniskirt; thankfully, Christine had not gone further and made it a micro-miniskirt. However, the agent's comfortable black footwear had been replaced with a glistening pink set of size ten ‘fuck-me-heels' with four-inch stiletto heels. Two sizes too small for her large feet, Special Agent Valiant would be pained in more than one way to wear such sluttish footwear.

Sam once again heard the now hated voice of her tormentor just microns from her ear, “Almost finished paying off this part of your debt my little toy.” Sam tried to grunt her disapproval of the humiliating term when a handful of her pubic hair was painfully yanked to an fro. Taking the obvious hint, Sam shut up while the voice sweetly continued as if it had never been interrupted, “Yes, little precious, I still want that bra and camisole top and the only way to get there is to cut it all off. So, … you better hold still or my scissors might slip and mar those proud beauties you are so proud of.” Sam felt her jacket slipping down her shoulders and she felt the cold steel of the scissors touch her neck. She tensed and then froze in place at a warning hush. The scissors snipped and their way through the thicker material of her blouse and then sliced through her camisole top with a quieter, almost hissing sound. The ruined material was tugged away from her torso, leaving her with heavy-duty bra exposed. Christine tugged the bodiless sleeves of her blouse down to her wrists and then cut them away. This move once again pushed her captor's matronly boobs against her face as the woman struggled to get scissors behind her back to remove the sleeves.

Christine once again stepped back to get a series of pictures. With some anticipation of pleasurable masturbation sessions over the graphic photos, she told herself, “Most of these will go into my personal collection at home. Only a few will go into the fake set of records that show this bimbo was arrested for prostitution and them freed by her lesbian lover and county prosecutor. Except for the lack of an official identification of the prostitute, the set of files can easily be used to prove who the arrested prostitute was, a local F.B.I. Special Agent with the morals of an alley cat caught while working as a callgirl for her nighttime job.” She grinned wolfishly down at her half-naked victim and thought, “Boy, whatta bimbo this one would make!”

Christine then straddled Sam's lap once again and spoke in a slightly louder voice, “You better hope nobody comes in here and finds you. That would be kinda difficult to explain wouldn't it? You're lucky I asked you down to lunch at the tail end of serving time when it's likely only the janitorial staff might come in here to clean up things.” Christine then leaned forward again and pulled the pins out of Sam's tightly wrapped hair bun. She combed out the tangles with her fingers and spread the agent's long brunette hair out over her shoulders and carefully hid the woman's taped-over eyes.

Thoroughly enjoying herself, Christine now turned her attention to the massive structure of the agent's bra and wondered at her own so much tinier, almost-C-cup boobs. “Nobody deserves such a bountiful set of knockers,” Christine thought with a growing jealousy. Reluctant to destroy such a wondrous bra, Christine ran admiring fingers around the heavy material of the side bands and then along the reinforced bulkheads supporting the massive mammaries above. With a sigh, she slipped the scissors under a shoulder strap and cut it, watching with wonder the rebounding action as the ends sprang away from the scissors. She grinned and watched with anticipation as the remaining shoulder strap was severed to fly away. She laughed aloud and said, “Tension, baby. These rascals are under some significant tension. Wow whatta set of jugs. You'd make that supposed rape victim hooker jealous with these milk makers! Wow!”

Christine was stricken speechless at the sight revealed when she cut through the center swath of cloth between the monster tits. The stretchy material had flown back like a rubber band snapping, exposing a more perfect set of tit flesh than Christine could have ever imagined existed. A veteran of many soft-core BDSM sessions, she had seen many topless women; none came close to rivaling the firm, milky white, flawless mounds before her eyes. No longer compressed tightly under the bra, the breasts had instantly appeared to expand as if alive. It looked as if the fingertip-sized nipples were launching themselves at their owner's tormentor. Christine had almost fallen backward off the toilet in amazement.

The Forensic Technician almost pissed herself in barely repressed excitement as she desperately fumbled around for her camera. “These will be perfect,” she thought. The first flash captured a relative close up of breasts, nipples, and the red ballgagged mouth above. A long string of drool dangling from one corner of Sam's grossly extended mouth was captured. She quickly flashed more shots, first down to cunt level, and then full-body shots. “I can crop these any way I want,” she panted to herself in lust. Despite her claim to be one hundred percent heterosexual, Christine had long ago accepted that as a submissive, she might as well enjoy whatever she was forced to do. As a result, the thought of sexually taking advantage of this woman didn't bother her in the least. Christine stood back and reappraised the situation. “Pay attention to your plan, you horny bitch,” she told herself cheerfully, “Don't blow things now by going so far that she'll never believe this is a lesson. Maybe I can get my friend Robert Morgan to let me have her later on after she's fully broken in. He will certainly owe me big-time for this favor.”

Under control once again, Christine leaned down and whispered, “OK girl, you've now fully paid for your hardest debt to me. Get dressed in your clothes and come up to my office for your final, and easiest debt to pay. You can take your time cause I'll be working late tonight on a case. Then I'll give you the contact information on Robert Morgan.” She ran a hand gently down Sam Valiant's cheek and whispered another lie to the naïve woman, “I hope you don't hold this against me but this is the only way I could see to impress upon you how grave your danger could be if you don't use your full training in dealing with this man. If you become fearful that you're in over your head, call me and I'll try and intercede.” She reached down and stuck a handcuff key in Sam's sweaty palm. “Hope you remember your handcuff training from Quantico ; else, the cleaning crew might find you here. Oh, … yes, … I forgot to tell you that I've kept your garage pass and given you a visitor's building pass, so you can't leave the compound without either going to my office or explaining all this to the Federal Protective Police.”

Christine Taylor opened the stall door and took a final look at the near-naked woman trapped on the toilet. The handcuffs and suite jacket pushed down her arms threw her chest forward, marking her pronounced breasts even more prominent. “The sight just about makes you break out in a cold sweat,” Christine panted to herself. “But that bitch's furry patch has got to go.” She did take one more mercy on the captive woman and used a quarter from her purse to lock the stall door latch from the outside, safely locking Sam in.

Special Agent Valiant held onto the tiny handcuff key for dear life. She slowed her terrified snorting and wheezing through her slobbery nostrils and tried to regain control of herself. She was mostly worried about the immediate threat of discovery and needed to be calm and quiet before she started to work herself loose. Sam methodically built up a picture in her head of what a pair of handcuffs looked like. From her practical exercises at Quantico , she knew this was going to be difficult and that if she dropped the key, she was royally screwed.

The first thing that Sam did with her freed fingers was to fumble desperately with the buckles behind her head to get the awful ballgag off. When it plopped free, her first wheezing breath felt like it was her first in weeks. It seemed more important than anything to get her breathing back to normal so she sat there in darkness for almost two full minutes while she sucked in as much refreshing air as she could while blowing the accumulated snot out of her nose. Only then did she peel off the eye patches that had blinded her so completely. Even alone, Sam needed to get her breasts covered and she shrugged her jacket back up over her shoulders and wrapped it around herself. She dealt with the ropes around her ankles last of all.

Sam leveraged herself up from the toilet seat onto a very shaky set of legs. That was the point at which she began to discover the full extent of the cruel joke that Christine had played upon her. She knew she had no choice about wearing the skirt that was cut so unfashionably short. “Oh, no!” she moaned aloud in true distress after she stepped into the remainder of the skirt and pulled it up her shapely legs. “The bottom of the skirt is only an inch or so below the bottom of my jacket. If I lean over, my ass cheeks will pop out on full display.” The distress over her skirt vanished instantly when she discovered that the only two remaining items of clothing were the outrageous pair of whore's shoes and a matching neon pink tube top. “A medium,” she muttered, “I haven't been able to wear a medium since my boobs started to grow.” Getting the stretchy top up over her hips was a daunting task; getting the dreadful thing over her mountainous boobs was nearly impossible. The top mashed her tits down across her chest and molded itself obscenely to her contours. She staggered out of the stall and threw purse, handcuffs, and rope down on the vanity with a clatter before turning to inspect herself in the mirror. Her first thought was that her hair and face were a disaster that would take all her skills to repair. The unaltered jacket kept her from looking exactly like a common streetwalker as long as it was buttoned down all the way. To hide the horrid pink top and the broad expanse of exposed belly under it, she moved to button her jacket and discovered that all three of its buttons had been cut free. “Shit! She only way to hid this is to hold it closed with one hand. I'm gonna kill that middle-aged bitch.” She dumped her purse out on the counter to get to her makeup and hair brush; what fell out of the curiously light purse was a loose jumble of condoms; otherwise, her purse was empty. She angrily piled condoms, the two sets of handcuffs, and the bondage rope into the purse and did the best she could with cold water, paper towels, and her fingers. Still somewhat wild looking, she straightened her ‘Escort Only' visitor's pass on her jacket lapel and started to move toward the bathroom exit and what she hoped was a nearly deserted cafeteria. She paused for a last glance at the time and realized that it was only 3:15 in the afternoon. “The building is still full of people. I can't wander down to the basement and cross all the way to the other side of the building without seeing far too many people. Anyone who sees me is supposed to stop an ‘Escort Only' visitor and take them to security. With a remarkably calm sense of fatalism she sighed and accepted her fate; she meekly returned to her toilet stall to wait out the remainder of the afternoon.

--- To Be Continued ---

 Author: Desert Dog ****** E-Mail: Desertlickingdog at yahoo dot com

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