This story features non-consent, coercion, and humiliation. If those elements don't appeal to you, you may prefer one of the excellent stories found in the Literotica Top Lists.

This story is a fantasy. The author does not condone any real-world nonconsensual touching or sexual activity.

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia, May 2006

Amanda awakened at dawn with a tingle of anticipation. Realizing there were still several hours until her interview, she burrowed back beneath the sumptuous linens on her oversized bed. The large suite in an opulent hotel in Tyson's Corner had been very quiet, and she felt well-rested despite her long drive the day before.

After indulging in a long shower in her expansive marble bathroom, she patted herself dry with a fluffy Egyptian cotton bath sheet. She blow-dried her long mane of thick, dark hair and knotted it behind her head. Over her plain white bra and panties, she slipped on a cream silk blouse, which she buttoned to her throat. Around her neck, she looped a strand of Tahitian pearls. Matching studs adorned her ears.

She scrutinized her reflection in the oversized mirror, concerned the blouse might be too clingy, but she judged it acceptable. She stepped into a stylish, smartly tailored knee-length skirt in lightweight navy blue wool, then shrugged on a matching suit jacket. On her feet she wore low-heeled designer pumps. The mirror again confirmed her ensemble harmonized and looked professional.

She wore no makeup. Lip gloss or eye makeup would invite attention to her already striking appearance, as would a short skirt, a blouse with a low neckline, or anything too tight. A feminist, she was proud of her intellect. She would win this job on her ability, not her looks, and she didn't want the wrong kind of attention. Fending off a clumsy pass could derail her ambitions.

The day was sunny and warm, and Amanda enjoyed her drive past the blooming dogwoods and azaleas along the George Washington Memorial Parkway. When she arrived at the gate, she was directed to the Original Headquarters Building, where she was met by a recruiter.

Amanda confidently extended her slender hand and smiled warmly as she gave him a carefully practiced firm handshake. "You must be Mr. Richards. I'm Amanda Stevens. It's a pleasure to meet you." Her perfect posture added to her apparent stature, and her low, strong voice conveyed calm self-assurance.

Momentarily distracted by her arresting appearance, Richards stammered an awkward greeting, but he quickly recovered. He led her across the lobby, pausing to point out the CIA Memorial Wall and Book of Honor commemorating the sacrifice of 84 fallen agents. As Amanda sized him up, she saw he had the frame of an athlete, and while he appeared to be in his mid-forties, he still made an effort to keep fit. He wore his brown hair in a brush cut. His manner was pleasant enough, but very direct and to the point.

As he led her briskly down a long corridor lined by the Directors' Portrait Gallery, dodging groups of chatty employees, she was amused by his obvious surprise on first meeting her. This wasn't the first time someone had assumed she'd be plain looking based on her distinguished academic track record. She forgave him for becoming tongue-tied and forgetting his social graces.

When they reached his cramped office, Amanda noticed the worn furnishings and scarred walls were in need of an update, unsurprising in a government building dating from the late 1950s. She settled into a cracked vinyl armchair, careful to keep her feet and knees together as she smoothed her narrow skirt against her thighs and tucked the edges of the fabric beneath her. After Richards took a seat behind his desk, she modestly lowered her gaze for a long moment as he studied her features, until she looked up to meet his eye and he realized he was staring inappropriately.

Flustered again, Richards fumbled with the folders atop his desk until he managed to locate her file. "I've looked over your resume, and it's quite impressive. You've earned a 4.0 GPA while completing a demanding curriculum and graduated with highest honors from one of the nation's most prestigious universities. You must be very proud of your accomplishments."

Amanda was flattered by his praise. "I focused all my efforts on academics. I didn't do much socializing."

"Really? You must've had lots of boyfriends."

Her proud glow faded, but she tried not to take offense. He was wrong to comment on her appearance in a way that diminished her abilities, but she guessed his remark was meant to be a compliment. Her polite little smile didn't reach her eyes. "Boyfriends were never a priority. There wasn't time. But yes, there were plenty of candidates," she allowed.

"I bet." He glanced at her resume again. "It's not every day we see such strength in middle eastern languages."

"I learned French and German in high school, and a little Spanish for our vacations in Madrid and Barcelona. Then my dad was killed on 9/11...." Five years later, her devastating loss still carried a raw edge, and a lump formed in her throat. This was the one part of the interview for which she had failed to prepare.

Her words jolted him. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry! Your father died at the World Trade Center?"

"Yes, he did." It came out softly, almost a whisper. But then she collected herself, looked Richards in the eye again, and spoke with great conviction. "That's what led me to shift my emphasis to Farsi and Arabic, and to pursue a career at the CIA."

She sniffed. "He was my only family. The only person who loved me. We were much closer than a typical father and daughter. Except for his work and my school, we did everything together. Until they took him from me."

She cleared her throat. "But now I'm going to avenge him. No matter how much time and effort it takes, I'm going to hunt them down and make them pay." A stronger wave of emotion swept over her, making her lip tremble, and she struggled to fight back her tears.

Uncomfortable, Richards searched for a tissue as he chose a more neutral topic. "I see you're interested in martial arts. Are you proficient?"

Embarrassed by her display of sentiment, Amanda recomposed herself and dabbed her cheeks with a silk handkerchief from her handbag, thankful she hadn't used mascara. "I have a third-degree black belt in judo." Grateful for his change of subject, she forced a smile. "Initially I did it for my dad. He wanted me to be able to defend myself. But I enjoyed it. There's something satisfying about putting a 200 pound man on his back," she added.

"You're also a competitive marksman? It's not unheard of for women to shoot, but it is unusual."

"My dad wanted a son to hunt with, but he had to make do with me." She brightened. "He called me part tomboy, part girly girl, all daddy's girl. He gave me a .22 for my eighth birthday and a thirty aught six when I was twelve."

"Powerful weapon for a twelve year old girl."

"I was tall for my age. I developed early."

His eyes dropped to her breasts, and she realized what she'd said. "Oh, shit!" She turned beet red. This was not a word she ever used. "I mean, crap. I mean, that's not what I meant!"

"What did you mean?"

"I was talking about my height, not about my..."

"Not about your what?" His expression was unreadable, but she sensed he was enjoying her discomfort.

"My breasts!"

He frowned. "Why would you bring up your breasts?" He fixed his stare on her chest. "That's an inappropriate topic. Didn't your placement office cover that?"

Amanda flushed anew as she berated herself. She knew how improper it was to bring up her appearance. Her breasts were particularly off limits.

"Mr. Richards, I'm so sorry. That was idiotic. Could I please start over?"

He rubbed his chin. "I suppose. But let me be clear. In the past, you may have succeeded by trading on your looks, but that won't work with me. If you make any further mention of your breasts, or continue to flaunt them, or try to influence my decision, I'll end this interview and escort you out."

She thought his characterization was unfair, but she saw no benefit to arguing. "Yes, I understand." Upset, she twisted the corner of her handkerchief as she tried to steady her shaking voice. "We were talking about my marksmanship."

"You were learning to fire the thirty aught six."

"I was tall, and starting to mature, but it took time to master it. Dad's 9mm Glock was hard too, since my hands and wrists are slender. I never did like his 12 gauge Mossberg. But I served as captain of the rifle team for two years."

The interview resumed its expected course. An hour later, when Richards had exhausted all other topics of inquiry, he sat forward in his chair. "Amanda, I'd like to offer you a provisional position as an entry-level Signals Analyst. You'd work full time here in the Washington area, using your language skills extensively. It's a challenging position, but with your exceptional IQ, you're well qualified, and that job fits your personality." He went on at length, trying to sell her on the assignment.

Amanda was pleased. "I definitely want to work for the CIA, so I welcome the offer, and thank you. But this position sounds very technical. I'm sure I could do the job," she hastened to add, "but office work wouldn't have the direct impact on terrorism I'm looking for. Do you have any openings in the National Clandestine Service?"

Richards seemed uncomfortable. "Yes, NCS is currently hiring, and they need operations officers with your language skills. Your weapons experience would also be an asset. But operations officers are stationed outside the U.S., including third world locations and primitive or dangerous conditions."

She nodded, wondering if he thought primitive conditions would dampen the enthusiasm of a woman with such a pampered, privileged upbringing. He couldn't be more wrong, she thought. She would have to show him she was not so fragile.

He continued. "Both jobs require a security clearance, which means a background check. The Signals Analyst job has a lot of training, but it's all classroom work, and you'd be almost certain to complete it successfully. On the other hand, the NCS program includes additional screening, further interviews, and field training at the Farm. It's mentally and physically demanding and very competitive. Only a small percentage of female applicants pass the initial screening and graduate from training."

"Yes, I've read how hard it is. But I sense you haven't yet raised your biggest concern?"

Richards sighed. "How do I put this delicately? As a female operations officer, your self-defense skills would be secondary. Your primary mission would be to make use of your femininity. That's a problem for many women, particularly those with high moral standards like yourself."

"Thanks. I do have high moral standards, but may I ask how you know about them?"

He pointed at her resume. "You worked with the Catholic Volunteer Agency and organized their annual clothing drive. And your third reference is Monsignor Alphonse Urbino at Our Lady of Mercy Catholic Church. So, you're a devout Catholic. Isn't the Catholic church still opposed to extramarital sex?"

"Yes, they are," she conceded. "Are you saying I'd be required to have extramarital sex?" she wondered aloud. "Oh, of course. Like seducing foreign nationals to gather intelligence." She nodded. "I assumed it would help to be attractive, I just didn't realize I'd actually need to have sexual intercourse with them," she stammered. "But once you think about it, it's kind of obvious...." She trailed off.

"Frankly, most female agents don't have a problem with it. But for you, the stakes are higher. You'd be violating your principles. On the other hand, it could be satisfying to actively fight terrorism, particularly when the issue is so personal. Only you can weigh whether the payoff is worth the cost."

She agreed, but her brow furrowed as she was struck by another concern. "But maybe your real concern is that I'm not sufficiently worldly? Or not sexy enough?"

He struggled to find the right words. "First, let me be clear: It's not for me to say. That judgement is made by others with more seniority. However, in my opinion, you're quite beautiful." He warmed to this topic. "Not just your face. Your body is particularly alluring." He stared at her openly. "You're plenty sexy, from what I can see."

Her face reddened, and she scowled at him in disapproval, but she tempered her words. "I don't appreciate you speaking that way about my body. However, vanity has been a challenge for me. I still have trouble with other people's opinions of my appearance."

"That's ok," he said. "Your beauty could make you valuable to us. But before you become a candidate, make sure you're willing to do what it takes. To use your sex appeal to attract sources, seduce them, compromise them, blackmail them, and yes, to have sex with them. It's a big decision. Want to think it over?"

She found this last requirement repellant. However, the terrorists were nearly all men. Who better than an attractive woman to lure them in? She had seen the lustful way men looked at her, and she found it tiresome. But she was also more powerfully validated by this attention than she liked to admit. It would be quite satisfying to use these men's appetites against them in exacting her revenge. The resulting sense of power might make her feel less like a helpless victim.

Finally, she remembered her promise to herself: She wouldn't let her fear block her forward progress. The threat to her moral standards was a necessary risk.

"Thank you, Mr. Richards, for explaining the considerations. I've made my decision. I want to be a candidate for NCS. I understand others will decide if my face and body are up to your standards. If I'm selected, I know I may have to have sex with the terrorists. I don't want to, but if it's part of the mission, I'll make that sacrifice."

"Ok, NCS it is. You'll return tomorrow for your screening. Right now, I need you to sign some documents." He led her to a conference room and seated her at one end of the table. He activated a video camera and sat down beside her.

He faced the camera. "Jack Richards, completion of NCS candidate waiver signings with Amanda Stevens at CIA Headquarters in Langley, Virginia on May 22, 2006."

He turned to face her. "Amanda, acknowledge that you're here of your own volition and not subject to any coercion."

"Yes. I acknowledge. I'm very happy to be here." She beamed into the camera.

"Now, we'll review a series of documents. I'll explain each one, then you'll read it. You'll affirm you understand it, and you'll sign it."

He placed the first form in front of her. "This is an agreement to abide by the Official Secrets Act. No information you obtain, including details of your assessment, may be disclosed without authorization."

Amanda skimmed the page and signed it with a flourish.

Richards brought out another sheet. "Here you consent to a polygraph test and a comprehensive physical and psychological examination."

Amanda had no qualms about a polygraph, but she detested physical exams. She grimaced, but she quickly signed.

"This one consents to electronic, audio, photographic, and video monitoring and recording at all times, whether on or off government premises."

Amanda hesitated.

"It's required for all of us."

"Off government premises, like in my own apartment?"

Richards nodded. "Yes, in every room of your home."

"Even in my bathroom? What could possibly be the purpose?"

"You'll have classified information. Counterintelligence agencies need to confirm you're not making any unauthorized disclosures or having any improper contact. Not even in your own bathroom -- where some spies have communicated in the past."

Amanda dithered. She thought about being observed as she showered, dressed for work, and attended to feminine hygiene, and she felt extremely uncomfortable. But other female agents must have found a way tolerate it.

Richards reassured her. "Counterintelligence doesn't often invoke their surveillance rights."

She concluded this monitoring was hypothetical, and probably would never take place. She would scrupulously observe regulations and avoid suspicion. She signed the form.

Richards presented another document. "We'll record all stages of your assessment, including your physical. We'll take photos of you for assessment of your attractiveness. Some applicants find the photos demeaning. We'll also test your capabilities. Records will be maintained and shared as needed."

Amanda was stricken.

"Judging by your expression, this one is a problem. You're not the first to have concerns. But it's a requirement."

"Will photos be taken with... any clothing removed?"

"Yes." He started to say more but thought better of it.

Displeasure showed on her face. "How do I know the pictures won't be misused, or put on the internet?"

"That would violate federal law. I've never heard of it. Best to accept it and forget it." He paused. "Or, if this is a deal breaker, better to walk away now."

She signed.

"One more. This is for females entering NCS, intending to work with foreign nationals in countries listed here. As you know, relationships between men and women are different in these countries."

She nodded slowly.

"Men take a dominant role in some conservative societies. They expect their women to behave deferentially. Given your fluency in Arabic and Farsi, you may run into men who follow religious law and who subjugate younger women, particularly foreign-born ones. Some may treat women in their household as their personal property, or chattel. Will that be an issue for you?"

Amanda felt deeply unsettled, but she shook her head. "No. I mean, yes, I have a big problem, but I want those assignments, so I'll work on that."

"Good girl. But NCS will verify you've dealt with this challenge. We can't risk it becoming a problem. That could threaten the mission and endanger your teammates."

She nodded uneasily.

"NCS will test your ability to withstand being subjugated, controlled, and objectified. Baseline testing will be part of your assessment, followed by training. We'll do further testing and training as needed. Do you still want to participate?"

It took her a moment to find her voice. "Yes," she responded.

"Portions of the testing and training involve physical and sexual contact. Other NCS personnel and candidates, both male and female, will participate. Some of their actions may be beyond our control. NCS sometimes does not disclose details of group tests until they're under way, or until after sexual contact has occurred."

He continued. "Instructors sometimes have no opportunity to obtain advance consent. You may choose to end your candidacy at designated points, but you may have to wait until the conclusion of the exercise. This document represents your consent to all sexual contact during your assessment. Do you understand?"

Amanda shuddered. She couldn't conceive of the scenarios that could arise. Perhaps this was all a huge mistake. She felt an urge to get up and leave.

But she thought again about how badly she wanted revenge. This desire represented her only purpose. She was young and fit, and she would never be more attractive. This might be her only opportunity. She couldn't squander it.

Richards grew impatient. "I said, do you understand?"

She had to make a decision. She nodded.

"I need an audible response."

"Yes, I understand."

"Please tick the boxes for subjugation and advance consent to sexual activity, and initial beside each. Then sign at the bottom."

Her hand shook, but she made the notations and scribbled her signature.

"Great. Welcome to NCS Candidate Screening."
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Pub: Dec 29 2020 09:34 UTC
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