Chapter One

Agent Zardooz

 

The call from my Handler came on the Friday after Thanksgiving. I told my parents the usual cover story. My company was sending me once again on an extended business trip overseas. I would be constantly traveling and I had no idea how long I'd be gone.

"You only just arrived a few days ago Brittany! Don't you ever get a break? I don't like that company you work for. We never get to see you," Mom said, upset.

"I know, but what am I going to do? It's my job Mom," I said.

"You have to leave right away?" Dad asked.

"I'm afraid so," I said.

I packed quickly and my parents drove me to the airport. The chances were better than average I would never see them again. I hugged and kissed them goodbye at the curb. Mom turned away, wiping tears from her cheeks. I kept my feelings inside.

"Take care honey," Dad said, looking deeply into my eyes.

From what little information my Handler could convey on the secured line, the new assignment would begin immediately, was extremely dangerous and involved undercover sexual activity. Just my cup of tea. My Handler told the CIA Director I wasn't ready to take on a new assignment and needed more time to decompress, but his assessment was apparently overruled since the new mission was of utmost urgency to the national security of the United States. I was ordered to catch the next flight to Chicago and given an address where the meeting was to take place. Only the Directors of the CIA, FBI, and the President of the United States knew about the meeting, as well as my Handler and another field operator. The details would be explained at the meeting.

"You made it kid," my Handler said. "You're playing in the big leagues now."

I arrived in Chicago, caught a cab and gave my driver the address of the meeting. As most men do when they first see me, the cabbie wanted to chat. In other words... how can I put this delicately? He wanted to have sex with me. I know you may think I'm boasting, but it's simply a statement of fact. I've got a pretty face, a sensuous body and an uninhibited nature, a lethal combination to the opposite sex. Every man, married or single, responds to me in the same way. When they first see my long thick black hair, my dark eyes and pale skin, and especially the heavy white flesh of my breasts, men always seem to want to "talk" to me. The driver asked if I was Persian.

"Baleh," I said, in a friendly manner. (Yes.)

The cab driver responded excitedly in Farsi that he was from Iran as well. He asked me for my name, where I was from, offered to show me around Chicago and take me to dinner and a show. I guess he thought I looked like the kind of woman who might say yes, if asked politely. I suppose my open, flirtatious nature and the provocative way I dressed did give the impression I was up for an anonymous hookup. I made eye contact with him through the rear view mirror and he flashed a hopeful smile.

I politely declined his offer, but the idea did cross my mind. Am I that much of a slut? Was I seriously considering having sex on the way to perhaps the most important meeting of my career? If I arrived late smelling of raunchy cab driver sex I know my Handler would find it highly inappropriate, but not unexpected. You see, it's no secret. I have a reputation. My life has passed by in a haze of sexual encounters, even before the CIA officially sanctioned my promiscuity. Everyone from the Director to the custodians at Langley knows I'm fair game.

After leaving behind a trail broken hearts I tried, half-heartedly, to change my evil ways. Several years ago I went to a meeting in the basement of a church in DC and admitted to a group of strangers in a dimly lit room that I, Brittany Milani, was a sex and love addict. I knew I was supposed to feel remorse for my licentious behavior, but as soon as the admission left my lips I secretly felt proud, like it was a badge of honor to be sexually liberated.

The way I saw it I could give my obsessions over to a "Higher Power" I didn't believe in, or I could stop worrying about what other people think and completely let my sexuality free. The choice was simple. After the meeting I was assigned a dark handsome man as my sponsor to help me "manage" my addiction. Big mistake. Over coffee I seduced the poor gentleman and we had wild sex in a cheap hotel room around the block from the church basement. So much for my 12-Step Program. Rather than fighting my sensual inclinations, I gave in to them. Completely.

Accepting my natural desires has proven to make me a more effective asset for the CIA. I've been used by the agency precisely because of my sexual addiction. I've been involved in two major missions over the last five years. In a covert operation between the CIA and the DEA, I was instrumental in gathering evidence that led to the convictions of the leaders of a major network of drug suppliers and distributers across America. And in my last case, I helped break up of one of the largest and most lucrative international sex trafficking rings in Europe.

Both assignments were very difficult on me, both physically and psychologically. I've lost count of the number of men I've had sex with along the way. Like an actress seamlessly disappearing into her role, I've successfully infiltrated the worlds of drug trafficking and white female slavery. My fellow agents on the ground have always managed to pull me out just in time before my identity was compromised and my mind still relatively intact. Though I was made to do some pretty unmentionable things to the suspects under investigation, I believe the ends always justified the means. We got some dangerous individuals off the street and my actions, however dishonorable, made the world a safer place.

After we scored convictions on the last of the court cases, my cache within the department grew. Several agents in the office approached me to shake my hand and congratulate me. I think most analysts and fellow field officers think I'm a somewhat haunted and extremely complex person, based on my particular skill set. I know I'm an outsider at the agency, without an ally. I don't even consider my shadowy CIA Handler as a friend. Though I've worked with him for several years, I don't even know his name. Some agents, particularly the female officers, look down on me for what I do. I'm fully aware I've been hired as a prostitute for the government. I've thought of quitting many times, but I have no idea what I would do with the rest of my life. Perhaps deep down I'm afraid if I quit the CIA, I'd become a prostitute for real. I've fantasized about what it would be like on occasion.

When the cab stopped, I smiled, tipped my drooling driver and got out at the entrance of this nondescript black warehouse off the highway on the outskirts of Chicago.

"Are you sure this is the place?" I asked.

"Yes, Miss. This is the address you gave me," the driver said. "Listen, are you sure you don't wish me to show you around town? I can swing by later if you'd like."

"Thank you, but no," I said. "Khoda Hafez." (Goodbye.)

The meeting was at this night club called Obsessions. I liked the place immediately. I'd heard about places like this which cater to dominants and their submissives, but I had never actually visited one before. There were attractive women in various stages of undress, in all shapes and sizes, with and without slave collars. The sexy ladies were scattered throughout the club, with wrists cuffed to the tables and walls or standing on a raised platform with arms raised overhead attached to chains dangling from the ceiling and ankles cuffed to the floor. Several well-dressed gentlemen walked throughout the club and ordered drinks at the bar. I watched from the entrance for a moment, mesmerized by the scene.

Other than working an undercover assignment, I had never been involved with a dominant male or played the role of a submissive. I wondered what it would be like to give your mind, body and soul over to a man, to be owned as his property and dominated, to be in total unquestioning obedience and subservience to him. In my professional work, I enjoyed taking the role of the submissive in the bedroom and relished giving pleasure to a man in whatever way he so desired, including oral and anal sex. Becoming a submissive has always been a strong sexual fantasy of mine but I was a little afraid that if I ever tried it in an actual relationship, it would have the power to take over my life. Playacting the role of a submissive in an artificial environment like Obsessions seemed like a much safer and saner thing for a compulsive person like me to do. I checked my watch, wondering if I had a few minutes to jump into the pool and literally get my toes a little wet in this alternative sexual world, chained and fondled by several men at once on the raised platform I saw in front of me. But since the flight had landed a few minutes behind schedule, I was running late for my meeting. My obsessions would have to wait.

A very pretty well-endowed black haired woman approached me in a sexy silk robe. Was it lingerie night at the club? Why wasn't I told? I was much too conservatively dressed in my short but tasteful black business skirt, jacket and white top. At least the rings of my areolas and the tips of my nipples could clearly be seen under the sheer material of my blouse. I stopped wearing a bra after I left my parent's house for college. Although some of the latest models are sexy, I don't really like the feel of them on my breasts. I find them constrictive.

"Are you Brittany Milani?" the woman asked in a soft voice.

"I am," I said somewhat apprehensively, not liking anyone to know my actual name.

"I'm Grace, the submissive of the club's owner, Jim Jefferson," she said. "Happy Thanksgiving."

"Thank you."

"How was your flight?"

"Fine. You're so pretty Grace. Mr. Jefferson is a lucky man."

"Well, I try to keep him... amused. Follow me please."

Grace appeared nervous and kept looking over her shoulder, as if she expected some unwelcome guest to arrive at any moment. She escorted me through the crowded club, past a bar and down a long corridor. On the way, we passed several people standing against a glass wall looking in at some B and D scenarios being acted out inside two enclosed rooms. Unfortunately, I only caught a quick glimpse of a man wielding a long black whip as we walked by. Interesting... Grace stopped at a door near the end of the corridor and tapped lightly upon it.

"Enter," a deep voice said on the other side.

Grace opened the office door to let me in and three gentlemen stood up to greet me. Grace didn't come in and shut the door quietly behind me.

I recognized one man with the dark circles under his eyes as my Handler. I hadn't actually seen him in the flesh since he arranged the logistics of my last mission.

"You're late, Agent Milani," my Handler said.

"Sorry, Sir. My flight was delayed," I said.

There were two other men in the room. One was a large well-dressed man, broodingly handsome despite a facial scar, which I assumed was the Dominant of Grace. To my complete surprise, the other was an attractive Persian man, my sponsor from the 12 Step Meeting! What a small world! I didn't recall his name, but I did remember the smell of his fragrant skin, his muscular frame and his sweet desperate passion in bed. He seemed surprised to see me as well. We looked into each other's eyes. What was his name?

"Good evening Agent Milani," my 12-Step sponsor said.

"Hey you," I said, smiling.

"So you two apparently know each other," my Handler said.

"No, not really," the man said, looking away.

"I showed you Agent Milani's photograph when you arrived for this meeting. Why didn't you tell me you had a past association with her, Agent Zardooz?" my Handler said, clearly annoyed.

Zardooz. That was his name. He didn't answer the question, so I answered for him.

"It meant nothing, sir. We had a... brief encounter... several years ago in DC. I never saw him again. I'm sure Agent Zardooz completely forgot about it."

In my mind, it had no bearing on the mission whether I slept with him or not. We're all adults here. I lost count of the amount of men I've slept with, for business or pleasure or both.

"Salam, Agent Zardooz," I said with my usual friendly smile.

"Salam," Zardooz said with a tense smile.

"I didn't know you were CIA," I said.

"I'm FBI," Zardooz said.

"Oh..." I said.

An uncomfortable pause passed.

"So, are we going to have any issues here, Agents?" my Handler asked.

"No, Sir. No issues," I said. "I didn't even remember his name. No offense, Agent Zardooz."

"None taken," Zardooz said.

I was a little embarrassed to have completely forgotten what his name. Richard? Roger? No, it was something more exotic. He kept his Persian first name, I think. But I did remember rolling around in the seedy hotel room and copulating like sex addicts on a bender. We made love to each other like it was Armageddon and there was one last chance to have an orgasm before the world imploded around us.

"I am not happy about this, Agent Milani. I'm beginning to have some second thoughts here. I already told the Director you needed more time to decompress, but it was not my call to make. This mission is of a sensitive and extremely dangerous nature. We cannot afford any distractions. One mistake could cost both of you your lives as well as further endanger our National Security," my Handler warned.

Agent Zardooz stood his ground.

"I wouldn't think twice about it, Sir. As I recall, the sex wasn't all that great," Zardooz said, as if he was entirely bored with the conversation.

I'm sorry, but I couldn't let that pass. I have my reputation to consider. I took my favorite shade of lipstick out of my purse, cherry red, and painted on another coat.

"Yes. Unfortunately I don't think they had pills for erectile dysfunction back then," I said.

My new partner didn't miss a beat.

"Anyway from what I've heard, you'd have a hard time assigning someone who hasn't slept with Agent Milani," Zardooz said.

That was a little below the belt, but I let it pass, knowing he was just trying not to get removed from the case. Despite his rudeness, I liked Agent Zardooz. I found him attractive in an aloof sort of way. Like a moth to the flame, I've always been drawn to inaccessible men. I seem to recall he told me he was married back then, though I didn't see a ring on his finger.

"There's no issues here Sir," Zardooz stated.

"So why don't I believe you, Agent Zardooz?" my Handler said, looking into his deep brown eyes.

"And by the way, there is one man in the CIA I haven't slept with. Sadly, I've never been handled by my Handler," I said, trying to break the tension.

Of course, my ever serious G-Man didn't pick up on the humor.

"I guess you do have a moral compass after all, Milani," Zardooz said, cuttingly.

"It's Agent Milani..." I said with an edge to my voice.

My Handler rubbed his temple in irritation.

"Great. This should go well. You're sniping at each other like a married couple already," my Handler said.

"No. I don't believe in marriage or monogamy. I'm destined to be a single girl," I said. "But as I recall, Agent Zardooz is a happily married man."

I unintentionally touched a nerve. Zardooz looked away.

"I'm divorced actually," Zardooz said.

"Oh..." I said. "Sorry..."

Awkward... I looked at my Handler and he slowly shook his head. There was another long pause. The gentleman with the scar intervened.

"Perhaps I should give your agents some time to speak privately," he said courteously, while making a move toward the door.

My boss reached out and touched Jefferson's arm.

"Thank you Mr. Jefferson, but I need you here. Despite how uncomfortable this may be, we have no time to replace either of these Agents. So this is the team we're stuck with, whether we like it or not."

Zardooz and I exchanged a glance, like a couple of school kids who just barely escaped detention.

"Mr. Jefferson, as I mentioned earlier to you earlier before the agents arrived, it is highly irregular to use a private citizen in a covert CIA operation of this magnitude. As far as I know, it has never been attempted before in the history of American espionage. The last time we went outside the agency, a former FBI agent we hired as a contractor disappeared in Iran in 2007. His whereabouts are still unknown and he is presumed dead."

My Handler took a short breath before continuing.

"I know I'm breaking every rule in the book here. I haven't even spoken to the CIA Director about this detail of my plan because I know for a fact he'd never allow it. I'm 30 years in, just a few years away from retirement. I may lose my job over this decision. But the way I see it, we have no other option. There is no time to train anyone else. Even if I attempted to have you replaced in the sting, our suspect has already heard your voice on the phone. I judge you to be quite a capable man, Mr. Jefferson. You may be our most important asset here. As I told you, you can refuse to do this. I know you had training as a police officer, but you need to be aware that you are taking on a huge risk to your personal safety," my Handler told the scarred man.