Katrina whirled to see Maia North, the newly initiated to fourth level agna and consort of the Pretorian Guard’s west coast pater Gordon Ernkat, standing with wide eyes in the doorway of the server room deep below Mountain View, California.
Shit. Katrina had nothing. One hope: use this final moment of uncertainty, before Maia grasped the utterly obvious and absorbed the truth of Katrina’s treachery.
She pulled her silenced pistol from its holster, pointed it at Maia’s forehead, hoped desperately the other woman wouldn’t call her bluff.
Maia’s intellectual quickness hadn’t already become legendary in the Order of Ostia without reason, however, Katrina now learned to her dismay. In the moment her attention moved to the gun, Maia had tensed, and as Katrina raised the barrel of the pistol, the redheaded CEO of Confidelia Systems and part-time secret agent had dropped so that she could use Katrina’s own body position against her. Maia slammed her shoulder into Katrina’s midriff and drove her against the rack of servers behind her, incidentally snapping off at its plug the data recorder Katrina had inserted only a few seconds before Maia appeared.
“Alarm!” Maia shouted as they struggled on the floor, with Maia holding Katrina’s pistol hand above her head. “Alarm!”
Footsteps sounded from the guard station down the hall. Worse, the word alarm had triggered the voice-response system. All over the world, agents of the Pretorian Guard and the Order of Ostia knew that a breach of security had just taken place in the inner sanctum of the guard’s data. Soon, they would all know that agna—fourth level initiate—Katrina Cole had betrayed her vows and committed that breach, in an attempt to give to the Groupe Synergistique the secrets of the guard.
Sixteen hours later, in a room Katrina felt certain must be hewn out of the bedrock deep under Manhattan, she lay naked over an interrogation bench, bound with thick leather straps at neck, waist, wrists, and knees. Jay Miller, the leo who had recruited her out of Stanford, the man who had deflowered her in the guard’s San Francisco mansion, in every way a dominant man can deflower an innocent eighteen-year-old with buried submissive fantasies, stood behind her now—a fact Katrina knew only by his voice.
She had seen no face and heard precious few words from anyone since the guards in Silicon Valley had put the black bag over her head and cut her silk blouse, favorite skinny jeans, and lacy lingerie from her, preparatory to dropping her roughly into a metal locker lined with thick canvas: standard guard procedure for moving a prisoner a long distance. Then a trip in a van, in all likelihood, of a duration consistent with the route to the San Jose airport.
Katrina, knowing these procedures, hadn’t even tried to hold in her urine as they put her—probably—on a private jet. They hadn’t bothered to see to her hydration, so they weren’t taking her to Europe or Asia, but neither did those transporting her have any intention of seeing to her bodily needs in any other respect. More important, Katrina knew from experience on the other end of renditions like this one, they wanted her to pee herself in the locker.
As she had released the warm liquid from her bladder with a little whimper of mingled shame and relief, she had thought of the two men who had trained her to pee for them, for their dominant pleasure and for the fulfillment of Katrina’s submissive desire—as well as to teach her to obey them the way first a columba, then a nupta, then a bellatrix, and at last an agna of the Order of Ostia must obey the man who owns her. At least one of them—Jay Miller—must, she had already known there in the locker, have been deriving some grim satisfaction from the fact that Katrina would have to pee in the metal box in which they had confined her for her trip to wherever they meant to interrogate her. Trained by him to feel intense arousal whenever she let go and felt the liquid rush between her legs, in any situation where he wanted Katrina to feel owned and submissive, she felt her forehead crease as she tried desperately and failed miserably not to let the whimper become a moan of erotic need.
The other man, the man Katrina had never sought out, she would swear… he liked it that she had been trained that way. He liked to make her wait and wait to go to the bathroom, and then to make her do it on the tiled floor while she looked at the toilet she was forbidden to use, and then to make her clean it up. He asked if her guard owner knew how much Katrina needed to kneel and clean her shameful mess from the floor she had wet with her golden flow.
Halvorson. If he had heard the way she moaned, in her pee, in the locker, he would have looked down at her and laughed.
Jay would have reached down, put his hand on her pussy, and made her come, and come, and come. He would have called her his filthy agna, and then he would have lifted her out, bathed her, and sat her on his lap.
His voice, now, from behind her.
“We know what you were doing, Katrina. We just don’t know why.”
She wanted to hear betrayal in his voice, but she heard scorn instead, and that made her sob. That little convulsion of her chest, the sob, took her by surprise, like the tears that then began to flow.
“Please let me see you, Jay,” she choked out. “Please.”
Katrina tried to focus her attention on the stone floor two feet below her face, the first thing she had seen when he had pulled the bag from her head. Smooth, unlined: bedrock.
Yes, Manhattan. The Pretorian Guard’s first facility in the New World, dug deep under the city. Katrina had never been here before. She had traveled to Rome, for her initiation as an agna, a very special privilege for a bellatrix who had won favorable attention for her work in cybersecurity and encryption. In the oldest mithraeum she had knelt before the blue-robed priestess in the chair that raised and spread a woman’s knees, to offer her, so that girl like Katrina might be made to please another woman for the first time while the men of the guard looked on approvingly. Jay had stood behind her, as her owner, to whip his bellatrix and to caress her as Katrina had looked, red-faced, at the fragrant pussy she must honor with her lips and tongue, until she had finally bent her head to do as he commanded. Then Jay had offered her well-trained bottom, the anus he loved to fuck, to the pater maximus of the entire Pretorian Guard, and the pater had fucked Katrina there with an authority that made her cry out into the priestess’ pussy as the whole assembly chanted around them.
Thus she had become an agna: a fourth-level initiate and trusted agent of the Order of Ostia, destined as Jay’s consort for great things in the Pretorian Guard’s sacred mission to save civilization.
And still she had let Rich Halvorson of the CIA turn her. Still she had taken the tiny drive down to the most secure, most vital room in the world—at least from the guard’s perspective. Still she had tried to put a bullet in another agna’s head when the woman had discovered Katrina’s treachery.
Rich Halvorson: not his real name, of course, Katrina knew, even though Halvorson refused to admit it. She had let him turn her. She had told him everything she knew about the guard and the order. She had promised the biggest prize of all: the encryption key by which the guard had maintained its exclusive control of the world’s energy markets for the past year, thanks to Maia North’s Confidelia Systems software.
She had let him turn her.
Let? No, not ‘let.’
Rich Halvorson knew where her family lived. He promised that her parents would be safe from the shame of knowing that their daughter served as a leather-bound submissive concubine at exclusive parties, if Katrina did as he told her. How could she have been certain that Jay and his guard superiors would be able to remove that threat? Halvorson knew, and his superiors at Langley must know, too. Katrina couldn’t take the risk, could she?
“Who is your handler, Katrina?” Jay asked coldly. “Who were you going to give the drive to?”
Manhattan. The Ostia girls who had seen it said that while Rome had a certain something just because it was the Eternal city and blah blah blah all the Latin and the founder and all that, the guard’s New York headquarters were, like, a wonder of the world. The pit that went all the way down to, like, lava. The skyscraper rising so high above it. The parties and the zillionaire dominant men who, well, smelled way better than the European guys Ostia girls pleasured.
Katrina tried furiously to think about all the things she had heard about this underground lair, where she could still feel her own dried urine on her thighs, bound over a bench meant to break her not with torture—because the Pretorian Guard knew as well as everyone else that torture didn’t work—but with the discipline for which her body would not stop screaming now.
They would have told her parents. She had had no choice.
But Katrina knew the blackmail for the excuse it was. Halvorson had taunted her with the fact, over and over, as he whipped her, as he fucked her, in the safe house—the apartment on Market Street to which Katrina had to go once a week for what Halvorson called her adjustment session.
“Why are you here, slut?” he would say, and bring his belt down, hard, on her ass as she bent over the bed.
“You blackmailed me!” Katrina would respond, sobbing.
Halvorson would give her another lash, and she would cry out. Another, and then, “Why are you here, slut?”
And Katrina would sob, “I need it.”
“What do you need, whore?” The belt, over and over.
Katrina, screaming, “I need your cock. I need your belt. I need your chains. I need you to use me like a whore.” I need you to make me betray the man I love, because he doesn’t know what a slut I truly am, and he can never know.
Now he knew, though. Now he stood behind her, in Manhattan, betrayed but apparently not angry.
Jay spoke again, in the same distant voice. “We found the place he took you, and we know more or less what happened. Don’t feel too bad about it, Katrina. It’s not that unusual. It doesn’t happen often that a girl gets as high in the order as you did with this flaw still in their training, but it’s a well-known problem, when a columba is first initiated. A lot of girls at that stage, and even as a nupta or a bellatrix, can find themselves falling for a dominant guy who seems more dangerous than their owner. But, congratulations, Katrina: you’re the first agna to betray the guard.” He paused. Katrina felt a deep frown cover her face: what did he mean? When Jay spoke again, his words cut like ice. “That’s on me.”
“No!” She cried out the denial, the tiny word even more wrenching in her throat than the elaborate declarations Halvorson had forced out of her, of her uncontrollable yearning for his cruelty.
It’s not on you, Jay.
The room felt very small to Katrina, though she could only see one corner of it. Now the way the air moved around her, in the vicinity of her up-raised backside—for the interrogation bench had a tilt to it that lowered a girl’s head and lifted her hindquarters as she straddled its padded surface—told her both that the hewn chamber did indeed have only a very limited volume and that Jay had taken at least a step toward her. Katrina stifled a cry of alarm at the thought of what might happen next, and then his knowing hand seized the pussy the Order of Ostia had bared, for him, two years before, and then kept bare for him ever since.
Katrina emitted another sob, now, but this one arose from pure pleasure—a delight she didn’t want to feel now, but which she couldn’t have helped if her life depended upon it.
“I know he doesn’t know how to touch you like this, agna,” Jay murmured. “But then again, I’m also sure he never wanted to.”
Maia North watched the beginning of Katrina’s interrogation in the shielded room at Confidelia, sitting next to her pater, both their attentions fixed on the video monitor that told them a great deal more about Katrina than the picture alone could. The data stream from the Institute enhanced the view, both in the crawling chyron at the bottom of the screen and in the overall arousal number in the upper right. Katrina had just jumped from five to nine, at Jay’s touch.
An ad hoc team of three Institute assessors had worked through the night to provide a profile of Katrina’s case, including their speculation on the question of whose power the agna had come into, and how. Maia glanced down at it now, displayed on her tablet where it sat on the blond distressed pine of the conference table.
See the appended initial intake report on the subject, dated twenty-six months ago, for further detail, but comparison with her current psychobiometric sexual profile indicates an unusual deepening of submissive response. Institute training would probably have caught and exploited this development, which occurs we estimate in less than .01% of the general female population, and less than 1% of Institute concubines, but even that is uncertain.
“Charitable of them to let the guard off the hook a bit for missing the problem in her profile,” Maia remarked to Gordon with a little snort at the Institute’s typical high-handedness, which she noticed now for the first time: when she had read through the assessors’ report an hour previously, just after it popped up in her secure mail, Maia had scanned it for content alone, looking merely to prepare herself for her remote role in the interrogation.
Gordon glanced over from the video screen, his mouth quirked up into Maia’s favorite half-smile. “You’re up to speed on the background there, right, sweetheart?”
On the monitor Katrina’s bottom clenched desperately as Jay worked her pussy. Red flashed in the upper right: Gordon had turned off the sound on the various alarms that made up part of the Institute data stream, but Maia knew that somewhere deep under a manor house in Southern California a buzzer or a siren or a bell had just gone off: pre-orgasm.
Over the audio feed from the Manhattan control room came the voice of Sarah Bennet, puella of the guard’s North American pater—Gordon’s boss—speaking to Jay through the comm link implanted in his upper jaw.
“Go ahead and make her come three times, Perseus. Library, any objection?”
Perseus was Jay Miller’s codename, and Library was the guard code word for the Institute. Communications among the various stations of the guard’s global network traveled over channels as secure as the best digital cryptographers could make them—Maia’s own Confidelia software currently representing the most important component of that effort—but the conservative tendency at the highest levels of command dictated that codenames and code words must still be used in any situation where signals intelligence might be gathered by the guard’s adversaries. If the Groupe Synergistique intercepted the comm link traffic among Confidelia, the Institute, and the guard’s Manhattan HQ, and somehow decrypted it, they would be able to figure out that an interrogation had taken place but very little else.
The video feed thankfully represented a different story: bounced among satellites and hidden in plain sight amid the vast amounts of video data winging through the atmosphere every picosecond, an adversary would need millennia even to identify a single frame of what Maia and Gordon watched now coming out of Manhattan.
“No objection here,” returned the male voice of one of the assessors. “I advise building the third one for at least three minutes, Perseus. The deeper you get her into subspace the better.”
Maia refocused on the report, and then on Gordon, picking the conversation up where the pre-orgasm alarm had interrupted it. Yes, she knew about the controversy to which the Institute report obliquely referred, but she suddenly wanted to hear her pater’s voice—and the process of bringing Katrina to three orgasms would take a while, especially if Jay used his skills to delay the third one.
“I think I’m up to speed, pater. The Institute thinks all Ostia agents should train there, and some of the guard and the order agree. What’s the latest, there?”
Gordon looked at her a little sharply, then, a small crease developing between his eyes. Maia could see that he had detected the need she had tried to keep from her tone. Her master, for at times like this, when the facade of the brilliant tech CEO cracked, she could think of Gordon Ernkat as nothing else, reached out his left hand to take gentle hold of her right, where it rested next to the tablet on the conference table.
“You okay, sweetheart?”
Maia felt her mouth twist to the side. “Mostly, sir?” she ventured.
Katrina had almost killed Maia, after all. Though she had tried to show herself as the capable girl and high-powered executive—not to mention the fast-rising Ostia agna—when Gordon and Jay had arrived from San Francisco, Maia had shivered in her pater’s arms all through the long hug he had given her after looking into her eyes for a long moment, his own face very grave.
Jay had taken charge of Katrina’s transport east and Gordon had taken charge of Maia, though Maia even now, after two blissful, exciting years of submission to him, reflexively resisted the idea that she could ever need that kind of looking after. The notion certainly seemed difficult to find fault with at the moment, though. Something about this thing with Katrina had affected her more deeply than Maia felt even being shot at from close range could have done by itself. She felt a need for her master’s care that she hadn’t known since he had recruited her under memorable circumstances, using his firm hand to teach a thirty-three-year-old things about her submissive needs she had spent a great deal of effort in avoiding learning.
“Come here, Maia,” Gordon said, patting his right thigh. An absurd little thrill went through her at the momentary impression she always got when he did that, that he meant to bare her bottom and spank her for some unguessed-at infraction, rather than to take her into his lap—which he did much more frequently after patting his thigh that way and telling her to come to him. The deliciously crossed signals, which suggested to Maia’s highly analytic mind both that her master’s discipline constituted a very deep form of care for her and that Gordon should probably spank her more often, sent a little thrill from her pussy through her whole body. That bit of arousal, of course, did a great deal to help her recover her spirits and keep the tears that had formed in the corners of her eyes from falling.
“Dammit,” she said as she settled into her pater’s lap. “I’m a fucking secret agent.”
Gordon chuckled and held her tight. “Even secret agents get to cry, sweetheart. You just got betrayed and shot at in the same five seconds. You have a right.”
“It’s not just that, sir,” Maia said, shaking her head. “I’m not Institute trained. I could end up like her, if the right asshole decided to blackmail me.”
She watched Gordon’s eyes go to the tablet, and the Institute report, for a moment before returning to look up—though only very slightly up—at Maia.
Some kind of blackmail is almost certainly involved, but is very unlikely to constitute the totality of subject’s motivation in turning. Subject’s scores on intelligence and affect instruments at induction, which would ordinarily indicate a near-certain tendency to inform her guard handler about any approach involving blackmail, suggest impairment of judgment by a forbidden erotic fulfillment, to which subject’s sexual psychobiometrics suggest a susceptibility. Adversarial handler is likely to be a highly skilled dominant trainer who reserved subject at an Ostia party, or—more likely—used the report of an Ostia client who reserved subject and reported subject’s tendency, as noted by Perseus, toward arousal by ‘forbidden’ pleasures such as urinary discipline and sex machines.
Maia had to submit in the bathroom, yes, both when she served Gordon and when she served dominant, wealthy captains of industry at Ostia parties. She had also on two occasions had to undergo anal fucking by the pounding, twisting dildo of a sex machine, bound into the thing’s metal frame while the heir to an enormous personal-computing fortune used her mouth for his real cock’s pleasure. All Ostia agents received training in how to win the confidence of the men they entertained by offering them a kind of mastery they generally couldn’t find elsewhere, which often included things like making a girl pee in front of them.
That sort of special, forbidden submission placed their clients in the proper frame of mind to share the bare tidbits of information the girls sought—travel plans, troubles at home, even political opinions. The guard built from those little pieces the intelligence they needed to guide the world effectively toward a soft landing in the coming economic collapse. Maia’s training, just like Katrina’s, had included blushing as a golden stream of pee rushed out onto the floor of an elegant bathroom, while her pater looked on, holding the whip he would use to punish her for not using the toilet—even though he had forbidden her to use it. Clients often ordered her to pee in the shower, simply to make her feel submissive and themselves dominant. Similarly, both Maia and Katrina had received briefings about the sort of mechanical devices favored by some dominant men, so that Maia had to assume that when Katrina first encountered a client with a sex machine she felt just as ready as Maia had to receive obediently the forceful, automatic fucking of a false penis with a motor’s power behind it.
Neither practice represented Maia’s favorite way to submit to a man, but she enjoyed the sense of accomplishment that came from both, and she loved to see the appreciation in the eyes even of the men who thought themselves the cruelest when a beautiful, intelligent woman had submitted to their darkest fantasy. Still more did she love to nestle into Gordon’s arms afterward and tell him about it, while he stroked her hair and called her a good girl for what she had undergone.
Katrina, however, had it seemed a different relationship with such forbidden things, and as Maia thought about what the Institute assessors had written she felt she could, if just barely, glimpse the same kind of need in herself—or perhaps the potential for such a need to develop, under the wrong circumstances. That glimpse had driven her into her pater’s arms, as she watched Jay force pleasure on his wayward agna. If Katrina could be turned that way, couldn’t Maia, also?
Subject’s subconscious need, as we theorize the adversarial handler realized and then brought out with the aid of the blackmail to prevent subject from becoming aware of the manipulation, is to master herself and move toward autonomy by testing the furthest bounds of dominant fantasy. As in all probability developed by subject’s adversarial handler through his progressively making greater and ‘darker’ (from a conventional perspective) demands upon her submission, this craving kept subject coming back for more in a vicious feedback loop until practical betrayal such as data theft could be incorporated into the erotic relationship.
We have two recommendations based on our theory of the case as outlined above, one with specific regard to interrogation tactics for the present subject and one with general regard to future policy:
First, because subject was probably promised some erotic reward (which could in this case comprise not pleasure strictly speaking but rather a specific sort of discipline), her interrogator should attempt to focus initially on learning the nature of that promise and then exploiting it. If subject can be brought to transfer to her interrogator, who should if possible be her guard handler or at least a guard officer known to her, the need she has experienced in relation to her adversarial handler, she should prove susceptible to turning back.
Second, Order of Ostia agents should in the future receive detailed instruction in the kind of manipulation practiced by subject’s adversarial handler. Because, although the Institute’s function has not historically lain in the realm of intelligence gathering, we have nevertheless had to protect our business secrets with great assiduity and thus developed a certain expertise in espionage and counter-espionage to complement our decisive superiority in the development of submissive sexuality, the assessors of this ad hoc panel are unanimous in the opinion that the presence at least of an Institute assessor in any facility where Ostia agents are trained would repay any inconvenience it occasioned guard administrators.
“They really let us have it at the end of the report, didn’t they?” Gordon asked, as if reading in Maia’s face her meditation on the assessor’s judgment. The ironic smile on his face and the chuckle in his voice made her turn her lips up in return, though the image on the video screen, where Jay had begun to build the sobbing, writhing Katrina to a third climax kept her humor muted.
True, the Institute assessors’ language rarely reached that pitch of recrimination, though anyone not accustomed to reading their reports would be hard pressed to hear the frustration through the sedater language. Guard policy would certainly have to change, and Maia would probably have to go through an assessment of her own in the wake of the Katrina Cole scandal.
That left the matter of Katrina herself, and of the assessors’ first recommendation. Maia felt her body tense in Gordon’s arms, became very conscious of his left hand on her hip, as she watched Jay’s hand move more and more quickly, penetrating his traitorous concubine with his two middle fingers in a rapid rhythm that made a tiny whimper of need arise in Maia’s own throat. Her own pussy burned in the lacy black panties her pater liked her to wear.
Gordon chuckled aloud, now, as he sensed his agna’s need. “Later, sweetheart,” he promised. “Business now.”