Chapter 1

Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, NonConsensual, Rape, Slavery, Heterosexual, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Pregnancy, Slow, Violent, .

Desc: Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Involved in a dangerous investigation for the FBI, Lana disappears. Husband and son must deal with her loss. and then with her sudden reappearance.

"Mom's home."

No other two words in the English language--put together in such a simple sentence--could have carried as much weight, in my opinion, as those two words spoken to me by my son on that particular afternoon.

I had been checking the online weather forecast for the next few days, when Steven, my seven-year-old son, had come into the larger upstairs bedroom I had been using both for sleeping and as a home office in the temporary two-bedroom apartment in which we had been staying. His simple statement--given with no indication of any joy, excitement, or any other higher level of emotion than someone saying, "Hmm, whaddaya know, the mailman came already"--did not register with me for a few seconds.

When it finally clicked in my brain as to what Steven had just said, I stood quickly and forgot all about the online weather report. I hurried after his retreating little self, noting that this was the fourth day in a row that he had worn his "The Legend of Korra" t-shirt. He was still a bit young to get into that Nickelodeon cartoon series, in my opinion, but the shirt had been a gift from my mother, and Steven had thought it looked cool--"cool" being something an almost-eight-year-old could not truly understand; but he realized, through talking with his school friends, that "cool" was some special attribute about life that the older kids thought was important--thus...

As I came downstairs to the apartment's foyer, I saw Steven holding the door partway open.

He was not saying anything and not moving; just standing there with one hand on the knob.

Through the opening, I could see that FBI Special Agent Gary Fife was at my door, so I opened it a bit farther.

Standing on the sidewalk about six feet behind Fife stood ... Lana ... my love ... my wife ... a very huge part of my life, until her sudden and mysterious disappearance just shy of three years before!

Lana was simply standing there with her head down. A female FBI Agent wearing an FBI windbreaker was with her, helping to hold onto Lana. Lana had an expression on her face that indicated she might be ready to flee at a moment's notice, but was determined to see this meeting through.

Another female--I could not tell if she was FBI or not--was holding a small toddler on her hip. It looked like a little girl; probably not yet two years old. I could not register anything about the child at that point, other than her presence. I was focused on the return of my wife, Lana--brought back to me as if from the dead.

Lana appeared to be slimmer in the face than I had remembered, and had a pasty-looking complexion. Her medium-dark blonde hair was cut shorter than she had worn it before her disappearance. Except for the fact that she had an overall gaunt appearance, and had lost weight, she looked the same as I had remembered her; except that she had a baby bump--Lana was pregnant!

I took in all of this within about five seconds after I had reached the bottom of the stairs and looked out the door that my son was holding open. I was considering an attempt to push past Fife and grab Lana in a huge hug, but my brain was short-circuiting at that moment. After all; it had been almost three years!

Lana did not brighten when she noticed my presence; in fact, she looked even more terrified as the seconds stretched out in silence. She was pregnant--and it was surely NOT my baby. And I simply could not find the words to say at that point in order to break the impasse at the doorway as we all stood there staring at each other.

Back to those words: 'Home' and 'Mom.'


Until a few months ago, home had been Rosslyn, Virginia. I had finally come to the realization that hanging around the DC area, waiting for any more scraps of information from the FBI dealing with the circumstances surrounding my wife's disappearance was not just futile. The whole situation there was creating an unhealthy mix of emotions in me--pain, anger, frustration, a desire to lash out--that could eventually lead to physical maladies in me, and emotional and developmental difficulties in my son. My therapist had warned me about how my attitudes could influence Steven's development and well-being--most assuredly adversely, in that analyst's learned opinion--given the constant flow of negative vibes that I was giving off around my son in our house in Rosslyn.

So, I had figured out that I needed to get on with life, beginning with a change in location as well as in outlook. Thus, I had applied for an accounting job in the Metro Atlanta Area, at Jacobson Controls in the well-planned bedroom-community of Peachtree City; a town created out of the piney woods and built around four golf courses, and referred to by the former Navy and Air Force pilots who lived there as 'Base Housing for Delta Airlines.'

I had bought some land in an area a few miles west of there, called Thomas Crossroads, just outside of Newnan, Georgia, southwest of Atlanta and well outside the I-285 Perimeter--but still, unfortunately, within Atlanta's traffic pattern. While the builder as finalizing construction of our new house on that land, I had moved my son and me into an apartment in Newnan, about eight miles west of my newly-purchased property.

It was just my bad luck--or the cagey inside knowledge on the part of the good old local boy who had sold me the land at such a bargain price--to encounter the special limitation of geology that somewhat restricted the property on which I had decided to build. I discovered later, when doing some research, that this limitation manifested itself in an unusual manner for quite a bit of Northern Georgia.

Anyone who is familiar with the tourist sites around Atlanta knows about Stone Mountain--with its famous carvings of Robert E. Lee, Stonewall Jackson, and Jefferson Davis. What these folks may not realize is that Stone Mountain is a huge singular quartz monzonite dome, with subterraneous fingers of its enormous rock formation extending outward for many miles.

One of those fingers of stone extends through and under my property. Most notably--and irritating to me and my General Contractor--that stony finger lies but a scant few feet beneath the otherwise rich topsoil-and-clay mixture of my land--just wonderful. Thus, it caused a major delay in building, and an extra outlay of funds, for two reasons.

First, the GC had to hire someone bonded and licensed in explosive excavation--requiring all sorts of permits and delays (and costs, of course) just so that I could have a basement beneath my house; as well as a hole in the rock just below the soil layer behind the house for a septic tank. Second, it was all on me to figure out a way to get a septic system and leach field put it that would perk sufficiently to convince the county to allow us to live there in the first place; much less continue with construction that was already scheduled.

It took some online research, and a lot of convincing of the powers that be in Coweta County (NOT pronounced like COW-Eater, with a soft R at the end, as it looks to the casual observer; but Cuh-EE-tuh, by the locals, for some reason), along with an official technical research document from one of the professors at nearby Georgia Tech, in Atlanta, to let me continue. I had found a method for environmentally safe and scientifically sound disposal of septic waste, called the Presby Enviro-Septic System; and I had finally convinced the County Engineer of its viability in my situation.

The Presby System, popular in Vermont and other northern regions, involved burying a specially-designed-and-constructed set of parallel and connected 52-foot-long corrugated and treated and wrapped cylinders. These demanded a much smaller footprint than the traditional septic leach field; required no electricity or chemicals or mechanical action; did not have to be deep in the ground (a real benefit, since the solid stone layer was only about three or four feet beneath the spot where the Presby system would go in); and could even be built up into a mound (mine would actually cause a brief small terracing mound in the gentle slope leading down and away from my house in back, once it was complete); and it could be blended in with the lawn and the landscaping.

The only definite indicators that the whole system was there would be one simple upright breather vent tube over the cylinders and one upright observation tube over the tank. And the system would clear out the waste from my house to the point of having clear water running into the ground at the end of the three-cylinder system with as many as eight people living in the house. With only Steven and me living there, the guy who installed it could almost guarantee clear water going into the ground by the time it had just reached the end of the first of the three cylinders.

With all the other typical headaches involved in building a house, I had expected to have my Certificate of Occupancy in hand within three months of the night that Steven had made his all-important two-word announcement. Upon receipt of the CO, Steven and I could move in and establish that most wonderful of places in all the world--Home.

Now for that second word...


Svetlana Savin and I had met during our attendance at the University of Maryland, in College Park. She was the daughter of immigrants from Minsk, Belarus, and I was the scion of a family of Scottish heritage, whose presence in North America extended back to sometime around 1746.

My name is Maddux Brodie, by the way, with family roots in Maryland for many generations. Hell, two of my ancestors had even faced off against each other when the 15th U.S. Maryland Infantry had fought against the 15th Confederate Maryland Infantry at the Battle of Sharpsburg (as battles tended to be named in the South based on of the nearest town or rail head; rather than 'Antietam, ' as those same battles tended to be called in the North because of the nearest body of water or major water feature--other famous examples being Manassas/Bull Run and Shiloh/Pittsburg Landing).

Lana and I had fallen in love almost from the moment we had met. And, while neither of us was a virgin when we met, we became lovers after our third date, and continued to learn all about pleasing each other--both in and out of the bedroom--as we deepened our relationship. We learned how to communicate on so many levels over the next year--and not just those involving physical activities. We discovered that we were truly soul mates.

In fact, Lana and I only had one major disagreement after becoming a couple. And this happened as I was recovering from a beating I had received for standing up for her one day. Hearing one of the Varsity Lacrosse players continuing, despite Lana's continued refusal, to try to hit on Lana in the Student Center as I approached where they were sitting, I had been overcome with a blind rage and had pulled him up to hit him--followed by a sound beating--of me. I had received a hairline crack in one cheekbone and required one dental implant later for a lost tooth for my troubles; he had only suffered a broken nose and a minor sore knee that would only sideline him for two games.

Lana was furious with me! She scolded me for what seemed like hours after my release from the hospital about her ability to look after herself. In my Oxycontin-induced mellow haze, I just did not have the wherewithal to argue with her. But, when she seemed to wind down, I informed her that I would always feel the need to protect the ones I loved, especially the one I loved most of all--her. She relented a bit upon hearing me say that, but only slightly; and comforted me in my apartment over the next three days, during which I missed classes and recovered from my beating. She also assured me during that time, however, that she felt similarly to the way that I did; that she would always do whatever necessary to keep those whom she loved safe and protected from harm.

A few months preceding my graduation from Maryland, I attended a job fair and met the representative sent there by Holland-Sumner Corporation. These guys did contract work for the U.S. government, most notably the Department of Defense--"Beltway Bandits" is the term that most readily comes to mind to most folks when they think about this type of work. The recruiter with whom I spoke was as impressed by me as I was with the job opportunity and the benefits that HSC offered, and we struck a deal for my employment shortly after graduation.

At about the same time, a firm that had recognized Lana's academic credentials, as well as her selection as a member of an on-campus honor society for young women coming into the business world, was actively recruiting Lana. She joined Tamerlane Systems shortly after graduation. Tamerlane, it turned out, was a sub to a larger contract supporting the FBI in a massive multi-billion-dollar effort to overhaul its IT network, database management system, and the supporting servers and network tools; with Tamerlane supporting development of the forensic accounting investigative tools the Bureau needed in this age of electronic finance. While Lana was not very deep into the technology at the time of her hiring, she was very astute at handling the business practices that the IT system supported and rapidly picked up on the technology side of things as her job progressed.

Lana and I had married a month after graduation, with the blessings both families (her folks lived in Northern Virginia, and mine moved frequently between Alaska and California in their RV, now that Dad had retired). After a wonderful honeymoon in Galveston, Texas, we showed up for work with our respective employers with fresh tans and happy smiles.

Steven was born just two years after Lana and I had married. To facilitate the expansion of our family, I had pounced on the opportunity to buy a house that was being sold privately by an attorney for one member of a couple who were divorcing in Rosslyn, Virginia--an unincorporated area of Arlington, right there in the heart of the DC area. It was convenient for the amenities of the city, and for access to Lana's and my jobs, without the need to fight quite as much of the DC area commuter traffic daily.

Neither of our jobs was sufficiently demanding to require us to spend an inordinate amount of time at work daily. Late work and travel were minimal. Thus, Lana and I were able to spend time with Steven and each other in the evenings and on weekends; and the day care center was close enough to the house to be convenient for attendance to Steven's needs during the day while Lana and I were at work.

Yes, we were a young couple in love, with a wonderful son, and dreams of growing the family a bit larger. And, while both of us doted on Steven, the boy just seemed to develop a very special bond to Lana as soon as he was old enough to begin to speak. His first identifiable word as a baby was, 'Cook-cook, ' which he used to ask for his favorite food at the time--baby teething cookies. But his second identifiable word was, 'Mama, ' later shortened--about the time he turned four--to, 'Mom.'

For the past three years, that word, 'Mom, ' had only been spoken in our household in the context of inquiry, sadness, anger, and desperation--never as a form of address. You see; a little over three years earlier, I had begun to suspect that my wife, Lana--Steven's mother--may have been asked to work on a project that placed her in danger--physically and morally. I was convinced, at that time, that her bosses were needlessly exposing her to possible criminal harm.

And one of Lana's bosses had evidently been turning on the charm to her. I was concerned at the time that Lana was either contemplating fucking around on me; or was being seduced into fucking around on me. And, just as I had gotten hold of the information necessary to get my payback on her scumbag boss that I had suspected of working his way through her moral defenses--although indirectly--and was about to confront both of them about it, the situation had changed in very dramatic fashion; and sufficiently to put my mind a rest somewhat.

But then, within a scant few days after that, Lana had simply ... vanished.

Just Over Three Years Ago

"Oh, Maddux; you worry too much!" my wife, Lana, said with a thin smile and a shake of her head.

"What do you mean I worry too much? You are my wife, and the mother of our son. I am supposed to worry about you," I said with mild emphasis, not wanting Lana to 'get her back up, ' as my late grandma had used to say.

I could usually disagree nicely with Lana and hope for compromise or minor concession on her part if I did not get angry or try to push too hard. Otherwise, she would dig in and I would be lost in any further attempt to get her to see anything from my point of view. I had learned that hard lesson early on in our relationship.

"Sugar, I love you too much to want to see you doing anything even remotely dangerous," I continued, this time in a loving tone and manner with an affectionate smile on my face. "Anyway," I knew that I had to be careful here, "you also need to remember that the FBI has hundreds of badged Special Agents around, all with the special training and field experience necessary to handle any situations that may arise in a case such as this one."

Here is where I had unwittingly sealed my doom, now that I look back on it. "After all; you ARE just a contractor, remember."

Lana froze for a microsecond--just long enough for me to realize in that moment that I had probably said the wrong thing--and she slowly set down the handful of silverware with which she had been setting the table up to that point. She and I had had arguments about this before, since we were both contractors, but supporting different Federal government agencies.

I had always felt 'Anti-Contractor Bias' vibes coming off the Department of Defense Federal employees working as part of the Civil Service in my office in Crystal City that supported the Deputy Assistant Secretary of the Army for Cost and Economics (DASA-CE). Lana had always claimed there was no such bias in the offices where she was usually working in McLean, Virginia, just a few blocks away from Liberty Crossing and the National Counterterrorism Center offices. Lana's contract, while generally supporting the whole Bureau, specifically supported the FBI's Eurasian Criminal Enterprises program under the International Operations Division that reported through the Executive Assistant Director for Criminal, Cyber, Response, and Services Branch to the Director of the FBI himself.

"What do you mean ... JUST ... a contractor?" Lana asked, with a frown that indicated to me that her stubborn streak now had her firmly within its grasp. "I'll have you know that, when Tamerlane brought me on board, I had to go through a lot of the basics that the regular FBI Special Agents go through down at Quantico. And I have to take refresher training, including firearms familiarization," she said with special emphasis, "every year."

I knew about her company's training of the employees on Tamerlane's contract with the FBI--they did not have to be qualified to go out to do regular field duties, like the other Special Agents. But, in this day and age of potential terrorist attacks on facilities in the Homeland, quite a few of the Federal law enforcement agencies, such as the FBI, wanted to ensure that their employees and contractors could manage themselves without panic if the unthinkable were to happen--an insurgent attack on one of the FBI's office facilities in the Capital Region or at one of the many field offices across the country (and even a few overseas).

Thus, the Bureau required some basic training, including response to 'Active Shooter' scenarios, as well as familiarization with firearms in some cases--although actual qualification was not required--along with annual refresher training certification in certain skills that might come in handy in a possible confrontation with bad guys.

"And I always get commendations on the way I handle the training, Andrew Maddux Brodie," a now very annoyed Lana said to me. I was not about to respond by calling her Svetlana Alexeevna Savina; THAT would definitely have put her over the edge into a full-blown shit-fit. I simply took a breath and paused to think for a second before continuing our conversation.

"Sugar," I said, now holding my hands out and up in a mild signal of body language that hinted that I was surrendering, while I continued to argue, although a bit less forcefully, "I know that you could take care of yourself in the case of a general self-defense scenario. But, these East European gangs that the Bureau has you tracking data on don't mess around. They are vicious and ruthless; and I simply believe that the FBI should be putting their own badged Special Agents on it, rather than asking someone who is doing contract support to do it. It's just not appropriate, in my opinion."

I was trying to be logical and reasonable; that's just the way us guys think; right? Well, women do not think that way; they include a lot of emotion into what they think, say, and do--as I was about to find out firsthand.

"Well, I will have you know that I am fully capable of handling the situation in this case," said Lana to me, as she resumed placing the utensils on the table, as if that settled it. Then she surprised me by trying to use logic and reason as part of her argument. "After all, I will only be doing office work on behalf of this investigation for the Bureau, and only with a company that is about two or three steps removed from any of the actual gang-related operations. I will be fine."

We had agreed that we would not talk about the details of what we did in our contracts, as they involved some things that carried a 'Classified' label--defense-related in my case; criminal-investigation-related in her case. But, we often talked in generalities about our efforts on behalf of our country's defense and Homeland protection missions. Lana knew about the general nature of the acquisition work that I was supporting, while I knew about her work for the Bureau in the area of the Russian and other East European criminal enterprises, but without any knowledge of specific names, crimes, or locations.

"Anyway," Lana continued, "Emmett needs my Russian language skills, and the cultural nuances with which I am familiar from my youth while growing up with immigrant parents. And he has constant electronic and general surveillance on our work sites, as well as on the offices in which we will be working.

"And," she dragged that 'And' out in a long syllable, "when and if he decides to pull the trigger on his big operation and begins to roll up the pieces of the gang that he is after, I will not be going to work that day in the usual offices. I will just let him descend on them with drawn weapons and crates of evidence bags, while I go about my business back at my old cubicle in McLean."

FBI Supervisory Special Agent Emmett Van Horn was the man in charge of all the efforts focused on taking down one particular segment of the Russian gangs that had, in recent years, displaced the Italian mob families all up and down the Eastern Seaboard, but gave the impression of being a legitimate business enterprise. Most of the effort of the Bureau in taking these gangsters down appeared to involve going after their money trail, a task to which Lana's contract efforts had been seconded.

I had not personally examined Lana's Program Work Statement, but somehow I got the impression that Supervisory Special Agent Emmett Van Horn was stretching the provisions of Lana's PWS somewhat by using her in the specific capacity in which she was now involved.

Lana and one or two other contractors, along with one or two undercover Special Agents, had been placed temporarily in the offices of a front company that the FBI had gained control of by leaning on its owner--a man well known to have distant links with the Russian mob, and who had come to the Bureau's attention--and under their thumb--because of questionable monetary transactions. The Bureau would use this front company's operations and connections to dig deeper into the Russian mob's financial dealings. That is about the extent of the details to which Lana had informed me; but, from that, I was able to surmise further and begin to worry--especially about the potential for danger in what she was doing.

The few times that I had met Emmett Van Horn were at those rare Bureau-hosted social gatherings, with spouses or significant others of the team under his supervision. During those events, I had developed an opinion of him as being an ambitious and arrogant prick from an affluent family background.

Van Horn, I had found out eventually, had attended the prestigious Ivy-League Brown University and had risen quickly within the Bureau; and he thought that everyone under his supervision should jump BEFORE he even spoke. This seemed to be true especially of some of the women in his office; almost all of whom appeared to be uncomfortable around him, to varying degrees, in those social settings that I had witnessed personally. Lana, though, had never had anything but praises for Emmett Van Horn and appeared to admire what he was doing on behalf of the Bureau--and truth, justice, and the American way--blah, blah, blah.

Back to our dinnertime disagreement--I let the danger-to-Lana aspect of our conversation die off now as we sat down to eat that night.

Steven was now at a stage of development that involved his talking quite a lot; and tonight he was telling us all about his daily activities in the K4 program in which we had him enrolled daily during the work week. Quite often, at the end of our busy and sometimes frustrating days, he was our primary bright spot in the world. I loved my son and, as I looked at the woman I loved sitting across from me at the table, I could not wait for this 'thing' she was involved in to get settled so that we could start to work on a brother or sister for Steven.

That night, after putting Steven down, Lana and I forgot our differences over what she was doing at work as she wore me out in bed. She and I kissed and licked each other all over, followed by a prolonged sixty-nine encounter. Lana then got on all fours for our first fuck and got off twice before I fired my load into her very tight wet pussy. After a short rest, she and I began to caress each other back into the 'go' mode and Lana rode me cowgirl until she came, leaning forward over me. I then rolled us both over and finished up by depositing another load into her missionary style. After cuddling for a while afterward, neither of us had any energy to hit the bathroom to clean up; so, we simply pulled the sheets up and went to sleep, still stinking of sex and sweat; it was glorious.

Things went to shit just a few weeks after that wonderful night.

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