[Based very loosely on the TV character played by Piper Perabo]
Annie had heard of cocks this size but had never seen one. It was certainly the biggest she'd ever had to suck. And by far the largest thing, flesh or fake, ever put in her ass. She sighed, musing about the things she did for her country...
Annie Walker dressed to kill, if only figuratively. Even her casual clothes showed her keen fashion sense. But she didn't need to flaunt her figure. It would take a sack to disguise the trim, athletic and sexy body she knew was a prime asset in her job as CIA agent, as it would be in any job. It was a good fit with her open and innocent face.
People liked Annie, liked her quick, genuine smile, her easy grace, her obvious intelligence, the flash and promise of passion just below a chic veneer. Men, as men will, imagined Annie without those trendy clothes, positioned just the way they preferred. Some pictured her generous mouth forming an oval around their cocks. A lucky few didn't have to imagine.
Her job descriptions -- both for her real job, and for her cover job of acquisitions specialist for the Smithsonian -- didn't mention fucking. But she'd always known that sex was a major tool in the spy kit, one that male agents used without a second thought. No one said it, but it was understood that if sex was what it took, those Fendi slacks were coming off.
For female agents, seduction is both easier and harder. Easier because, well, duh. Harder because even with training in weapons and self-defense, the playing field isn't level. By its nature, her world harbors some wacky guys with major kinks. Come to think of it, that's the world we're all in.
Sex was never Annie's first resort. Sure, she flirted and charmed -- that's just life as a woman. Actually getting laid was somewhat rare, though it did seem to pop up more often lately. Good managers maximize the utility of their assets, and Annie had some fine ones.
Annie first put her body on the line in Operation Date Palm:
"Grab your go bag, Annie, you're headed to Dubai on a 9PM out of Dulles," said Joan Campbell, Annie's boss as head of the DPD section. Annie was used to this sort of summons. Most operations are meticulously planned, but quite a few are go-right-now.
"What's the op? Will I need anything special for desert work?"
Joan laughed, "You won't see much sand this trip. You're attending a soiree at the home of Ali Khat, the oil sheik. He has a collection the Smithsonian would be interested in showing -- that's your cover.
"But your real goal is to scan some documents we think are in the hands of an Emirates businessman, Maktub Fatash, who'll also be at the party. His photo and details are in the packet. So, a cocktail dress this time instead of desert camo."
Annie just had time to find an appropriate, and expensive, dress before her flight. Twelve hours later she was in Dubai, with a day to get over the jet lag. An invitation was waiting at her hotel, and next evening a taxi took her to the wealthy sheik's modest 18-room city home.
Her outfit was somewhat daring, a bit over the edge of Muslim propriety. But this was Dubai, not Jeddah, and the lines weren't as bright here. Her dress conveyed the impression that Annie could afford any underwear she wanted, she just hadn't seen the need tonight.
She was a hit with the men, less so with the women. Using a skill honed since high school, she cut Fatash from the herd and steered him to a quiet nook. His drink -- he was a liberal Muslim -- soon had an extra ingredient, and Annie was helping him to a cab, then to his hotel room.
"I'm so glad you could accompany me, dear. I was quite taken with your frock and of course the lovely body so artfully concealed within it." Maktub may have been slurring, but he was still awake enough to grope Annie's tits.
He must have the constitution of an ox, she thought. There was enough tranq in that drink to lay out a wild boar, let alone this bore. But he wouldn't go down. He still believed he could get Annie out of her dress. With an eye on the clock, Annie considered her options.
She played along, sure she could outlast him. "Here, why don't I help with that," she said. Stepping back, she slipped the thin straps from her pale shoulders, revealing to him what every man that night had pictured.
"Oh, what a delicious sight you are, my dear," he said as he stumbled over to her. Almost out, thought Annie. But not quite quickly enough for her.
Her breasts were like laser-painted targets, and he was a crude missile. He sucked and tweaked them until, despite her mission sense, Annie started to turn on. Damn, how is he still standing? She knew one sure way to put a man to sleep. Besides, she figured, with that dose he wouldn't remember anything in the morning.
Soon the dress was on the floor and all of her on display. He was delighted to find Annie as smooth as a young girl, save one small patch at the top of her juicy crevice.
"Oh, I always say, the way to my heart is a shaved part, and yours is a very nice part indeed. Let me see if it is as welcoming as it looks."
Staggering, with one hand he worked open his fly to release a thick, rigid cock. The other slithered downward, grazing her pulsing clit as he dipped a rough finger into her slick groove. He licked his lips in anticipation, but alas for both of them, those were the only lips he'd lick tonight.
Annie knew it wouldn't take much, but it would take something. So she jacked his meaty prick, stroking it and fondling his balls until, with a last great spasm, he shot a pearly load onto his chest. She lapped it up as a reward for her hard work, and to cover her tracks.
Finally he was out cold. Annie tucked him in and got down to the real business of the night. She tossed the room while still naked, careful to leave no evidence of her search. She found his papers in the room safe, easily cracked by anyone with Agency training. Her cell camera scanned the details and sped them to Langley.
She slipped on her dress and Louboutins and eased out of the room, mission accomplished. Cost: one dress and one hand job. The Agency only reimbursed for clothing.
In her field ops over the next few months, Annie had little occasion for anything beyond casual flirting to meet her mission goals.
The one exception came in Istanbul, stuck out in the boonies, having used up every spare bit of cash to pay off an asset. Sweet persuasion didn't work on her corpulent taxi driver, leaving only her oral skills for cab fare. Annie was a trouper: if sucking a fat Turkish dick was the worst thing she ever did for the Agency, well, god bless America.
That all changed, big time, with Operation French Letter:
"Annie," said Joan, "this is a deep-cover op. We're setting you up in Paris ('oh no, not that', grinned Annie) to get close to Henri Ladouche, who we're sure is diverting small quantities of fissionable material to someone in the Middle East. Your job is to figure out who, and how.
"He's a mid-level guy at ASN, their equivalent of the NRC. And he's careful as hell -- none of the agents we've thrown at this have gotten even a sniff. You're going in as a Canadian exchange student, cover name Mary Achiband, so you'll have to tweak your French to sound Quebecois."
After a quick refresher in Quebec accent and idiom, and some time to learn her legend, Annie arrived in the City of Light. She took a flat in Henri's building, and they grew friendly over the next few weeks. Neighborly coffee chats became a sharing of life stories. Annie's of course was pure fiction, framed to make her vulnerable, needy and available.
Sensing that Annie (er, Mary) was feeling low, Henri made a pitch. "Come to dinner chez moi, Marie. I have a recipe for lapin d'Andalou that never fails to improve one's mood," he teased. "I am certain they have nothing like it in your province."
"Oh, Henri, I wouldn't be good company. I got email from Paul today saying it's completely over for us. I'm feeling sad and lumpish and unlovely and I'd just bring you down."
"Nonsense, cherie, instead I will bring you up. Come, we'll open a bottle of wine or two, and drink a big fuck you to this idiot Paul."
Annie laughed and agreed. During dinner she had, oops, a bit too much vin rouge and got a bit weepy. Henri consoled her, then consolation turned into comforting. He caressed her shoulder until her shoulder became a breast.
"No, Henri, not that. I like you, but I can't get involved with anyone."
"Ah, cherie, this is just two friends, not 'involved'. It will do you good to get this bad lover out of your system, and we need never speak of it after tonight," schmoozed an obviously experienced Henri.
A powerful (if fictional) need rose in Mary, and before long they were kissing and groping, then naked and horizontal. Henri got his first look at the delicious Annie Walker. He couldn't believe his luck.
He pressed his prick insistently at her lips. "Oh, cherie, I have been watching that beautiful mouth for days, knowing it would be heaven itself for you to suck me. Take it, ma Marie, tongue me, suck it, ohhhh, yes..."
Annie nearly swallowed his cock; he, like a well-mannered Frenchman, ate her to a nice climax before splitting her with the tool she'd so thoughtfully lubed. Weeks of escalating sexual tension exploded in just minutes. Sure, it was a job to Annie, but who says you can't enjoy your work?
.... There is more of this story ...