Caging Caitlyn

by Reese Gabriel

  "Sure, sure. You can put us on Washington's invasion list.” The colonel pushed him towards the door. “They'll get to us in, what, twenty years or so?"

  "You won't get away with this!"

  The colonel slammed the door in his face and locked it. “We already have, ambassador."

  "Gonzales, you have anything good to beat her with?” the major wanted to know.

  He thought for a moment. “A fiberglass rod. That always works well."

  "Good, give it to me."

  The doctor produced the long, thin device, bright red. It must have been something he used for torture.

  "Get up,” the major said to Caitlyn.

  "She won't be able to obey commands,” the doctor reminded. “Because of the drugs."

  "Sure she will.” The major bent to hit her belly. “I said get up, whore."

  Cait struggled to obey. It was like she was above herself, with the others, watching as a naked young woman put herself onto all fours. She was still an attractive young woman, despite her ordeals. She had fine white skin, a narrow waist, full depending breasts, and her hair, with proper washing, would shine brightly.

  "Lick the floor, bitch. Clean it with your tongue."

  "The germs,” the doctor lamented.

  A solid blow to Cait's back helped her to focus. She lowered her head, just like the animal she was. Gently she touched her tongue to the dirty linoleum.

  "So much filth,” Gonzales was whispering fiercely, but he seemed more turned on than anything else and he was stroking his cock up and down as he watched the prisoner humiliate herself.

  "Faster.” The major gave a good blow to her ass cheeks. Of late these had become harder, leatherized from so many beatings. Still the cane was a severe instrument and the wielder was obviously a skilled torturer.

  Cait jerked forward, feeling a jolt to her pussy. With wider strokes, she cleaned their floor for them.

  "Americans are not so stupid after all,” the major noted. “They can be taught."

  "With the right education,” laughed the colonel.

  Gonzales was puffing fanatically. “Oh dear, I think..."

  He was coming, all over the floor, all over Cait's head and shoulders, even his own black shoes. It was like a warm, wet sprinkler spray and she had no idea how a man could store so much of the stuff.

  "Lick it up, cunt,” the major ordered, and now Cait was eating sperm and cleaning the doctor's shoes with her mouth.

  "You're doing a good job, girl. We'll let you try eating out our assholes next."

  Warmth permeated her body. Her abasement was being found acceptable. Would they become her new masters? Would they keep her a secret prisoner on this base or wherever it was they were?

  "Down,” commanded the major, and next thing she knew, Cait was on her naked belly, leaving a trail of her own juices as she crawled from man to man. Each had taken down his pants and the only way she was being allowed to rise was so that she could squat and put her tongue inside their assholes. The men smelled of sweat, though she had had worse experiences just kissing the mouths of some of the drunkards and scum they sent to her while she was tied or chained down in the hotel in Cristobal City.

  It was the symbolism that was most potent. Licking a man's penis might be servile, but it could lead to sex, mutual pleasure. Licking an ass meant only one thing-degradation.

  "I should like to use some of my instruments,” the doctor announced as she was working on the moon-sized globes of his own hairless derriere. “There are many I've never tested on an American female."

  It was an opportunity he would never have, either, because at that exact moment the door burst open and Luke was there with several agents. He had his pistol out and before any objections at all could be raised, shots were being fired from out of its deadly muzzle.

  One, two, three, the bodies of her rapists fell to the ground, a bullet each to the brain and several more to the chests. Dumont's subordinates knew better than to question the legality of his killing foreign nationals, high ranking military officers at that. Nor did the ambassador, who at this exact moment was in the next room, weeping, his hands locked rudely behind his back in steel cuffs.

  "Cait, my god, you're alive.” Luke wrapped her in his arms. She looked up at him, the action taking all her remaining strength. She dimly remembered saying his name before slipping into a sleep surpassing death.

  Chapter Eight

  Luke went through a number of reactions when he saw Caitlyn Ross. First there was an incredible sense of relief she was alive. Then he saw the state she was in and what had obviously been done to her by her so called rescuers and he moved mentally somewhere past furious. This was followed by a need for revenge, quick closure and a return to business as usual. All this occurred within the first few milliseconds of entering the interrogation room at the Parecian National Police headquarters. The subsequent killing of the three officers came from the gut, just as had the earlier decision to stop putting up with the bureaucratic bullshit out front and go and find Cait for himself. Up to that point, they had done things by the book, strictly as guests, making inquiries, all under the lead of the CIA, which unlike his agency, had foreign jurisdiction.

  He'd like to say he'd done it all to save her life. Maybe that would make it easier, more noble somehow.

  But the truth was he'd acted in the most cold and calculated way and he really was thinking less of Cait and more of everything else in his life: Sarah and how he'd treated her, and all the other women he'd done the same thing to, and most of all his job, wondering if he was cut out for it anymore.

  Needless to say no one had expected him to execute the men in the room. Then again, no one had expected to find a federal agent, naked, being sexually abused by some cocksuckers from a two-bit piece of shit country that didn't deserve to kiss our ass, much less lay a hand on one of our women.

  Luke's superiors had been on the phone almost constantly since storming about diplomatic incidents, but the truth was, there wouldn't be shit in the way of ramifications. Our own fucking ambassador was in on it and apparently some general of theirs who was a brother in law to the Parecian president. No, everything would get swept under the rug, the right cocks would get stroked and sucked and it would be back to business as usual.

  That's why Dumont hated the political side of things. Maybe everything he did was bullshit, too, but at least you had the illusion every now and then that you were getting some scumbag off the streets and maybe keeping a few kilos from getting into some neighborhood and from there into the hands of some ten year old schoolchild.

  Hopefully he'd let more than one kid grow up in peace already and maybe he was good for a few more, but as his plane touched back down on the tarmac at Dulles, he was seriously thinking about calling the whole thing quits.

  There's a time in every agent's career, that's what his mentor, Stan Rosco, had said. Rosco was his rabbi, the guy who puts you under his wing, sets you straight and wipes your nose the first few years. At the time Rosco was agent-in-charge of the San Francisco field station. He was a legend in his time. The man still wore those fedora hats like Hoover wore and the old gangsters of the Elliott Ness days. He did things by the book, so long as it was his own. He didn't trust novelties. Ya gotta know people, that's what counts, he would always say. It's all about information, rightly used. And when it came to busts he was a purist. Never even liked to draw a pistol. People get hurt with guns, the wrong people, he was fond of saying. Give him a good baseball bat and he was happy. Not that he ever brutalized anybody. Old Rosco had the kindest heart of anyone he knew. But he loved the law and he was a lion enforcing it. Luke could still picture him there behind his desk, that craggy face, deep brown eyes and expressive lips. His hat on to cover his baldness, some mismatched tie around his neck. What would Rosco think of him now? he wondered. Had it been six years already since Luke had attended his funeral, kissing his daughters and telling them what a great man their father was?

  Rosco would probabl
y just smile, that's what he'd do.

  It's not the messes you get into, it's how you get out of them. Wasn't that how he put it?

  Luke unfastened his seat belt. He was through with the agency. And through with Caitlyn Ross, too. She deserved better. He'd never speak to her again, never allow her to be contaminated by the poison brewing in his mind. No matter what.

  * * * *

  The agency doctors had wanted her to take more time off. But Caitlyn wanted back in the field as quickly as possible. Another week or more of laying on some couch watching old movies and eating ice cream was the last thing she needed. Too much time to think. And brood. It was the same with the shrinks they wanted her to see. What was the point trying to explain things to people who had never had the experiences and would never understand in a million years? If it was supposed to be for her own good, than why should she have to open herself all over again for the benefit of some armchair jockeys with notebooks?

  Had she suffered hellacious things? Sure. But shit happened in this world. Every day, especially to women and a lot of it was much worse than what she'd known with Draco.

  Were there long-range scars? Deep wounds? No shit, there were. And that was her problem to deal with. A lot of her fellow agents got bullet wounds and had to rehab, some would never walk again and some got sent to an early grave.

  Like she said, shit happened. Not to be callous, but you had to go on, otherwise the bad guys win. Because the truth is bad guys have no consciences, they don't take time to navel gaze and they sure as shit don't convalesce for months at a time.

  On her first day back she marched straight to Luke's office. To her surprise he was packing his stuff.

  "I'm done,” he told her, loading pictures into a cardboard box taken from a supermarket.

  "You can't leave,” she replied, her voice hollow and a little strained.

  It was the closest thing Special Agent Ross had had to a feeling since waking up in Walter Reed Hospital the day after being airlifted out of Parecia. Luke hadn't come to see her the whole time she was there. She was hurt by that but she didn't know it till now.

  "I can do whatever the fuck I want, Agent Ross. I'm the boss."

  Her heart was in her throat. What did she say now? I need you. I want you. “Where will you go?” she asked softly.

  "Crazy,” he half grinned. “Want to come?"

  Yes. At that moment she honestly did. There or anyplace else he picked. “I never heard from you, Luke.” She gripped the back of his visitor's chair. “Not even once."

  "You were fine. I checked by phone every day.” There was an edge to his voice that said, keep back. Don't get any closer.

  She looked down at her hands. Her nails were plain. Fingernail polish was one of the things she hadn't been able bring herself to do yet. It made her feel a little too female. A little too vulnerable. So did wearing a skirt.

  "I thought about you, Luke."

  He slammed down a book he'd taken from the shelf. “Damn it, Cait, what are you playing at? You want to hear how I thought about you, too? Fine, I did. Every stinking minute of every day. Are you happy now?"

  His eyes were fierce, belligerent. For the first time she wondered if he'd been drinking. Blinking back tears she could ill afford, she said in a steady measured voice. “Fuck you, Luke."

  He laughed thinly, more of an exhale between clenched lips. “Whatever you say, lady."

  Luke was already back to filling the boxes by the time she reached the door. She intended to slam it behind her but there didn't seem to be any point.

  Caitlyn ran into Sarah Renfrew in the lobby. “Cait,” the young woman exclaimed. “I didn't know you were back on duty."

  "You know me,” she shoveled it on. “Never let the grass grow under your feet. If you'll excuse me, though, I'm about a million years behind."

  Sarah looked at her with stars in her eyes, the same ones she used to have. “Oh, sure, I understand. Can I just ask you one thing, though?"

  Having a heart to heart with a rookie was the last thing Cait wanted right now but it was clear the girl wanted to talk. “Sure, Sarah, fire away."

  "I heard about some of what happened,” the young blonde confided, “and I just want to say first that I think you're the bravest woman I've ever met and a credit to the agency."

  She wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. How did she tell this idealist that you do what you have to and that there aren't any real heroes at the end of the day, except maybe among the dead?

  "It's not so much, Sarah. Others have made much greater sacrifices."

  "But you were held by that mad man for so long,” she kept pushing. “I could never have endured. What was your secret?"

  Caitlyn noticed something interesting and decided to use it as an opportunity to change the topic. “You're dressed a little light for work,” she noted Sarah's sundress, sandals and ribbon tied hair. “Or is this some new undercover?"

  Sarah Renfrew grinned, her cheeks flush like she was pregnant. “I'm quitting, Cait. I'm not on the job anymore."

  "Oh? And what brought about that change of heart?"

  She gave a little half giggle like she was in school. Lord, but she was young.

  "I have a boyfriend. A man. He doesn't want me working."

  Cait arched an eyebrow. “And you want the same?"

  Sarah looked down shyly at her hands, which she was holding together, clasped. “Mark isn't just a boyfriend, Cait, he's my master. He owns me."

  Caitlyn felt a lightning bolt rip through her pussy. In an instant she was wet-the first time since Parecia. “You're ... a slave?"

  "Consensual, of course."

  "Of course. I didn't think you were the type, though."

  Sarah looked at her curiously. “And what is the type?"

  Cait thought for a moment. Damned if she didn't have a clue. “Someone who's weak in will, I suppose."

  "I can only speak for myself,” Sarah shrugged, “but I think it has more to do with love. You find a man you love and you give yourself, totally. Have you ever been in love, Caitlyn?"

  It wasn't meant as a barb or an invasion of privacy, just girlish curiosity, but for some reason the question hit Cait square between the eyeballs. “We don't know each other well enough for that discussion, Agent Renfrew."

  "Sorry,” said Sarah quickly. “I meant no offense."

  "I'm just tired, Sarah. I need to go home, okay?"

  "Yea, sure. I'm just here to pick up some stuff and drop off my resignation letter to Chief Dumont."

  Cait laughed ironically. “Well that should go over big in the mood he's in. Good luck, Sarah. Wherever you end up."

  The two women embraced.

  "I'm going to give my master babies,” she enthused.

  "Oh, how nice.” Cait felt a little stab, a hot blade in the belly. Could it be she wanted babies, too, and maybe even a master?

  * * * *

  Luke pulled the bottle of scotch from his bottom drawer. Fuck this job and fuck Caitlyn Ross, too. Fuck her for fucking coming in here and for fucking up his fucking life. Didn't she see was trying to go down in a blaze of glory here-or was it a quiet ride into the sunset? Either way, she was interrupting. Ruining his exit, stage left. Emotional complications, emotions period, were not what he was about right now. He was done with this job and done with her. He wasn't supposed to have even seen her again.

  Why the hell wasn't she on administrative leave like she was supposed to be? The woman had been through an inferno. She probably had PTSD and whatever else a woman got on top of that from systematic sexual abuse and rape. She ought to be at home, in bed, or on some tropical island, as far from Anton Draco as she could possibly get. Sure the man was secured in the tightest federal prison in the area, soon to be transported to a supermax facility some two thousand miles away, but there was no way she should have to deal with him walking nearly the same earth and breathing nearly the same air as her.

  Not that he deserved to breathe at all.

  Cait had
looked good, though. Tough and ready. A little thinner, and maybe a bit more somber, but fit, lean like a warrior. His admiration for her only rose with everything he saw her go through. He wished he could have told her that today, how proud he was of her, almost like she was his own daughter.

  His daughter. Now there was a laugh. What right did he have to play the proud papa when he'd screwed her and humiliated her, made her go down on him in an alley, whipped her ass and then let run back to her car alone so she could be kidnapped by a criminal psychopath?

  It was him who should have been kidnapped and tortured. He should have been made to suffer in Parecia, at the hands of all those pig fucks and sadists. If he'd had his way, there would be a bullet to the head of each one of them, not just the three in the interrogation room.

  He let the scotch pour down his throat. The sooner he was out of here, his shit in tow, the better. But he had to anesthetize himself first.

  "Chief Dumont?"

  Jeezus, now what?

  He slammed the bottle back in the drawer. “Agent Renfrew."

  "Sir, if I've come at a bad time..."

  "There won't be a good time, Sarah."

  She crossed the threshold. “I understand you're retiring, sir.'

  He snorted. “You could call it that."

  She looked at him with those big sad eyes of hers. “I just want you to know I was honored to work with you. You taught me a lot."

  "Evidently,” he sneered. “Since you're quitting, too."

  "Who told you that?” She seemed genuinely surprised.

  "Didn't need to hear it from anybody, one look at you coming in here tells me everything."

  "Oh.” She studied the floor at her feet. “I guess that's why you're the boss. You figure all these things out."

  Luke gave her a scowl, finding himself at his limit for female sensitivity today. “Cut the shit, Renfrew. I'm not your boss. Neither of us is on the federal payroll anymore. So let's just shake hands and say sayonara. Nobody the worse for wear."

  Renfrew blinked, but didn't take the hint.

  He went back to loading boxes, noisily, ignoring her presence as much as possible. A few moments later he heard her clear her throat.