BDSM Library - Undercover Operation Gone Awry

Patty Vogel stopped on the sidewalk in front of the city building department headquarters and looked at her wristwatch. It was Wednesday morning, 7:50 a.m. Good, she thought. Right on time. Very professional. Want to make a good first impression on Big John Thompson.

She pulled the brass handle of the heavy glass door and strode confidently to the bank of elevators. The heels of her black pumps made a loud clacking sound as she walked. She sensed the uniformed man at the security desk watching her all the way. Professional curiosity? Lust? She couldn't tell which and did not want to call any more attention to herself by making eye contact with him.

Finally the doors of the middle elevator opened, and as she turned to press "12" she faced the security guard. He was staring at her legs. Lust, she concluded as the doors closed. Good. Better that than professional curiosity. What she didn't see was the security guard picking up the handset on the telephone at his station and pressing the number for department the head's chief of staff as the elevator began its vertical journey.

The heavy double wooden doors to the department's administrative suite were still locked when Patty tried to enter. Don't tap your toe or fidget, she reminded herself. Rather than pace back and forth in front of the locked doors—and to calm herself (she always experienced a last-minute rush of nervousness at the start of an undercover assignment)—she walked leisurely to the floor-to-ceiling glass windows opposite the offices. Looking out over the north side of downtown, she tried to concentrate on one building in the distance so as not to show her tension to the security cameras. She took it for granted that there were security cameras but made no effort to locate them. I should look at my notes, she told herself, and took a piece of paper from the leather notepad cover that she cradled in her left arm. Her black handbag hung from her bent left elbow. She wondered whether she should take a pen from her bag and pretend to add to her notes.

Just then she heard the sounds of the office doors behind her being unlocked. She turned and watched a middle-aged Asian-American woman prop both doors open then disappear into the large, brightly lighted outer office. Must be Sally Chew, the department head's chief of staff—and supposed right-hand-man (or is it right-hand-woman?) in all sorts of Big John's illegal doings, she speculated. Patty took a deep breath. Well, here we go, she said to herself. Good luck, Julia Mason! Break a leg!

Patty/Julia walked into the large outer office and up to the reception desk where a younger Asian woman was seated.

"Good morning," said the seated woman. "May I help you?"

"Yes, good morning," replied Patty. "My name is Julia Mason. With ABC Developers. I have an appointment with Mr. Thompson." She took a business card that the District Attorney's Office had had printed up for this undercover assignment from her notepad cover and handed it down to the young woman. The receptionist typed a few strokes on her computer keyboard and looked up.

"Yes. Ms. Mason, okay. Mr. Thompson is expecting you." She handed the phony business card back to Patty. "Go right in." She saw Patty looking around for the appropriate door and pointed to a corridor along the side wall. "To your right and all the way back. Mrs. Chew will take you the rest of the way."

"Thank you," said Patty smiling as she began her long-legged stride toward the corridor. She sensed more than saw the receptionist staring at her legs as she walked. What is it with my legs this morning? she mused as she walked passed several closed office doors that lined both sides of the corridor. Do I have a run in my pantyhose? Oh, well. Too late now.

At the end of the corridor was another outer office, this one smaller than the one she had just left. It was an L-shaped space with a desk on the left side and a waiting area on the right. The woman Patty had seen opening the doors was now seated at the main desk. Patty held out the bogus business card. The woman took it and without looking at it, her computer, or the appointment calendar on her desk pushed back her chair and stood up.

"Yes, Ms. Mason. Good morning. Mr. Thompson is expecting you. Follow me."

That's odd, Patty thought as she followed the pretty middle-aged office manager to and through the door into the building department head's spacious, gorgeously furnished office.

"Mr. Thomson, this is Julia Mason from ABC Developers," she announced again without bothering to glance down at the card in her hand. A very tall broad-shouldered man in brown suit and white shirt rose and extended his hand. They don't call him Big John Thompson for nothing, Patty said to herself. She strode to his desk and shook his massive hand as the office manager placed her bogus business card on his desk.

"Good morning. How are you, Miss Mason?" the building head inquired pleasantly.

"I'm fine, thank you," Patty replied. "Thanks for seeing me on such short notice."

"That's alright. Shall we sit over here?" He pointed to some comfortable-looking high-back leather chairs surrounding a round coffee table. "Would you like something to drink? Coffee? Tea?"

"Water would be fine, thank you, . . . if you have some," Patty replied as she settled into one of the leather chairs. Her buttocks sank deeply into the soft upholstery. Big John sat opposite her, filling his chair. She carefully crossed her long legs, left over right, as she set her purse down on the floor. Without looking directly at him, she knew that Big John, too, was ogling her legs, the hemline of her skirt, her black pumps. Help yourself, big guy, she said to herself as she opened her notepad. She wondered if she should "accidentally" cause her skirt to ride up her legs to give the building head a better look at the outside of her left thigh. She decided against it. Not professional, she concluded.

The office manager—remember her name; Sally Chew, Patty reminded herself for the sixth or seventh time—had taken a bottle of purified water from the small office refrigerator under the table behind the big desk. As she came around to where the two were sitting she dropped the cap into a wastebasket and took an empty glass from among several lined up upside down on the credenza.

"Thank you," said Patty as she set the glass down on the coffee table and filled it with liquid from the chilled plastic bottle.

"It was my pleasure," replied Mrs. Chew, smiling as she left the room. She closed the private office door behind her. Odd, thought Patty again.

Still looking enthusiastically at Patty's legs, Big John Thompson began: "Now Miss Mason, what can I do for you? I don't believe I know ABD. Please, tell me something about your company."

Patty swallowed the last of the water in her glass. "Well, we're a new company located out of state . . ."

"Located where, please, Miss Mason?" Big John interrupted.

"Actually, we're opening up offices in several states including this one." The cold water had a calming effect, so she poured another glass full as she began to describe the mythical company that she purportedly represented. "I'm the regional representative with responsibility for this state and three others."

Big John glanced up from her legs and smiled. He either hadn't noticed that she had evaded answering his first question, or didn't care so long as she didn't mind him staring at her legs.

She took another drink of the bottled water from the glass and continued. "We would like to begin the process of developing several tracts of land that we have just acquired options on. My company has asked me to make the initial contact with your department and to see how we might proceed in the most expeditious manner possible." She was glad that she had asked for bottled water rather than the coffee that Big John was sipping without taking his eyes off her legs. It had had a calming effect on her nerves. She was beginning to feel relaxed.

"Where are these tracts of land?" he asked.

Patty had to think for a moment. The storyline that she had rehearsed so many times with the District Attorney suddenly seemed to be slipping out of her mind. Concentrate! she told herself sternly. What's wrong with you?

"Two tracts are in the northern part of the city, adjacent to the old landfill," she answered after blinking her eyelids twice. I can't be sleepy, she thought. As always she had not slept well the night before, but adrenalin always carried the day when an undercover assignment began. "The other tracts are in the eastern part . . ." She stopped and tried again to finish her sentence. ". . . eastern part of the city next to . . . next to . . . next . . ." She stopped again, unable to finish. She stared quizzically at the department head.

He was smiling. He studied her face for a moment without saying anything, then put his cup down on the table and stood up. To Patty he now looked ten feet tall. She tried to say something.

"How do you feel, Miss Mason?" Big John asked politely.

"Not . . . not very . . .," she tried to answer. She was more than relaxed. She tried to uncross her legs to sit up straighter, but her strength was ebbing too rapidly. Her legs fell open awkwardly. She struggled to lean forward but could not. Seemingly exhausted, she gave in and let her head sink backward, her arms dropping down the sides of the soft chair. The open notepad case slipped from her lap, landed on its corner on the floor outside her spread legs, then fell over closed up with a sheet of white paper—her notes—sticking out. She was fully awake and aware of what was going on, but she could not move a muscle. She watched as the tall man chuckled.

He came toward her, bent down to pick up her purse, and dumped its contents on the coffee table. He studied the objects that had tumbled out. A lipstick, a compact, a small packet of facial tissues, a comb, . . . Hmmmm, he mused. No wallet. No cellphone, either. And no car keys, or keys of any kind, for that matter. She's the undercover investigator from the DA's office, alright. She didn't bring anything with her that might give her real identity away if she were exposed.

He went around his desk to one of the telephones.

"Mrs. Chew, it worked. Is Doc out there? Good. The two of you get in here."

He walked back and stared down at the helpless woman who stared up at him with fear in her eyes. Pretty, he thought. Blond hair, nice wool suit, nice—looks like silk—white blouse, black shoes. No wedding ring. Gold ankle bracelet. How did I miss that? Must have been under the table. He looked into the wide, frightened blue eyes of Patricia Vogel/Julia A. Mason and smiled. Her face was placid, but the fear in her eyes was obvious. She knew she was in real trouble. He smiled down at her again and said to himself: We'll take care of you, you stupid bitch!

The office door opened and in a moment Patty saw the Asian chief of staff and an older man wearing metal-rimmed glasses. They stood beside the building head looking down at her.

"Doc, whatever you gave us worked fast," Big John said appreciatively.

"I told you it would," the older man with the glasses replied. He sounded slightly offended. "What do you want me to do?"

"Make her talk. Do you have some truth serum or something?"

"Yes, I think I have something that will do the trick," Doc replied. He put an old fashioned doctor's bag on the desk behind him. Patty hadn't noticed it in his hand. He took out two syringes, one larger than the other. Each appeared to be filled with a clear liquid. Patty tried to maneuver defensively, but her limp body failed to respond to her brain's commands. Her eyes widened in fright.

"Mrs. Chew, will you please remove the young lady's jacket and roll up her sleeve?" the older man asked.

The chief of staff moved in front of Patty and bent over her. She yanked open the suit jacket, roughly grabbed Patty by the hair, and pulled her head forward into her own stomach. Then she wiggled the woman's arms out of each sleeve, each freed arm flopping limply again down the sides of the overstuffed chair. Dropping the wool suit jacket to the floor, she paused. "Which arm?" she asked.

"The left, if you please," replied Doc.

Mrs. Chew grabbed the sleeve of Patty's dangling left arm and pulled it up onto the chair arm. She unbuttoned the cuff and, holding the young woman's wrist with her right hand, worked the silk up over the elbow with her left. She made sure the limp left arm, palm upward, did not fall down to the side of the chair again, then stepped out of the way.

"Thank you," said Doc. He removed the cover from the needle of one of the syringes, held it up to the light, and squirted a few drops into the air.

"What's that, Doc?" Big John asked.

"Something to make her muscles work again," he replied. "Not the major muscle groups so much; just enough for her to speak. She can't tell you anything if she can't speak." The bespectacled man was once again fishing for something in his quaint little doctor's bag. This time he produced a small brown bottle and a packet which he tore open. It contained either gauze or cotton, Patty couldn't tell which. Unscrewing the top on the little glass bottle, the older man stepped next to her, tapped a little liquid on the white puffy material, and bent over her left arm.

He swabbed the inside of her elbow, pinched here and there until he found a vein, then pushed the needle slowly under the skin. The clear liquid went in easily and quickly. Patty tried to watch, but because she could not move her head she did not actually see the injection being given to her. Soon a burning sensation began to spread up and down her left arm.

"How long will it take?" asked Big John.

"Not long at all," replied Doc.

"Then you better get her thumb print now, Mrs. Chew," Big John said. "Did you bring your fingerprint kit, Doc?"

"Yes, it's in my bag. Get it out," he nodded at Mrs. Chew. The chief of staff peered into the bag, retrieved a small black case, unzipped it, and knelt by Patty's dangling right arm. "You hold it, Doc," she instructed. With the older man assisting, Mrs. Chew grasped Patty's right thumb, pressing it first onto the ink pad, then onto an index card from the case. She stood up and rezipped the little fingerprint kit without bothering to wipe the black smudge from Patty's thumb. She handed the kit to the older man and held up the card with the thumb print on it. "I'll scan this and have it checked against the databases," she said as she headed for the door to the outer office.

"Check it yourself," Big John amended. "Don't involve any of the staff."

The woman nodded as she closed the door behind her.

Patty groaned. The two men looked down at her. She was trying to move her legs, but they were scarcely responding. She was beginning to move her head slightly from side to side.

Big John sat down on the edge of the coffee table and placed one of his big hands—Patty couldn't tell which—on her exposed right thigh. "Now, Miss Mason," he began authoritatively after clearing his throat. "Or whatever your real name is." He noted Patty's reaction and continued, "Oh, yes. We know that you are not Julia A. Mason from ABC Developers, Inc. As soon as Mrs. Chew finishes her computer search, we'll know who you really are. Any undercover operative that the DA would use will be in one databank or another." He noted how Patty winced again at the mention of this new factoid. "Oh, we know about Operation Mason"—another wince—"but we need you to tell us the details. Who has been talking to the DA, how far along their investigation is, things like that. You will tell us. Doc, here, has a syringe full of chemicals that will allow you—no, compel you—to tell us everything. If not one syringe, then another, and another, and another—all day and all night, if we need to—in order to learn it all. I have cancelled all my appointments for the day. You will be my guest until we have finished our business with you.

"Doc, how long before you can give her the truth drug, or whatever it is?"

The older man looked at his wristwatch. "I could give it to her now, I guess. No need to wait until the antidote has completely taken effect." He took the second syringe from the pocket of his sport coat and readied it for use. This time, the injection was slow and required some noticeable effort on the man's part to get the clear liquid out of the syringe, through the needle, and into the Patty's body. This time the pain was intense. A fiery sensation was soon spreading up and down her arm. A sound that tried to be a cry or maybe a moan almost formed in her throat, but her muscles had not been sufficiently restored to give it shape.

"Oh, don't worry," said Big John reassuringly. "This room is electronically soundproofed. When you are up to it, you may scream as loudly as you like. No one can hear you."

He smiled. "However, I don't think that you will find it necessary to scream. We will not be inflicting any real pain on you. Pain is too inefficient, and it takes too long. We believe in 'Better living through chemistry,' right Doc?" He laughed at himself.

The older man nodded in agreement. He had finishing emptying the syringe into the Patty's arm and slowly withdrew the long needle, swabbing the hole it left with the alcohol-treated material.

"Go to hell," Patty was able to mumble, but just barely audibly.

"Well," said a suddenly pleased Big John. "Doc, how soon before the new drug takes effect?"

"In a couple of minutes," was the reply.

They noticed that the young woman began to writhe ever so perceptibly. Murmuring or low-grade groaning could be heard.

"Good," Big John announced and patted the woman's stockinged thigh merrily.

"Well, then, I think I'll go get some coffee," the older man in glasses announced. "Do you want some?"

"You can get a cup in the outer office."

"No thanks. I've had your office coffee before. I need something better. I'll be back soon."

"Fifteen minutes," commanded the department head.

The other man nodded reluctantly and left the room.

"Now, Miss, are you comfortable?"

Patty didn't want to answer her inquisitor, but this seemed like a harmless question, so she tried. Nothing happened at first. Then she mumbled, "Yes, except for . . ." This awful burning in my arm, she said to herself, unable to string together any more words just yet.

"Good." He patted her thigh again. He seemed happy with the way things were going. "Let's start with some easy questions while we wait for the drug to take full effect. You wouldn't want to refuse to answer easy questions, would you? No one will be hurt by your answers, will they? Well, let's see . . . Do you live in this city?"

Patty caught herself just as she began trying to verbalize an answer. Her training years earlier had covered situations like this. She could recall one strategy that she had been taught: listen to the question, pretend that you have been asked a totally different question—about something pleasant—then concentrate with all you might on answering the imaginary question. Psychologically, you'll feel like you have answered the question, but you won't actually be giving away anything important. At least that was the way the strategy was supposed to work. She thought for a moment about something pleasant, then invented a question related to it, and began formulating her answer.

"Yes, he was the one with the big cock," she half mumbled, half spoke. Her ability to speak was almost back.

Stunned, Big John took his hand off the woman's leg as if it were the source of intense heat. He furrowed his brow and looked into her face curiously.

"Wha . . . What was that? I'm not sure I heard you. Are you a resident of this city?"

"Yes," she announced happily. Big John exhaled, relieved. "He's the one you saw me with. When he was balling me, I thought his cock would come out my mouth. I was sore for a week!" She giggled, sort of, or at least that is what he thought she did. His frown returned.

"Okay, let's try another easy question. Did you go to college? Which college did you attend?"

He watched her face as she seemed to be considering the question intently. Then she said, "No, she's the one with the little tits. You're thinking of the other bitch, the redhead. The one we double-dated with was her roommate, the brunette with no chest." Now she also frowned.

Big John got up and went to his telephones. He picked up the handset from one of them and pressed a button. He was obviously annoyed. "Mrs. Chew, is the Doc still there? Okay, see if you can find him, fast. What? Okay, come in first, then." He hung up and stared angrily at the young woman who was now struggling to sit more upright in the chair. Her black skirt was nearly in her lap, her knees were spread apart, her ankles turned outward. There were two red dots in the elbow of her bare left arm, one very much larger than the other surrounded by a large pink blotch.

The chief of staff burst into the office waving a sheet of paper. "Her name is Patricia Ann Vogel. She's a licensed private investigator. She lives at 18329 South Landover Street, Apartment 22." The woman was practically shouting.

"Good." Big John's mood brightened a bit. "Which Special Unit is on call?"

"Unit 33."

"Okay. Get them over to . . . what was the address, . . . something on Landover? Turn the place inside out. Get back to me right away." His aide turned to leave. "Don't use the phones. Go down to the basement yourself."

The woman closed the office door beyond her. Big John studied the incapacitated young undercover agent for a long time. She seemed to be smiling. Thinking about the boyfriend with the big cock, he speculated. Finally the bespectacled Doc returned carrying a large paper coffee cup. "You were looking for me, boss?" he said.

"Doc, shouldn't the truth serum be working by now?"

Doc looked at his watch. "Sure. What's the problem?"

"Listen. Patricia Vogel, where do you live? Tell me where you live?"

Patty's smile seemed to widen. "I already told you," she replied.

"Tell me again."

"The one with the big cock. He fucked my fucking brains out."

Big John turned angrily to Doc. "See there? What's going on? I ask her one question, she answers another. The stuff's not working."

Doc considered the matter for a while. "May be an old batch. Lost its strength."

"What should we do? Give her more serum?"

Doc shook his head. "No, I don't have any fresh serum with me."

"How about applying some pain. Do you have anything that will cause some serious pain?"

Doc looked into his bag on the desk. "Hmmmm." He rubbed his nose thoughtfully. Patty was no longer smiling. She was watching the older man carefully. "I have an experimental solution that I have been wanting to try. I've never used it on anyone before, so I don't know how it would interact with what's already in her system."

"What does it do?" Big John wanted to know.

"It attacks the breasts. It causes all kinds of bad stuff to happen, supposedly. I hear it's pretty fast-acting and very painful throughout the entire mammary area. And can cause permanent damage, unless an antidote is given within a reasonable amount of time. That's all I know about it."

Patty's eyes darted between the two men.

"Sounds good. Give it to her," ordered the department head.

The older man nodded and put down his coffee cup. Walking over to where Patty was sprawled helplessly in the deep chair, he bent over her and began unbuttoning her blouse.

"What the hell are you doing, Doc?" Big John asked angrily.

"Taking off her clothes," the other man answered, also somewhat angrily. "Or at least on top. I need to inject directly into her breasts."

"Oh," said Big John, slightly embarrassed at not guessing what the other man was doing.

Doc finished with the buttons and pulled the tails of the silk blouse free of the waistband on Patty's skirt. With the same arm-waving motion that accompanied the earlier removal of her suit jacket, he extracted the young woman's arms from the sleeves of her silk blouse. Hands placed gently on her shoulders, he pulled her forward and began fumbling with the hooks at the back of her bra.

"No," protested Patty weakly, still unable to move her limbs to offer resistance. Not that resistance would have been effective.

"Shut up!" Big John hissed angrily.

Finally the older man managed to unhook Patty's brassiere.

"Out of practice," he chuckled embarrassedly.

The young woman's exposed light skin and white undergarment contrasted with the black wool fabric of her hiked-up skirt and tan colored pantyhose as she slumped motionless, arms dangling, glaring up into the face of the man they called Doc. Carefully he removed each arm from the straps and with both hands slowly pulled the bra away from Patty's chest.

The two men stared down at Patty's breasts. They rose and fell slowly with her deep breathing, round, firm, white, but not unusually large. She's got nothing to write home about, Big John thought.

Doc was taking a brown vial and two empty syringes from his bag. He filled each syringe with what appeared to Patty to be a thick, pinkish solution. He paused before the woman sprawled helplessly in the chair. She stared up at him, partly in anger and partly in fear. "No, don't," she muttered.

"What are you waiting for?" scowled Big John.

"Nothing," Doc replied. "I just . . . This is not . . . I'm not used to . . ."

"You're being well paid." Big John was becoming angry. "Do it to her!"

Doc sighed. He bent forward and swabbed the nipple and areola of Patty's left breast with the alcohol-drenched gauze. The moisture was cool, almost cold on her skin. She was unable to prevent her nipple from hardening and extending. She stared intently into the older man's eyes as if the strength of her will alone would somehow prevent him from doing what he was about to do to her.

It did not. Doc primed the first syringe and leaned closer. With his left thumb and forefinger he gently but firmly held Patty's engorged nipple. Then he slowly, painfully inserted the full length of the needle. Patty held her breath. She glared determinedly into the man's eyes. It wasn't deterring him; he peered intently at her nipple and the syringe. The long needle was no longer visible, it's entire length having penetrated Patty's left breast.

Removing his thumb and finger from Patty's nipple, Doc held the syringe in his left hand and began to press on the plunger. The thick serum was evidently difficult to inject. Doc set his jaw at the effort required. As soon as the serum began exiting the tip of the needle deep inside her breast, Patty felt an incredible burning sensation. Even before the syringe had been emptied into her, the burning was spreading outward toward the skin.

Patty bit her lip and held her breath. She could not prevent a low moan from becoming audible. As Doc slowly pulled the needle back out of her breast, it felt as if a fire had broken out inside.

"Oh!" Patty hissed before regaining control of her lips. She resolved to not let her torturers no how much they were hurting her, no matter what they did to her. It would be the second failed strategy of her captivity.

"I wonder . . ." Doc stood indecisively after straightening up. He looked at the empty syringe in his right hand.

"What?" asked Big John Thompson.

"I wonder if one will be enough to . . . to achieve the results that you want."

"If one is good," Big John replied, "then two is twice as good. Give her one in the other tit!"

Patty wanted to shout out, no, don't do it! Fire already raged inside her left breast. At least maybe she could prevent the same thing from being done to her right breast. No! her mind was screaming. But she bit her lip and forced herself to remain silent. I will not let them know what I am feeling, no matter how painful it is! she told herself sternly.

"Okay," said Doc. He picked up the small bottle of alcohol and splashed some more onto the piece of gauze. The process with the young woman's right breast was the same as with the left: a cold cleansing of the nipple and areola, a gentle but firm steadying of the elongated nipple, insertion of the long needle through the nipple and deep into the breast, intense squeezing of the think serum, intense burning pain beginning almost immediately, then withdrawal of the needle.

Doc straightened as if his back was hurting from bending over the woman. Both men stared silently at her breasts for a while. Finally Big John asked, "How long before it does whatever it's supposed to do, Doc?"

"She should begin feeling changes in her breasts within minutes. Swelling should be fairly rapid and continue for several hours, maybe even days. There will be discoloration of the skin. The pain should be intense from the beginning and remain so over time as well."

"Do you have the antidote, Doc? Get it out so that she knows that when she tells me what I need to know we'll fix her up."

"I don't have any at the moment, but I know where to get some. The same people who sold me this batch also sell an antidote. I could get some in a half hour or so."

"Okay." Big John pulled up a straight-back chair from the nearby conference table and sat down next to Patty. He studied her face, then her rhythmically heaving breasts, then her face again. Patty began to murmur. She was biting hard into her lower lip and slowly moving her head from side to side. So far she had been able to avoid making a sound, despite the twin fires no burning out of control inside her.

"Patricia, according to the Doc here, you're going to have a lot pain in your tits. A lot of pain. It's going to become quite unpleasant for you. If you answer a few questions about the DA's investigation, we will get the antidote for you. Maybe it won't be too late to stop the process. Otherwise, you'll have to suffer for a long, long time. Despite your background or training or whatever, you know that you will eventually tell me what I want to know. We're just getting started with you. It's only . . ." he paused to look at his watch ". . . 9:15. You've only been here for a little over an hour. We have all day and all night, if necessary. Doc here has lots of other chemicals that cause pain to lots of different parts of the body, don't you, Doc? Let's do a deal, Patricia. You answer my questions, and Doc will go get the antidote for you before things get out of hand."

Patty shook her head from side to side more vigorously in response. The pain throughout her breasts was getting worse, however. She moaned, then held her breath, angry at herself for making the kind of sound that would signal to her torturers that indeed they had begun to cause her great pain. Reflexively she tried to lift her arms to touch her burning breasts, but she still could not move her limbs. When she realized that this would have been another signal to her tormenters, she was glad that the earlier drug had not worn off, that it inadvertently was preventing her from revealing information about the extent of her pain.

"Okay, then, Patricia," sighed Big John, "you'll just have to suffer. We'll wait until the pain is too much for you to tolerate." He crossed his legs, folded his arms, and watched her silently for a long time.

Patty cold hear a clock ticking in the background. She wished she couldn't hear it, because it seemed to be keeping time with the ratcheting up of the pain in her breasts. She closed her eyes, she didn't know why. Did she want them to think that she was sleeping? Did she want to try to sleep? Was she trying to demonstrate that, no matter what they did to her body, she could take it and wouldn't break? Was she trying demonstrate this to them, or to herself? She wouldn't, would she? The sudden flash of self-doubt caused her eyes to spring open. Time seemed to be sanding still. How long had it been? Minutes? Seconds?

She was beginning to feel more pain than she had ever felt in her life. She tried to describe it to herself. Firey, burning sensation. Like molten lava. More than that. Throbbing, aching, stabbing pain, concentrated in each of her breasts. Growing by the minute—by the second? For the first time she felt herself perspiring. Her forehead had become damp. Too fast, this is happening too fast, she realized. How bad will this get? How bad can it get? Much worse, they had said—much worse, for hours, . . . maybe days. My God, no! she thought. She shuddered and closed her eyes. Try to concentrate on something pleasant, she commanded herself. Where's the memory of that big cock now?

But all Patty could think about was the terrible pain in her breasts that kept increasing with each breath. Hold on, she told herself, hold on, girl! She could feel perspiration running down her bare ribs. She tried to move her limbs, but the result was more squirming than motion.

"Aaaaaaahhhhhh!" she breathed out softly, and turned her head to one side.

Big John looked at his watch. It was nearly 9:45 a.m. Thirty minutes or so had elapsed since the destructive agent had been injected. He reached out and grabbed Patty by the chin, turning her face toward his. "How's it going, Patricia?" he asked sarcastically. "Feeling alright? Everything okay?"

Patty groaned. She clinched her teeth and tried unsuccessfully to twist her head out of his grasp. Big John squeezed harder. With his free hand he reached out and squeezed her left breast like a melon. "How are your titties feeling now, hmm?" Patty let out the nearest thing to a scream that she had mustered since being drugged soon after 8:00 a.m. The act of touching itself was torment. But Big John was doing more than touching. He was squeezing her enflamed, swelling breast with one of his huge hands. Squeezing hard.

The department head was shocked with what we was feeling. Thirty minutes after the woman had been injected, her breast was hard as a rock. The breast was also larger than it had been before they injected her. So was the right one.

"My offer still stands," he said optimistically as he let go of Patty's left breast and began squeezing the right one. "Doc will leave right now, won't you, Doc? Just shake you head 'Yes,' and the antidote will be on its way. I'll even wait until you've received it to start the questioning."

"Nooooooooo!" she cried out, almost back to full voice.

" 'No,' what?" he asked. "No deal? Patricia, you don't mean that! 'Yes' is the correct answer." He was squeezing as hard as he could. Patty was holding her breath so as not to cry out again. Her face was rapidly becoming red. She couldn't prevent the tears that had formed in the corner of her eyes from beginning to run down her cheeks. "It's simple. Just say 'Yes' and you can have the antidote that will stop the pain in your boobs."

He released her breast and her chin at he same time. Patty exhaled. She pressed the side of her face deeply into the soft leather of the chair.

"Tell you what I'll do," said Big John as if overcome by a sudden inspiration. "As an act of good faith—and in advance of your anticipated cooperation—I will have Doc here leave right now to get the antidote." He turned toward the older man who had been sitting in the chair behind the big desk. "Doc, how long did you say it would take? Half an hour?"

"Maybe less," said Doc optimistically without moving from the desk chair.

Big John turned back to Patty. "Did you hear that?" he asked enthusiastically. "Maybe less than half an hour! That's exactly how long it would take for you to answer the very few questions that I have for you about Operation Mason. In just a few more minutes you could be on your way to feeling fine again."

Still pressing against the soft leather, Patty shook her head defiantly.

"Doc, I'm confident that she'll reconsider. Why don't you go get what we need? My guess is that by the time you get back, she'll have told me what I want to know."

Doc nodded in agreement as he rose from the chair and headed for the door.

"Send Mrs. Chew in on your way out, will you?"

The door remained open for what seemed like quite a while until the chief of staff entered and closed it.

"Mrs. Chew, come over here. I need you expertise in psychology."

The woman stood next to the chair in which her boss was seated. The pair gazed silently down at Patty's breasts. They were already a sickening sight. Surprisingly swollen in such a sort period of time, they were beginning to look like bloated, rotten melons hanging from the woman's chest. They were also becoming discolored: bluish, reddish, brownish, with deep blue or purple veins darting here and there; areolas a blackish color. And the nipples . . . Both nipples were blue-black in color and swollen beyond belief. A yellowish fluid with a bit of red was seeping from each swollen nipple. Patty's eyes were closed now. Her head was still turned to the right and pressed deep into the cushion of the chairback. Her lips were tightly closed. She was shaking as if she were crying.

Big John motioned toward Patty with his head. Mrs. Chew stepped to the chair and bent down toward the suffering younger woman, placing her hands on the chair arms for balance.

"Patricia," the woman began. "Patricia, listen to me. If I were you, I'd tell Mr. Thompson everything he wants to know . . . right now. I'm no doctor, but if you asked me, I'd say that you need medical attention immediately. Your tits have been badly injured. Our doctor has gone for some medication. He will be back soon."

Patty shook her head slowly. She seemed to be trying unsuccessfully to roll up her long fingers into clinched fists.

"Patricia, from one woman to another, you are in serious trouble. You need help right now."

Again Patty shook her head. The word "No" made its way out of her mouth, past the leather upholstery.

Mrs. Chew leaned in closer to the young woman's ear: "Patricia Ann Vogel, listen to me. I know these men. I have worked with them for a long time. They will not stop working you over until they get what they need. They will keep giving you more of whatever they gave you until your breasts are completely ruined. Not only disfigured, but completely destroyed! The way they look now, they're well on their way. Then they will start in on other parts of your body. As a woman, you know what I am talking about." She turned slightly to look back at Big John. He was smiling, enjoying the psychological torture that Mrs. Chew was so good at. He nodded approvingly for her to continue.

"Patricia, I am talking about your reproductive organs. You are thirty-one years of age, according to your dossier. Much too young to be sterilized."

"Oh my god, no!" exclaimed the younger woman suddenly.

"Yes, Patricia. You know what they will do to you. They have already done it to your boobs. They will inject you with chemicals that will destroy your reproductive organs. Forget about the pain. Think about your future as a woman. Sterilized! Disfigured! You're too young and too pretty to have that happen to you. Tell Mr. Thompson what he needs to know, and he will stop right now. The doctor should be back very soon. Tell him, please, Patricia."

"I can't, I can't, . . . oh, I can't," Patty sobbed.

Mrs. Chew breathed a deep sigh and straightened up. She looked at her boss with a shrug of her shoulders that said 'I tried.' Big John nodded back in recognition of her fine though seemingly unsuccessful effort.

"Oh, they hurt so much!" Patty cried out for the first time. She was now in full voice. She looked imploringly at Mrs. Chew. "Can't you do something? You're a woman. Please don't let them hurt me any more. Please!"

"I can't help you," Mrs. Chew replied coldly. "Only you can help you. You and only you. Only you can make the pain go away. Maybe there's still time to save your tits. I don't know. But you have to talk now!"

"Noooooooooooooooo!" cried Patty.

"Stupid bitch!" Mrs. Chew shouted, suddenly very angry at her lack of success. She slapped the young woman's swollen and discolored left breast as hard as she could. Patty screamed; the older woman looked at the palm of her hand. The hardness of the breast surprised her. It was like a rock, she thought. Then she noticed the yellowish, reddish goo in the palm of her hand. She distastefully wiped it off on the young woman's crumpled skirt.

Big John was about to say something, but there was a knock on the door. He motioned for Mrs. Chew to see who it was and got up to position himself where his chief of staff had been standing.

Mrs. Chew came back in better spirits. "Well, I have news!" Annoyed, her boss motioned for her to continue. "The men from Special Unit are back from Ms. Vogel's apartment. They have brought something with them that may prove useful."

Patty held her breath, waiting to hear what the woman had to say. Big John, too, still looking annoyed, waited for his chief of staff to get on with it.

"It seems that our Ms. Vogel has a sister. The special unit boys brought her back with them. They are taking her downstairs to the vault room. They had to rough her up a little bit to persuade her to come with them, but she's okay, . . . so they say." She smiled nastily down at Patty.

"No, no, no!" Patty shouted as she struggled to sit up in the chair. "No!"

Big John thought for a moment. "Good," he pronounced. "Mrs. Chew, take Miss Vogel down to the vault room. Use the back stairs. Here. Put her blouse back on. You can leave the rest of her things here. I'll take care of them." He turned to Patty. "Maybe we have found the key. You are obviously a trained professional. You have an assignment. You have a reputation in the business to protect. But your sister is another story. When you see what we do to her, you will change your mind about cooperating. I think that we will be very physical with your little sister. Mrs. Chew, take her away. I'll come down in a moment."

"You can't!" shouted Patty, the loudest noise she had made in the two hours or so that she had been in their clutches.

"Shut up, you fucking bitch whore!" shouted Mrs. Chew angrily as she slapped Patty's discolored breasts repeatedly with both hands. She only stopped because the palms of her hands hurt from the hardness of the distorted globes—and because Patty seemed to have passed out from the intense pain the blows were causing, even though they were delivered with opened hands rather than closed fists.

"Don't worry, I'll get her downstairs."

"I'm not worried, Mrs. Chew. I've watched you work for many years." He tossed his assistant the white blouse that lay beside the chair on the floor and disappeared into the private bathroom at the side of his office.

Roughly, the chief of staff stuffed Patty's limp arms into the sleeves of the silk garment. She didn't bother to button it closed. She bent over and made sure that the high-heeled shoes were firmly on her feet.

"Come one, you stupid bitch. Get up. We're going downstairs to watch them work over your little sister." She yanked the groaning woman savagely to her feet and dragged her to another door that lead to a private stairwell at the rear of the building.

III

It was fourteen flights down to the subbasement where the vault room was located. The room was not actually a vault. It was a large conference room with a vault door that had been designed as a bomb shelter in the 1950s. It was also the place where the department head's so-called "special units" did some of their dirtiest work.

Mrs. Chew had to stop to rest several times on the way down. The woman she was assisting was dead weight, unable to walk on her own. But what was really irritating was the way the woman winced and wimpered every step of the way. Every step! Evidently each one was torturing the younger woman's hard, heavy, still-swelling globes. Droplets of the yellow gooey substance seeping from her nipples also were landing on the older woman's long split skirt, causing stains that would have to be dry-cleaned out. I'm sending the dry cleaning bill to the department, Mrs. Chew kept repeating to herself in disgust during their long descent.

When the two women finally reached the lower-level basement, the vault door was standing open. Mrs. Chew could hear men's voices along with the sound of a woman crying. Although she didn't see anybody inside the well-lit room, nevertheless she angrily shoved Patty through the open entrance. When she herself stepped through the vault door and into the room, she saw that one of the men from special unit had caught Patty before she fell to the floor. Her boss was already there, as was Doc, holding his old-fashioned doctor's bag. Three other men from Special Unit 33 were standing in various locations around the room. Seated on a metal folding chair, sobbing fearfully into hands that covered her face, was a very young woman—maybe nineteen or twenty years old—in jeans and a sweat shirt. She was barefoot. She had long blond hair tied in a ponytail in back, Mrs. Chew noticed.

"Put her in the chair over here," Big John ordered the man holding up the equally fearful undercover agent who kept murmuring, "Oh my god, no. Oh my god, please no." She couldn't take her eyes off her younger sister. The burly man dragged Patty to another folding chair across the room. As she was lowered onto a chair facing her sister, her unbuttoned blouse parted allowing everyone standing a look at the grotesquely disfigured breasts. To Big John, they seemed even larger than just a few minutes ago upstairs in his office. "Handcuff her," he ordered. When this was done Patty's bulging breasts stood out even more. Her chin quivered silently as she stared at her younger sister across the room.

Then Big John was standing in front of her, blocking her view. He lifted her head up with one of his massive hands cupped under her chin. "Now, here's what's going to happen, Patricia. We are about to begin doing some terrible things to your sister. What's her name?" he asked no one in particular? "Heather," came the reply from one of the special unit members. "Heather," he repeated. "Patricia, the first thing that will happen is that Heather will experience much pain and unpleasantness. That's Part One. The second thing that will happen is that you will agree to give me the information that I need. That is Part Two. This will cause Heather's pain and suffering to end—and yours, too, by the way." He nodded at Doc who now had the antidote. "The third thing that will happen—Part Three—is that we will all go our separate, merry ways. Patricia, you know that you can believe what I am saying. Of course, you can allow us to skip Part A by agreeing right now to talk. See, Doc is standing by with the medicine for your breasts." Doc nodded, but Patty did not see him. "I can't. Please, I can't," she sobbed softly.

"Very well." Big John sighed. Then he turned his back to Patty and gave the order: "Strip her!"

The men from Special Unit 33 surrounded the sobbing girl in the chair. Two lifted her to her feet. Two others began disrobing her. There wasn't much clothing to remove. The sweatshirt was pulled up over her head and off, the jeans unzipped and yanked down; the tiny, delicate bra was gone in a yank; so were the colorful panties.

"Leave her alone!" Patty suddenly yelled. "Oh, Sissy, Sissy . . . I'm so sorry!" she sobbed.

Heather recognized her older sister's voice. "Pat? Pat? Are you here? Where are you? What's happening? Oh please, Pat, don't let them hurt me!"

"Quiet!" Big John yelled in anger. "Beat her until I tell you to stop!"

One of the two men who had undressed Heather took aim first. He delivered a fist to the young sister's very flat stomach, causing her to groan loudly and lurch forward with her upper body. Immediately each of the two men holding her arms landed a blow to her lower back. Her knees buckled, her head snapped upward. Two more blows, one from the front to the face and one from the rear to the back of the neck put an end to the young woman's pleading protests. Big John signaled with his hands for a pause. The two men let her drop to the concrete floor.

Patty, who had been screaming "Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!" all the while became silent herself. Her audible panting was causing her badly swollen breasts to rise and fall inside the white outlines of her open blouse.

"Part One is just getting started, Patricia. You can move us to Part Two right now simply by agreeing to answer a few questions." Big John's voice reflected hope, optimism.

"I can't. I can't," Patty sobbed. "Oh, Sissy, I'm so sorry, Sissy. I can't."

"Okay, then. We'll continue with Part One. Is she unconscious?" One of the special unit men shook his head negatively. "Then strap her to the chair. Mrs. Chew, I think it is time for some of your special handiwork." As the four special unit men bound the stunned and whimpering Heather's wrists and ankles to the metal folding chair with white plastic tie-downs, the chief of staff came over to see what Big John had in mind. "Doc, do you have any scalpels in that kit of yours?"

"Of course," said the older man. He opened his black bag, fished around inside it, then pulled out what looked like a rectangular strip of paper. He ripped off one end and produced a shiny metallic object. "Here you are."

"What do you think?" the department head asked his chief of staff.

Mrs. Chew looked at Patty's disfigured breasts, then at her naked, bleeding, whimpering sister across the room.

"Let's start with her nipples," she said to her boss. "Tits seem to be the theme for today."

"Very well. She's all yours, Mrs. Chew. Proceed." Turning to the two special unit men who were standing on either side of Heather: "Hold her steady." The men grasped Heather's shoulders and handfuls of her hair and waited for Mrs. Chew to approach.

The chief of staff took the shiny scalpel from the doctor's hand and walked across the room. Patty began to scream: "No! You can't do that! Don't!" Then, sobbing again, "Oh Sissy, I'm so sorry . . . so sorry."

Everyone in the vault room ignored her, Mrs. Chew included. She held Heather's small, perky right breast gently in her left hand. With five or six quick motions of the wrist she slashed open the young woman's flesh. Not deep wounds; just deep enough to bleed—and leave permanent scars. "Noooooooooooooooooo!" screamed both sisters in unison. Ignoring the blood on her hand, Mrs. Chew grasped and pulled the nipple with her thumb and index finger, positioning the scalpel at its base. "Noooooooooo, don't!" screamed Heather. Patty tried to rise from the folding chair, but someone pressed her firmly back down with a hand to her shoulder.

Mrs. Chew paused to consider the possible dry-cleaning implications of what she was doing. I'll bill the department for a new suit and blouse, she said to herself. New shoes, too. She stretched the skin still further out from the bleeding breast. Quickly she sliced downward with the sharp blade. No one noticed what she did with the severed nipple. All eyes were on the spurts of blood that eventually slowed to a trickle. A stream of red ran down the young woman's stomach into the fold in her lap, then made a left turn and disappeared into the blond pubic hair in her crotch. Mrs. Chew look down to see the damage to her own wardrobe and frowned as she saw the gobs of blood near the hem of her long skirt and on her feet and shoes.

Both Vogel women were screaming uncontrollability. Big John had a hard time quieting Patty down. He slapped her face several times with his massive hands before she would stop.

"Patricia, are you now ready to put an end to Part One? Are you ready to tell me what I need to know? Spare you little sister more pain and mutilation, please."

"I can't, please, I can't!" Patty was crying again.

"Alright, Mrs. Chew." There was resignation in Big John's voice. "Continue. Cut off her other nipple, then we'll decide where to go next."

The chief of staff repositioned herself in front of Heather's left breast. She stretched out the nipple, pulling with her thumb and index finger. She held the now bloody scalpel to slice downward as before . . .

"Wait!" screamed Patty. "Wait! Don't do it again!" Then she swallowed hard and composed herself. Ignoring the tremendous pain in her own breasts and the increased weight that pulled at her chest, she spoke slowly and calmly—professionally. "I'll answer all of your questions. I'll tell you whatever you want to know." She looked sadly down at the floor.

Big John exhaled in triumph. "Very well. End of Part One. On to Part Two, then." He turned to the doctor. "Doc, tend to the little sister first. Then administer the antidote to Patricia here." To one of the other men he said: "Release this one and bring her over to the conference table. Gently. She, too, is in a great deal of pain. Be careful of those tits."

The agonizing sobs of the younger sister filled the bunker-like room. The doctor made no effort to quiet her as he began examining her wounds, staunching the flow of blood, and cleaning her up.

It took two men to half carry, half drag Patty to a seat at the head of the long conference table. They avoided bumping or touching her huge disfigured breasts as best they could, but it didn't matter. Patty's searing pain was now overshadowed and compartmentalized in equal measures by her remorse over what she had allowed to be done to her younger sister and by what she was about to do to her professional reputation. She no longer cared about the DA's ongoing investigation or about Operation Mason. Julia Mason had been destroyed sometime after 8:00 a.m. that morning in the big office on the twelfth floor. She was now fighting to save what was left of Patricia and Heather Vogel and of their relationship.

The questioning lasted over two hours. Heather had been taken to the doctor's own clinic for further treatment on her mutilated right breast. Patty answered every question, named every name, told everything that she knew. The antidote that the doctor administered before he left with her sister did not seem to be helping with the pain, even two hours after he had injected a dose of it into each bulging, throbbing, burning breast. In fact, the pain of the needle had been more painful than that which it was intended to remedy. It didn't matter. Patty was scarred for life, and she knew it. Both her breasts and her sense of self worth were permanently scarred. Her sister, though, was only partly scarred. Maybe she wouldn't hate Patty for the rest of her life. She doubted it, but she knew she would spend the rest of her own life trying to make it up to her sister. She also knew that she would spend the remainder of her working life as the undercover agent who was not equal to the challenge. She wondered if she would ever work again. So she sat at the conference table, her disfigured breasts still projecting outward grotesquely from inside her silk blouse, answering their questions, mostly from Big John Thompson, the head of the city building department, but also from his female chief of staff. She answered slowly, quietly, completely.

Then it was time to go. Someone had brought down her bag, her suit jacket, and brassiere from the twelfth floor. Movement in her limbs had returned. How long had it been? Hours? It was mid-afternoon. It seemed liked days. What to do about her top was another matter. Her bra was out of the question. Neither the blouse nor the suit coat could now be fastened over the distorted dimensions of her new bust line. Finally someone produced a dark sweater, the size of which suggested it was a man's. Big John's, she supposed. A souvenir for the loser, she thought bitterly.

Patty was able to stand on her own if somewhat unsteadily. She still needed help walking, however. Two of the men from the special unit who earlier had beaten her sister and assisted in her mutilation now helped her walk to the elevator. With great care that she found ironic they took her out the backdoor of the office building to a stretch limousine awaiting in the parking lot. They helped her carefully climb into the rearmost seat. When they asked her where she wanted them to take her, she had not idea.

She did not reply at first. Her car with the ignition key hidden under the floor mat was still parked in a parking structure two blocks away. Her apartment keys, billfold, and cellphone were at the District Attorney's office. Her sister was somewhere, hopefully being properly cared for by the previously complicit doctor. Patiently they asked her again where she wanted to go. "I don't know," is what she said. I don't care, is what she meant to say.

Undercover Operation Gone Awry

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