The opening gambit in Operation Foxx Hunt turns out to be a move against the Foxxes’ government handler, Maximillian Fawkes, who runs into a sticky situation on his way home from the office involving "weaponized pheromones" and a gorgeous barely-legal brunette. Fawkes winds up unconscious and dragged away by a van full of thugs, his place taken by former Cuban spy Gustavo Caliente, a master of disguise called The Man With a Thousand Faces. The game, as they say, is afoot...

SUDDZ had a reputation as quite possibly the worst hairdressing salon in Island City’s Midtown district, and maybe the worst in the city.

Part of the problem, people tended to agree, was that it was owned by a notorious misogynistic pig, one Johnny Mosley; a bizarre middle-aged throwback to hairdressing’s bygone barbershop era who’d moved to Island City from Cleveland a year and half ago and who himself sported one of the worst combovers in human history. His sole purpose for being in the hairdressing business seemed to be to surround himself with young, nubile flesh. On his staff of nearly two dozen hairdressers, there wasn’t a male to be found, nor a face over the age of twenty, and indeed only one face over the age of nineteen.

One had to admit his hairdressers were indeed gorgeous, every one of them a firm-bodied teen dream ranging from "runway hot" to "pin-up girl hot," and some ruefully speculated that if SUDDZ had been established as a modelling agency it might have had some sort of prospects. As it was, the toothsome staff might still have drawn some sort of a meagre clientele but for the fact – as potential new clients quickly discovered – that going into the joint meant a) listening to interminable monologues from Mosley about the virtues and impending glorious renaissance of Disco, and b) enduring a haircut from one of his girls so aggressively bad that it could single-handedly kill your sex life for a period of several weeks.

Mostly, then, the place drew a steady trickle of dirty old men who could tolerate the propietor, and who were lacking enough in dating prospects or fashion sense that a bad haircut seemed a worthwhile trade-off for the ogling prospects the joint afforded. In this sense, some people noted, its customer base was really not that different from a seedy, downmarket strip club. Among the few who cared, odds were regularly held to be good that SUDDZ would go under inside of another year.

The perfect cover, Special Agent John Mosley thought to himself as he closed up shop for the night and headed back into his office. He looked meditatively for a moment at the beatific portrait of Saturday Night Fever-era John Travolta that decorated his wall – Mosley might not have the hair anymore, but he liked to think his own white suit did him justice – then pushed it aside and tapped a rapid sequence of numbers into the keypad behind it. With a whirring sound, the cheap panelling slid away to reveal the gleaming steel interior of an elevator.

Mosley stepped in, put an eye to the retinal scanner above the control pad, and hit the button for his destination level: D7. "Welcome back, Special Agent Mosley," said a silky-smooth feminine computer voice as the elevator engaged, taking Operation Freedom’s second-in-command down into the heart of the Foxxes’ Den.

* * * * *

The Den was a magnificient, obscenely expensive creation, well over a year in the building before Mosley and the Foxxes ever arrived in it. Mosley fondly remembered the news stories that had been used as a cover: ISLAND CITY PLEDGES TO REVAMP MIDTOWN SEWAGE SYSTEM AFTER WATER MAIN DISASTER. A disaster he himself had helped to fake.

The facility was seven vast levels dug down under and spread out over a full city block underneath the SUDDZ salon: armouries, training rooms, offices, dormitories, cafeterias, a swimming pool, a library, a tennis court, a tanning salon, even a small recreational club. It didn’t just support the Five themselves, who lived down on the seventh level; it also supported a small army of FBI and NSA agents – along with a smattering of DEA hands and Company men whom no-one was supposed to know were there but everyone did – running sensor systems, debriefing informants (which is what most of SUDDZ’s "customers" really were), sifting through surveillance data, tracking suspects by satellite link, providing a thousand other services. With over ninety agents and twice that many support staff on-site, and clandestine support units and on-call SWAT teams operating throughout the city’s precincts, it was the kind of operation that would have been a wet dream for law enforcers the world over.

A wet dream is right, thought Mosley as the elevator whispered downwards, and in more ways than one.

The key to the Operation was, of course, the Foxxes themselves. They were Max’s idea, and their public role as ass-kicking role models was only one facet of Operation Freedom, in some ways its most minor one. The girls had really made their bones (so to speak) as undercover agents, quietly laying the groundwork for the op and identifying major targets for months before the showy campaign of busts and raids had launched publicly and they’d moved into the Den.

What nobody outside Operation Freedom suspected – and this, to Mosley’s mind, was the true genius of Max Fawkes’ idea – was that its five highly-visible superstars were still doing undercover work. Living on-site were fifteen of the world’s most dazzling experts on disguise and masquerade, the real core of the Foxxes’ support team, the people who made it possible for the Five to alchemize themselves from blonde to brunette to redhead virtually at will, to change their voice or their eye colour or the width of their noses, to shade their skin lighter or darker or go up (or even down) a cup size at a moment’s notice, to dowd themselves down unrecognizably or tart themselves up outrageously. "With a good performer behind it," little Raven McCoy was fond of saying, "it’s amazing how completely a subtle disguise can transform someone." And they were all consummate performers.

Of course, it was a different game now that Operation Freedom was about open conflict. Undercover missions were rarer, conducted with heavily-armed extraction teams waiting in the wings; nobody went anywhere alone. But they were still bearing fruit. And added to the new restrictions, they had new secret weapons, too.

As the elevator doors opened, Mosley stepped out into the bright hallway leading to the control centre. On either side were clear full-length windows into large bright training rooms where lines of women – barely more than girls, really, plainly young and teenaged-taut under their baggy white karate outfits – were practicing self-defence techniques under the stern eyes of some of the Bureau’s best trainers. A close observer would have instantly recognized the "hairdressers" from SUDDZ. Agents-in-training, every one of them a girl who’d been rescued before sinking into the fleshpots of Island City’s underworld, they were to be the Operation’s latest undercover assets: the Kitts, secret support network for the Foxxes as the war on crime and vice went into its next phase.

A wet dream is right, he thought again. Not everything about Mosley’s personality was a cover; it took no small amount of discipline for him to keep himself from slowing as he walked behind those ranks of glistening-skinned, flush-faced young nubiles. The class on the right, he noted with a twinge of distress, were bending over and doing toe-touches, their six delicious rumps high in the air. He cleared his throat and hurried his stride.

A few moments later he was stepping into the Den’s control centre, a brightly-lit, gleaming amphitheatre whose walls were lined with plasma screens showing everything from satellite surveillance feeds to news broadcasts, its chrome-railed mezzanine level buzzing with agents and technicians at a half-dozen computer stations, looking altogether like something transported from the set of a Star Trek film. Down in the centre of the amphitheatre was a round table with what looked to be an old-fashioned speakerphone at its centre, and six chairs around its rim. Waiting in five of those chairs were the heroines of the hour, Foxx Force Five.

The girls were fresh from the big bust and ensuing hours of media frenzy, their faces still glowing with contentment. Their skintight black uniforms were off, each of the Foxxes lounging in the heart-stoppingly skimpy attire they all tended to favour when off-duty – right now, nothing more than black bras and thongs and babydoll nighties wrapped around their tempting curves, signalling they were all ready to hit the hay after a wrap-up conference with Max. Relaxing with their legs crossed or their feet on the table, they were a dizzying panorama of supple young female flesh, of pert breasts and luscious thighs and firm calves and...

Mosley tried valiantly to crush those thoughts, which were an occupational hazard for any heterosexual man (and not a few of the women) working in the Foxxes’ Den. But then five pairs of eyes swung to see him entering the room and almost as one, the Foxxes were on their feet, rushing to embrace him, squealing for all the world like a gaggle of young girls who’d just gotten the dolly they wanted for Christmas.

Raven and Satin reached him first, their beautiful, firm tits pressing against his sides as they hugged him close, their thighs wrapping around his legs, followed by Keiko at his front and then Mylene behind him, enveloping them all in her heady, sophisticated Chanel perfume. "Did you see?" Raven was shouting: "We did it again! We’ve got them on the run!" While Satin hollered: "That’s how it’s done, baby! How you like me now?" And Keiko said: "Do you think we brought honour to our cause today, Johnny-san?" And Mylene purred sexily: "A thing of beauty, wasn’t it, m’sieur?"

It all washed over him in a warm, pleasurable wave of feminine scent and supple skin and unwitting seductiveness (probably not so unwitting in Mylene’s case), and for a moment – as had been common for him over the past year – he couldn’t formulate any response, just standing there dumbly and thinking I love my job I love my job I love my job I love my job, and much more urgently: Do not get a hard-on Do not get a hard-on Do not get a hard-on Do not get a hard-on.

"All right, ladies!" came Summerset O’Neale’s slightly husky voice, firm but warm and with a hint of laughter. "Give the poor man some air!"

As the Foxxes stepped back apologetically, Mosley let his silent mantra go with relief, gathered himself and said, weakly but sincerely: "A job well done, ladies. I know for a fact that Max is very proud of every one of you."

He saw them stand unconsciously straighter at the mention of their benefactor’s name. It was Max, after all – the absent, benevolent father-figure whom none of them had ever seen, but who had made all their lives today possible, their guardian angel – that they were all truly in love with. Mosley had reflected more than once that it was for the best that Fawkes stayed just a voice on a speakerphone; if he were a flesh-and-blood man to them, someone concrete whose affections they could contend for, their friendships might be shredded in the ensuing fray.

Summerset had stood up from the table, too, but as always she hung back with a hint of playful aloofness, her usually serious expression now just mock-serious. She wasn’t immune to all the excitement, though, especially that which Max’s name always triggered, and her voluptuous double-D’s were rising and falling just a touch faster than usual, her skimpy negligee straining to contain them as the petite heroine said, joshingly, "Gee, you really mean that, Johnny?"

He walked forward and extended a hand which she shook, firmly. "I really mean it, Summer."

O’Neale broke into one of her rare, precious, sunny smiles, and with a squeal of her own she jumped up and wrapped herself around Mosley, almost knocking him off balance, her tits pressing distractingly into his chest. "We couldn’t have done it without you, Johnny," she said softly by his ear as she hugged him, and he knew for certain this would precipitate the rest of the girls into another group hug.

"The call, ladies, the call!" he cried out desperately, not willing to test his anti-hard-on mantra twice in two minutes. "We have to talk to Max!"

Summerset let go of him with a final squeeze and jumped down. They all nodded, easygoing but all business again as they took their places back around the table. As Mosley took his seat, allowing himself a quiet sigh of relief – and a paradoxical spasm of regret – the speakerphone at the room’s centre crackled to life.

"Hello, Foxxes!" rang out the rich, familiar voice of Operation Freedom’s commander.

"Hello, Max!" the Five said in beaming unison, as always.

"Congratulations to you all on a job well done!" The words were well-established ritual by now, the most comfortable and routine part of wrapping up a mission and getting on to new business. "The women of Island City can sleep a little safer knowing Vladimir Popov and his gang are behind bars, and the girls they imprisoned can look forward to rebuilding their lives. As of today, we’re one crucial step closer to taking this city back!"

The Foxxes cheered, Satin and Raven high-fiving each other.

"But remember," their mentor said, switching streams as was customary at this point, "we still have a long way to go, everyone. And we must always be on our guard."

There were the usual murmurs of agreement from around the table.

"Please consult our Operation Freedom chart now, Foxxes," and on cue, a mammoth digital screen descended from the ceiling at the front of the room, lighting up to display a vast, labyrinthine organizational chart: Island City’s criminal underworld as known to their operatives and informants.

Much of the bottom section of the chart contained a galaxy of mug shots of lowlife figures in the criminal hierarchy, minor pimps and pushers and Mob soldiers, many of them now paid informants. Above them were the city’s more notorious thugs and hitmen, and above them its upper-midlevel bosses and players: the targets of the first public phase of Operation Freedom, Vladimir Popov among them (and of them, there were only a branch of Salvatruchas and a chaotic scattering of Crips and Bloods affiliates remaining).

Immediately, though, they all noticed something unusual. At the top end of the pyramid, were formerly there had been only two groups – the Mafia’s Commission and Columbia’s Matrillo Cartel – now there were three, all rated equally. And the third was an indeterminate figure, with only a group of possible aliases: "The Red Queen," "El Guapa," and "Siouxsie Sexcrime" among them.

"What gives, Max?" asked Summerset immediately.

"Yes, Foxxes," noted the commander, "you’ll notice a new development. We’ve been working for a while on this theory, but already data from Popov’s archives has confirmed it. There is a third major player in the Island City vice game, and we’ve adjusted Operation Freedom accordingly. We’re stepping up the schedule, and as a result we’ve changed the next mission. Mosley, as soon as we’ve confirmed the new information, you’ll be briefed accordingly."

"Stepping up the schedule" was always a big hit with the Foxxes, and sure enough there was another cheer around the table, but what came next was a surprise to everyone.

"The third group has an installation we’re calling ‘Red Queen Three,’" continued Max. "It’s masquerading as the ‘Sabrina Lockhart Sex Research Centre,’ but we believe – in part because of some of the evidence already gleaned from the Popov bust – that it is in fact one of their designer drug research labs. Yes," Max continued in response to angry murmures around the table. "That means we believe this is the group responsible for the unusual designer drug activity in Island City. The trouble is that this facility only hires high school students or recent high school graduates as research assistants, which is the most probable means of getting someone in at this time."

A moment passed as everyone processed what that meant.

"So.... you’re sending me in?" asked Raven, tentatively. "I could pass for a high schooler."

"No," said Mosley, suddenly understanding, "he’s sending a Kitt in."

"It’s sooner than we planned," the commander’s voice admitted, "but this is a vital mission, if not a very dangerous one, and it’s a good time for the Kitts to stand up and be counted. Whoever we send will, of course, have a full extraction team and a Foxx standing by as backup."

There was silence for a moment around the table. Finally Summerset said, "Well, it’s early, but Bailey’s almost finished the training..."

"Excellent, Foxxes!" said Max. "I knew you wouldn’t let me down."

They continued on with a few other minor items of business, Mosley’s mind racing. That had been fast work by the recovery teams at Popov’s place, and the thought of going after the designer drug manufacturer of Island City was exciting... but it was sudden, moreso than Max usually operated. There must be pressure, Mosley thought. Or worse, an immediate threat. But that was the game they were all in, he supposed.

Gradually the Foxxes dispersed, still in high spirits, Mylene and Keiko comparing notes about shoes, Satin and Raven telling dirty jokes. As usual, Summerset was last of them to leave the table, looking off into her mind’s eye with a slight frown as she worked out the details of the next mission in her head – but even then, it didn’t take long for her expression to clear and for her to smile and ask Mosley to get her the phone number of a great dress shop she remembered from Washington on her last trip there.

As everyone present wistfully watched the sexy asses of the Five gradually waggle out of the room, one of the new technicians on the mezzanine level caught Mosley’s eye and waved him down. Mosley turned aside to talk to the young man, whose name was Chris.

"What can I do for you, Chris?" he asked.

The young man cleared his throat. "Ummm," he said, "I’m new here, sir. Do they, uhhh, always dress like that off-duty?"

Mosley shrugged. "They don’t always wear that much."

The technician’s eyes boggled. "Huh. And you’ve worked here how long, sir?"

"From the beginning."

"If you don’t mind my saying so, sir, you must have the bluest balls in Creation."

He nodded ruefully. "You have no idea."

* * * * *

Three hours later, Gustavo Caliente sat relaxing on a couch in Max Fawkes’ house, drinking a glass of excellent Scotch and letting relief wash over him as, around him, a group of his employer’s thugs tore the house apart.

It had been hairy, indeed, conducting his first meeting as Max Fawkes just half an hour after they’d abducted the genuine article. The script they’d sent him for the call was, he could feel, pitch-perfect, as though they’d done fast work interrogating the agent in the van. Considering what the man had already been put through that night, he wondered how they’d managed that; it couldn’t have been gentle, and it raised the distinct possibility that the real Max Fawkes would never come out of his ordeal the same man if he came out of it at all. Caliente allowed himself a pang of professional regret over that; the man had been a superlative agent. But the thrill of pulling off the masquerade, as always, outweighed guilt.

"Heard the playback on your call. Pretty good, I have to admit," said Jimmy Beam from the doorway, right in front of where one of his men was busily ripping up a floorboard. Caliente’d recognized the huge brown shaven-headed man easily as the thug-in-chief on their first meeting, when he’d called himself "Ray" – a fiction he’d now dispensed with – and if he was honest with himself he didn’t care for the guy. But like or dislike couldn’t be allowed into it; this was business. "You had all of them buying it, didn’t you? I can see why they call you the Man With a Hundred Faces."

"Thousand," Caliente corrected him mildly. "A Thousand Faces. Are your men finding anything useful?"

"And how," Jimmy gloated. "This place is a motherlode. Even I didn’t realize just how slick Operation Freedom is. You know they’ve got on-call SWAT teams all over the state, satellite surveillance, even military and naval backup for extreme cases?"

Caliente raised an eyebrow at the "even I" – Jimmy didn’t strike him as the brightest of sparks – but the other man must have interpreted this as interest.

"I know, crazy, right? They even outfit their agents in the field with emergency transponders, have them followed by these huge extraction teams ready to go in shooting if anything goes wrong. I always wanted to snatch one of those Foxx bitches, but if we’d ever tried it, we’d probably all be dead right now. Fucking transponders, man, tied into fucking satellites. It’s like we’re being attacked by NASA."

"Any means of neutralizing the transponders?" Caliente asked politely. The transponders really seemed to have Beam worked up.

"Oh yeah, no problem," said Jimmy with a wave of his hand. "They’ve got a digital interface with the satellite system. We’ve got a computer wizard on staff and he can hack it now, edit the data any way we want, even do some surveillance of our own. If they were watching this house right now, only person they’d see is you."

"Very good," said Caliente, and actually he was suitably impressed. It wasn’t just any criminal organization that could hack digital satellite feeds with that level of sophistication in that little time. Who were these people?

"Good news that they’re so overconfident, though," Jimmy went on. "I can’t belive they’ve had those Foxx chicks plastered all over the news for a year now, and they’re still sending them out on undercover missions. Can you believe that shit? What, they didn’t think we’d recognize them?"

You didn’t, thought Caliente a bit archly, until you had me, but instead he said: "I’ll be needing more information on Fawkes if I’m to continue the cover."

Jimmy nodded. "No worries, we’re bringing him on line tomorrow. The Boss is seeing to it personally."

The Boss, thought Caliente. A figure who already piqued his interest... and sent chills down his spine. I’ll have to meet him one day.

* * * * *

"You are a strong, confident, independant woman," said Bailey Phillips to herself in the mirror. "You are a strong, confident, independant woman. You’ve got this, girl. You’ve got this. You are a strong, confident, independant woman."

It was the pre-mission mantra Satin Rayne had taught her, a great way to centre yourself and calm stagefright. When Bailey heard that she was going to be the first Kitt to go on a mission, and a solo mission at that, she was ecstatic – it was her dream come true – but also a little apprehensive. Now, standing in the public washroom at the Sabrina Lockhart Sex Research Centre – Red Queen Three – the apprehension was a lot stronger. Just three months past her eighteenth birthday, and she was going to be a spy!

She felt ready, she really did. She was probably the best of the Kitts in martial arts training, and the best "simulator," able to do almost any accent convincingly and already halfway to being fluent in French and Spanish. And her disguise was perfect; she was normally a tanned brunette, but the makeover people had given a dark auburn hue to her long, shiny locks, lightened her skin to the colour of newly-made cream, and augmented her tits by a whole cup size to a full, sexy, bouncing C. They had done all this without normal dyes and makeup, so nothing would rub off – the technical details were still obscure to her – and they hadn’t used padding or implants for her tits, instead treating her skin to avoid stretch marks and giving her injections that they said would make the augmentation last a full day. It was a process that "uses some of the same bodily mechanisms as with lactation," one of them had told her. He’d added sternly: "Just don’t go playing with them."

She could see why. At first the petite teen dream hadn’t been able to resist touching her new tits, hefting them in her hands, parting them slightly, rubbing them. They were tingly, sensitive, and she’d found after just a few seconds of touching them that she was getting goosebumps all over her taut, ripe young body and getting wet... down there. She sternly kept her hands away from them now as much as she could, and had learned to carefully ignore the wonderful sensations they produced rubbing against her bra. She liked them, actually. I could get used to being a little busty, she thought, not for the first time. But she was glad they hadn’t done anything to change her ass; her full, curvy rump was, she had to admit, her favourite feature. (Satin had told her once, "You almost as bootylicious as me, girl!" "Almost," she’d snorted to herself wryly. Yeah, right.)

She was wearing sandals and a simple – albeit heart-stoppingly short – green summer dress over her frilly white bra and panties, and square-rimmed spectacles that she didn’t need; her cover was a pretty but nerdy Irish exchange student named Siobhan O’Connor.

Everything was in place: the extraction team was on a roof on a building opposite, led by Summerset O’Neale herself. Bailey had her emergency transponder hidden in the right hinge of her glasses, transmitting her position constantly to Operation Freedom and enabling her to send a distress call whenever necessary. She had a recording device hidden in the cross on her neck, so her mission could be played back when she returned to base. She knew her target was a lab on the upper level of the complex, imaged from their satellite surveillance, and her mission was to retrieve as many samples from that lab as she could and smuggle them out. In case the worst happened, all the details of her cover and appearance were on file with Mosley and with Max – as per standard procedure – so they could lead a rescue.

It was a milk run, and she knew it. That’s why they were letting a Kitt do it. All she had to do now was go up to the reception desk and set the ball rolling.

She took one more breath. "You are a strong, confident, independant woman," she told the mirror one last time, and then she left the bathroom.

* * * * *

"Hello, I’m Doctor Lockhart."

After a bit of waiting at reception, "Siobhan" had been led into a large office, a room dominated by a vast desk whose walls were festooned with degrees, diplomas and prizes. Either they were just for show, or the woman greeting her – a short, slender, beautiful thirtysomething with pert B-cup tits, light brown hair falling in waves down her back, a hint of pout in her lips and a tight grey power suit that accentuated her trim, sexy physique – had genius beyond her years.

"Hello, Doctor," said Bailey in her best Dublin brogue. "Thanks ever so much for seeing me."

"Always a pleasure to meet a young woman curious about science," said the Doctor graciously. "Do have a seat. Would you like a glass of water, or juice perhaps?"

Best not to seem rude, Bailey reasoned as she sat across from the gorgeous Doctor across the huge oak desk. "Juice would be lovely, thanks."

Lockhart gestured to her assistant who was waiting in the doorway, a curiously burly-looking shaven-headed man. Maybe an orderly, Bailey figured. "I would be," said Lockhart as the assistant vanished, "more than happy to have you try out with us as a research assistant today. Do you know what we research here?"

"I was hoping to get a few more details from you, actually."

"What we’re currently researching," the Doctor continued, "is the relationship between scent and sexual arousal in American men. Specifically, how they react to various everyday scents: flowers, perfumes, foods, even just regular skin, showered or unshowered. What our research assistants do is very simple." The assistant returned, and Bailey accepted the juice from him with a smile and murmured thanks. She noticed as she did so a weirdly intense look in his eyes... something like... gloating? Contempt? Anticipation? "That will do, Gerald, thank you," the Doctor broke in impatiently, and a moment later the look was gone, so quickly the teen spy wondered if she might have just imagined it, and Gerald had left again.

"As I was saying," Lockhart went on. "What our research assistants do is very simple. We bring research subjects in from off the street, just average American men, and sit a few of them down in an observation room in our third-floor laboratory. We hook them up to some electrodes, and a research assistant takes a scent sample around to each of them. We record the results."

"Sounds very simple, Doctor."

"It couldn’t be easier. How’s the juice?"

Bailey smiled and drank down the rest of it. "Very tasty, thank you."

"Good, good." Lockhart smiled warmly. "Now, for security reasons, I’m afraid that once you’re up in the laboratory, we require you not to leave the site during the day. It can get a little dull during the breaks between research sessions, but we can always have someone show you around during the downtime."

"Sounds fair enough."

"We do, of course, provide lunch and snacks. Not a vegetarian, are you?"

"Not really... no..." said Bailey, a little confused.

"Glad to hear it," the Doctor said approvingly as she rummaged in her desk. "I wouldn’t want you to miss out on the selection of meats in our Break Room. Now, I just have a little reading material and paperwork for you, and we can be on our way up. I think you’re going to find your experience with us very stimulating."

"What’s her position?" Summerset asked again, perched on the roof of an office tower looking down on the four-storey bulk of the Sabrina Lockhart Sex Research Centre, standing next to a kevlar-clad sniper. She had a rifle of her own braced against a saucily-cocked hip, her stance perhaps unconsciously sexy as her massive tits strained the front of her skintight black jumpsuit; but her face, as always when on a mission, was the picture of focus.

"Still on the ground floor in the good Doctor’s office, probably still filling out paperwork," the sniper said, check the screen on his GPS tracker. "Just like five minutes ago."

"Don’t get smart," the Foxx Force leader said sharply.

"Sorry, ma’am," the sniper replied. It had been a long time, actually, he reflected. The girl had been filling out paperwork for almost an hour; when was she going to get into the facility? "Wait, she’s moving. They’re heading for the elevators. Looks like the show is on."

"Good," said Summerset. "Keep a close eye on her movements at all times. Report anything unusual immediately."

The first Kitt was out of the Den.

As soon as they climbed into the elevator, she could feel something was wrong. As the doors slid shut, sealing out the last glimpse of the ground floor lobby and the normal, sunny day outside, they seemed to shut out the Doctor’s previous warm personality with it. Bailey tried to ask her how long she’d been doing this particular project, and the look she received in return was one of utter, blood-freezing contempt. Lockhart didn’t bother with a reply.

I can’t call the extraction team in over a look, Bailey thought, fidgeting uncomfortably. I’d never live it down. Giving up an hour into my first mission and running home to mommy!

But what she saw when the elevator doors opened changed her mind immediately.

The layout she’d been told to expect was nowhere to be seen. In fact, what she was seeing didn’t look like a lab at all – more like a sleazy nightclub, the kind of nightclub she’d once (and never again) snuck into when she was sweet sixteen. There were no windows anywhere, and the walls were black, scrawled with violent splashes of multicoloured graffiti; the light was a sinister red. She was looking at a lobby with a double-door entryway to a club, as a matter of fact, flanked by a pair of identical-looking blonde girls as young as herself with white PVC nurses’ outfits sheathing their taut teenaged bodies. What looked like bathroom doors could be seen over to the left, and a sign over the club doors said: THE BREAK ROOM. From beyond could be heard the thumping and grinding of industrial music, and what sounded like raucous cheers.

The moment she took in this scene, Bailey reached up and activated the emergency transponder in her glasses. She looked at Lockhart, thought: You are so dead. But the Doctor just looked at her steadily for a second, her sexy lips bearing just a hint of a smile, something almost like pity flickering somewhere in her eyes.

But then the woman caught her off guard by grabbing a fistful of her hair and shoving her headfirst out the elevator door. "Get moving, bitch."

Bailey found herself stumbling into the waiting arms of the two PVC-clad attendants as they shot forward. Her mind reeled for a moment in shock. The two girls grabbed her, their firm latex-covered bodies rubbing up against her, their fingers sinking cruelly into her arms. They had the plain intent of dragging her somewhere... but Bailey’s training asserted itself. Using a trick Keiko had taught her, she suddenly somersaulted forward, using her leverage to throw both girls backward in the process, registering a glimpse of their surprised faces before she kicked off her sandals, tore off the fake specs and turned to face the Doctor, her luscious, augmented teenaged titties rising and falling steadily as she mastered her breathing and settled into a fighting stance.

She doesn’t know what she’s up against, thought Bailey. I’m a Kitt, dammit! I can hold out for a couple of minutes until the extraction team gets here. I can sure as hell beat this bitch.

Lockhart was definitely smiling now, a cruel, smug grin. "That was nifty! Who taught you that... Siobhan?"

The contemptuous pause before her cover name chilled Bailey’s blood. She knows who I am! the teen heroine realized in alarm. They knew I was coming!

"Right now," the Doctor went on, taking one deliberate, playful step forward, then a second as the elevator closed behind her, "you’re wondering how we know who you are, aren’t you? Are you wondering who betrayed you?"

Bailey kept her breathing steady and smiled sweetly back, holding her chin high, showing her best imitation of classic Foxx Force Five bravado. "Actually, Doc," she said, "I’m wondering what you’re going to look like with that smirk wiped off your face."

The Doctor’s mouth formed into a mocking O. "My goodness, I’ll just bet you have a surprise in store for me, don’t you?" she purred. "Whatever will I do? Maybe there’s even a... what do you call it... an extraction team storming into this building right now?"

The Kitt froze in horrified premonition, her stomach sinking.

Lockhart grinned again. "Poor, stupid little slut. I’m afraid no-one is coming for you. You are," and she gestured to someone behind Bailey, "all mine."

Shit! Bailey thought, trying to spin around, but her reeling mind had slowed her reaction time. She couldn’t turn fast enough. Those girls!

One girl’s hands reached around her chest and grabbed two heaping handfuls of her heaving tit-flesh, squeezing hard. "AAAHHHHOOOWWW!" Bailey howled, arching backward involuntarily as the girl’s vicious grip on her super-sensitive breasts sent a bewildering shock of pain and pleasure through her young, nubile body like a thunderbolt.

The second girl grabbed her hair, yanking her head back even further and clamping something over her nose and mouth. A rag! gibbered a panicky corner of her mind as she struggled desperately. Chloroform! Can’t... can’t breathe it in! No! NONONONO!

But the first girl kept on mercilessly mauling her hot, painfully throbbing tits, continuing to wrack her whole body with spikes of delicious agony, her pussy already getting hot and wet, destroying her ability to control her breathing, to control anything, to think, to fight back. Her breasts were briefly released and then smacked hard, and she took a deep, sobbing breath: "MMMPHHHHMPHHHHMPHHHH!"

And the world began to spin. All she could hear was the Doctor’s cruel laughter.

* * * * *

"What’s the status?" asked a pacing Summerset, looking at the building.

The sniper checked his GPS. "Have to like the quiet ones. No change. She looks to be just sitting and waiting in the front part of the lab. Probably for them to start a research session."

"Probably."

The sniper looked at her: "Do you want to send someone in to check on her?"

Summerset paced away again, paced back, took a deep breath and seemed about to order it. Then she said, "No. No, we can’t do that. It would risk blowing her cover."

The head Foxx hesitated a moment more, then paced away again.

* * * * *

They didn’t hold the rag over her face long enough to put her completely under, just long enough to render her half-conscious, dizzy, uncoordinated, dissociated from her body like everything was happening in some carousel-spinning nightmare. From a long way away she heard Lockhart say: "Good work, Chloe and Zoe. Now take her into the bathroom and get her dressed for her big debut."

She couldn’t quite process the words as her PVC-clad captors said, "Yes Mistress! Thank you Mistress!" and dragged her away between them, Bailey staggering drunkenly, her tits jiggling sexily as she tried futilely to right herself, quite unable to fight them. Terror skittered across the outside of her whirling brain and churned, unnamed, deep in her guts.

Someone will come, part of her brain repeated numbly, desperately as she was dragged by the laughing Chloe and Zoe into the bathroom. They wouldn’t let this happen to her. Someone will come. Someone will come. How long had it been? The extraction team was probably on the second floor by now. They’d come in shooting any second. They had to be here soon. They had to be. Someone will come.

As she reeled in their grip, the two PVC-clad sluts unceremoniously stripped her dress from her and ripped the cross off her neck, tossing it away somewhere, she heard it clink and skitter across the tiles. She felt them rip off her bra, felt her tits fall free in the cold air of the bathroom, their sensitive flesh goose-pimpling, sending her mind further awhirl and more confusing sensations rippling through her body.

She jumped in her skin when she felt a finger run lightly along her tight, panty-clad slit. "Already wet," said a voice, hot and breathy in her left ear. "And I thought I was a slut."

Bailey felt her ears burn with shame from the insult, but she couldn’t reply, couldn’t do anything about the hands roaming lightly, playfully over her body, could only pray desperately inside her dizzy skull as the world spun and spun, as Chloe (or was it Zoe?) unceremoniously tugged her lacy white panties down her legs and off, tossing them away, leaving her beautiful round ass and luscious pussy exposed, goosebumps now breaking out all over her taut teenaged flesh.

"Look at that," Chloe (or was it Zoe?) laughed at the trimmed strip of dark hair above her snatch. "Not a real redhead. Guess you weren’t planning on getting naked, were you?"

This can’t be happening! her mind screamed. Someone will come! Someone will come! She was ashamed to hear a pitiful whine escape from the back of her throat, but she couldn’t stop it.

"Oh, don’t be like that, sweetie," said the voice at her ear again. "We just wanna make you pretty."

Black fabric flashed over her eyes as the pair pulled a dress over her head, a skin-tight mini-dress with brown fur fringes around the breast cups and the hem. Super-tight, she realized suddenly as they pulled it down her hips. Too tight! The dress would only zip three-quarters of the way up the back – it was constricting her breathing, hugging almost painfully across her ultra-sensitive tits, and it would only barely pull most of the way down her ass, riding up almost immediately to leave the bottom of her delicious rump and a playful peep of pussy lips exposed. Bailey realized with horror that she wasn’t going to be able to ignore the sensation of the fabric on her tits in this dress the way she had with her previous outfit; every constricted breath in and out rubbed the fabric distractingly across her augmented teats, sending thrills of pleasure all over her taut young flesh, down her belly, into her hot, slippery teen snatch.

It’s getting wetter! her mind whined pitifully. My pussy’s getting wetter!

Next they forced her feet into knee-high black hooker boots, also sporting a fur fringe at the top and with ridiculous, almost cartoonish stiletto heels. The spin of the world was beginning to slow a little, but Bailey was barely able to keep her balance in heels on a good day and began to see serious visions of falling and breaking her neck. Chloe and Zoe kept their wobbling prisoner upright, though, as they belted something around her waist and settled something across the top of her head to finish the teen heroine’s new look.

Laughing, they dragged the staggering Bailey to a mirror. She gazed in bleary horror at herself, her skin flushed, the minidress riding up her hips to expose her pussy, her big tits heaving desperately against its front as she gasped for air, her stiff nipples poking through the fabric and pussy juice clearly starting to seep down her thighs. On top of her head was perched a silly pair of fox ears, and the belt around her waist carried a fox tail at the back: it was a perverted Halloween costume!

"Ta-daaaah!!" trilled Chloe. "Now you’re a real heroine, Foxx Girl!"

"And now it’s showtime," said Zoe ominously into her ear. Bailey felt her guts turn watery with fear as she was dragged, still unsteady, out the bathroom door and closer to her fate.

* * * * *

The scene inside The Break Room would probably have looked nightmarish even if her senses weren’t addled by the lingering effects of chloroform. As it was, Bailey felt like she’d just stepped into a lower circle of Hell.

Clashing, discordant music vibrated the air. The place was full of huge, hulking shadows, like beasts, snarling and laughing and letting out braying jeers. After a moment she realized that these were men, some of them massive and shaven-headed and wearing the same uniform Gerald had been wearing – in fact, Gerald was one of them – the majority in more varied attire, some of them looking Italian or Latino and sporting gold chains, others black and wearing something that looked like Crip gang regalia. There had to be a hundred of them in all, maybe more. Scampering in and out among them, all wearing various kinds of tight, revealing latex, were half a dozen tight-bodied, pert-titted teenaged girls much like Bailey’s captors, carrying trays of drinks, occasionally letting out a squeal when their little asses were slapped or their young snatches fondled.

Above this bedlam, sitting in a VIP booth on the west wall like the Queen of the Damned on her throne, was Sabrina Lockhart. Mistress Sabrina Lockhart, the power suit stripped away to reveal a black PVC bustier and black panties, stocking and garter belt, with long black gloves now slinking up her arms, black knee-high boots on her legs and a riding crop in one hand. A classic dominatrix, with girls in red latex crouching demurely on either side of her. She had a microphone in her other hand and, her eyes flashing, seemed to be giving colour commentary on an event everyone was watching on the opposite wall.

When Bailey first turned to look, she thought what she saw on the other wall was a video screen... but it wasn’t. It was a clear, full-length glass window into a large, white, almost featureless room, with no visbile details except for a network of white-painted pipes running across its ceiling, the whole space brightly lit as no other part of the club was. And what she saw there made her stomach sink and flutter.

It’s showtime. There were two girls wrestling in that room, only shreds of clothing left on their sweating bodies, their pert little tits and firm little asses and tight, shaved pussies glistening with the sweat of desperation. "And it looks like little Annie has the upper hand!" Lockhart was saying, playfully imitating a vaudeville showman’s brassy tones as one of the girls – her hair a close-cropped fuzz – grabbed her opponent in a headlock. "Remember, the winner gets to serve you drinks – the loser gets to have every one of her holes stuffed by the highest bidder’s cock for the next month!" There was a loud, vicious cheer and pounding of tables from the men around the room.

Bailey felt a powerful sense of surreality, as though she’d accidentally walked into some dark parallel universe. She had never felt so alone, so afraid, so helpless in her life. She’d imagined any number of places her thrilling adventures as a Kitt might take her, but this club and that horrific white cell of perverted, depraved display hadn’t been among them. She had no doubt that she was destined to be the next act, to be paraded in front of these brutal goons in her humiliating, slutty "heroine" costume, to be... to be...

She flinched away from the end of that thought as the world took a particularly sickening lurch around her. Someone will come! Someone will come! her mind chanted desperately, but despairingly. She had a sinking feeling that impossible as it should have been, Lockhart knew what she was talking about when she said Bailey was alone.

The girls in the white cell continued to writhe around desperately, one or the other of them seconds away from being auctioned off as a fuck toy for some lucky gangster. As Bailey watched them, twisting in Chloe and Zoe’s cruel grip, she continued to gasp for air, unable to get quite enough and feeling the dress’ fabric rub against her nipples, feeling her pussy juices sliding in humiliating droplets down the skin of her inner thighs. As terrified as she was, her whole body, her whole being was becoming increasingly suffused with a violent sexual ache. As she watched the doomed girls’ wrestling match play out to its close, she felt herself rubbing her thighs together, felt the heat in her tight young pussy being stoked yet higher. God, so wet... I can’t believe I’m so wet...

Finally the shaven-haired girl found herself trapped in an arm-bar, and with a cry of despair, tears rolling down her cheeks, she gave into the pain and tapped out.

"Submit!" announced Lockhart happily to a chorus of cheers, "What an upset! It looks like orphan Annie is fuck meat after all!" As the winner bounced up in a rush of relief and gave a jubilant thumbs-up to her fellow waitresses, the loser lay on the ground in a heap of nubile flesh, sobbing disconsolately, knowing exactly what was coming. "Gentlemen, bring Annie a leash and bring her up to my booth! Whoever’s submitted the highest bid to me by the end of the day will be taking home a fresh new slut!"

There was another cheer, and bidding slips started to circulate around the tables in what seemed like a well-practised ritual. Two shaven-headed goons walked into the cell, handed the winner her skimpy latex dress and drink tray, gathered the sobbing Annie up, put a dog collar and a leash on her, and led her away.

Right on cue, Chloe and Zoe marched their staggering prisoner forward, and Bailey’s reeling mind tried to wrap itself around the brute fact of that sterile white cell, of the wobbly steps taking her toward it, trying to convince itself that this wasn’t happening, that she was somewhere else, outside where people were right now walking to work or going for coffee or feeding the birds or doing a thousand other normal things.

At the threshold of the cell, the two skanks handed her over to a shaven-headed thug waiting there. With a twinge of humiliation she noted it was Gerald from earlier, now obviously gloating as he took her and manhandled her roughly into the cell. "AHHH!" she gasped as he stood her up in the middle of the full-length viewing window, twisting her left arm up painfully behind her back, forcing her to arch her spine and thrust out her full, heaving tits, the stimulation of the fabric against her tit-flesh continuing to thrill her body and turn her snatch into a hot pool of lust, the rivulets of juice flowing from her exposed pussy down her thighs clearly visible to everyone watching as she stood there and whimpered in pain and helplessness, barely able to stand in the crippling heels on her feet.

"That was a fine installation of our monthly Wait-or-Mate wrestling series," Lockhart continued, a new dramatic edge in her voice, "but you all know why we’re here today. Today is a very special installation of the Break-a-Whore series that gives our fine, exclusive gentlemen’s club its name, featuring a very special guest."

The words "Break-a-Whore" slashed into Bailey’s consciousness like knives, at the same time igniting an inexplicable pulsating sensation in her dripping twat. She twitched in Gerald’s grasp, suddenly feeling the urgent need to fight her way free, but she abandoned that hope as he gave her arm an added, even more painful twist.

"Now, you gentlemen are all, I’m sure, familiar with Operation Freedom." The words drew a chorus of angry jeers from the assembled men, a wave of palpable hatred that Bailey could feel washing over her, making her knees tremble. "Well, today, as our sources expected, the good people of Operation Freedom did indeed try to infiltrate this fine facility." Another, even louder chorus of jeers and boos, this one rattling the glass of the viewing window, so sustained and venomous that Lockhart had to spend a few seconds calming the crowd before she could go on.

"Did they send armoured agents to storm our building? Or those infamous vixens, the Foxx Force Five?" Lockhart continued, an edge of anger creeping into her voice. "No. Apparently they didn’t think us worth it." She made it sound as though this genuinely offended her, and a chorus of sympathetic boos went around. "No, gentlemen, behold the latest brilliant innovation in law enforcement: the teenaged girl spy. The Kitt." The last two words dripped with contempt, and Bailey felt a humiliated tear roll down her cheek as a wave of derisive laughter washed over her.

"Since this girl wanted to be a hero, as you can see, we’ve made her one," went on the Mistress gloatingly. "Though I’m afraid we didn’t have everything quite in her size." That drew another laugh. "So today, when it comes time to Break a Whore, we might not have the Five Foxxes themselves to give you... yet... but we do have... Foxx Girl!" A rousing cheer rattled the glass, and the Mistress’ next words froze Bailey’s blood in her veins. "Everything you’ve ever wanted to do to a bitch from Foxx Force Five, you’ll be welcome to do to this little slut!"

Her mind almost seized up then, Nononononono, as the room broke into the biggest cheer yet. But Lockhart wasn’t done. "First things first, though. As you all know, we’re very sporting here at The Break Room, and even though this time it’s our sworn enemy on the menu, tradition is tradition." There was the beginning of a round of disappointed groans, but she shushed them sternly. "Now, now, now, you know how it works. Before we can Break-a-Whore, we have to Rope-a-Whore. One of our house girls gets to tie up our guest, and if the visitor manages to turn the tables and tie her up, she gets to take their place for the day! And Foxx Girl will be afforded the same opportunity!"

The cheers this time were a little more muted; clearly the crowd, having seen Foxx Girl’s ripe, voluptuous young body and wet, glistening cunt, didn’t want to settle for anything else. But unexpected hope dawned in Bailey’s befuddled, oxygen-starved brain. Was there a chance she could get out of this yet?

Lockhart went on, playfully: "Of course, this is no ordinary girl. This is a trained, all-grown-up agent of Operation Freedom, and believe you me, she has some nifty moves. So in this case, we figure we’ll give Foxx Girl a handicap. She will take on two of our house girls at the same time!"

More laughter and cheers as Bailey’s heart sank somewhat. But still, her mind raced desperately, these girls don’t have combat training. I might have a shot. I might have a shot!

"Gentlemen, I give you two of our house favourites, undefeated five-time Wait-or-Mate tag-team champions... Chloe and Zoe!"

The door of the cell swung open and her capturers, Chloe and Zoe, strode slinkily into the room, each carrying a length of rope, still wearing PVC but having exchanged their white sexy-nurse uniforms for bubblegum pink sexy-cowgirl outfits, complete with little hats perched on their blonde curls. Gerald abruptly released Bailey and sent her lurching and staggering forward against the glass, and as the two house girls worked up the crowd, gesturing for an ever-increasing crescendo of cheers and stamping, the shaven-headed thug left the cell, locking the door behind him.

The world lurched dizzyingly around Bailey again as the noise and jeering messed with her senses, her legs trembling in the unfamiliar heels, her left arm numb from Gerald’s implacable grip. Her body still swirled with distracting sensations, her pussy pulsating and more juice trickling down her legs as she shudderingly tried, and failed, to draw a full breath in the tight, restrictive mini-dress. It wasn’t, she knew, a situation where all signs pointed to victory.

But the chloroform dizziness was dissipating enough that she could at least stand and walk on her own. She had to remember her training. I’ll only get one shot at this, she thought desperately as she pushed herself unsteadily away from the glass. I might still be able to surprise them. For a split second she contemplated ripping off the mini-dress to have freedom of movement, but in the time taken doing that they might jointly overpower her, and at any rate she couldn’t bear divesting herself of her last meagre bodily covering in front of that slavering mass of thugs.

As she wobbled unsteadily a couple of steps toward Chloe, though, she realized despairingly that all this strategizing was meaningless. The twins were wearing stiletto heels too, but they were rock-steady in them. Zoe effortlessly danced a circle to her right, Chloe circled left. She would never catch either of them. She drew another shuddering breath, then toppled sprawling to the ground as she attempted another step and her left heel turned. As she got to her knees and tried to climb back to her feet, the world lurched around her again in a full circle, and she found as she came back to herself that she’d toppled forward on her face, her minidress had ridden all the way up to her waist and her luscious, ripe, jiggling ass and sopping wet pussy were hoisted in the air, fully exposed to the watching crowd of gangsters. The room had erupted in cruel jeering laughter, whistling, stamping and cheers.

Hot tears of shame stung her eyes as she tried to regather herself, to draw enough air into her lungs, to get her legs under her and wriggle out from her humiliating posture. But another shuddering half-breath only stoked the pulsating sensation in her snatch and made the world spin again, and she found she couldn’t even move, couldn’t even try to conceal her sweet, tender young snatch from the jeering crowd as they watched it juice up even further, watched the juice roll down her thighs in fat droplets. All she could do was lie there helplessly, her ass wriggling in the air, and give out a piteous moan of utter defeat.

Chloe and Zoe had simply stood by through all of this, and she could see them from the corner of her eye now mugging and making exaggerated Can you believe this useless bimbo? faces at the crowd. Now Zoe shouted, "Hey! Anybody mind if we have a little fun with this bitch before we tie her?" The suggestion drew a roar of acclamation from the crowd.

Bailey whined and made another desperate attempt to get up, but then the twins were on her. Zoe grabbed a handful of hair and yanked the young teen spy vertical, forcing her back on her haunches as Chloe – after delivering a sound smack to her jiggling butt – ripped the mini-dress from the top of her body, leaving all of her sweet young flesh exposed except for her boots and the material bunched at her waist around the fox tail belt.

There was a single instant of sweet relief as Bailey was actually able to draw a full breath. Then Zoe forced her tongue into the girl’s mouth, raping her face as she forced the defeated teen dream to suck on her tongue while Chloe, from behind, grabbed hold of her tits again, this time bearing down on her rock-hard, exposed nipples and giving them a powerful pull and twist. "MMMMMMHMMMMPHHHH!" the heroine squealed as a violent wave of pain and pleasure swept from her super-sensitive tits through her entire body...and she felt an extra-powerful pulsation in her overstimulated pussy, felt her juices flowing freely. Oh God oh God oh God, her mind gibbered in horror as Zoe’s hot, demanding, imperious tongue invaded her mouth again, if she does that again I’m going to...

Sure enough, Chloe gave her hot, heaving tits a second vicious yank and twist, and... "MMMMMHMMMMMHMMMMHMMMPHHHHH!!!" Bailey sobbed around the invading tongue as her dripping sntach exploded in orgasm, her clit visibly pulsing and her cunt squirting, squirting, squirting as the teen spy gave in to delicious defeat. Oh God oh God all those dirty thugs are watching me cum and it’s making their cocks big and hard! her brain gabbled in shock, and the thought alone was enough to bring an orgasmic aftershock, a last sharp squirt out of her tight slit. "MMMMPHHHH!"

"Damn what a slut!" shouted Chloe delightedly, to a roar from the crowd. She kept up her assault on Bailey’s tits with one hand while she let her other hand stray down to the corrupted Kitt’s molten pussy, making the girl’s body jolt and shudder, hips grinding as she shoved a finger inside and started pumping it in and out.

Zoe, meanwhile, broke off hrr rough kissing to stand up and lift her skirt, revealing shaven pubes and a pussy that was more than a little bit wet in its own right. "Show me what your tongue can do, bitch," she said hotly, shoving her snatch against Bailey’s face. Her mind shutting down, her conquered body overwhelmed with lust, the sweet young bitch thought nothing of pushing out her tongue to taste Zoe’s pungent folds, of pushing it inside and of lapping and sucking avidly at her abuser’s hard little clit. "Mmmmmmmmmm this bitch gives great head!" Zoe announced to the crowd. "I’ll bet she mmmmmmmmmm sucks a mean fucking dick!"

Chloe was picking up the pace of her fingerfucking while her left hand played with Bailey’s breasts, mauling and squeezing and smacking first one, then the other. She started adding fingers, going up to two, then three, and in no time Bailey was on the edge of another hard orgasm. Then Zoe squealed in delight, "AHHHHYEAAHHHYEAAAHHHH!" and ground her pussy hard into Bailey’s face as she squirted her juices down the girl’s throat, and Chloe said, "Take this you fucking slut," while hammering a full four fingers into her hot, clutching snatch and yanking hard at her left nipple, and that was it.

"MMMMMNGGGGGGAHHHHHHHHAHHHHAAHHH!!" Bailey’s whole world contracted to the sweet pussy juices sliding down her throat and splashing all over her face, the delicious thrills emanating from her painfully punished tits, the grip-squirt, grip-squirt, grip-squirt of her super-tight fuckhole around Chloe’s brutally pumping fingers as her orgasm went on and on, her body writhing hotly and bathed in glistening sweat, her taut teen ass-flesh and her luscious tits jiggling as she lost herself in abused ecstasy.

This was all a bit much for the waiting crowd, which had lapsed from cheering into heavy, rasping breathing and clearly wanted a piece of the action. A low chant started, building in intensity: "Tie her up! Tie her up! Tie her up! TIE HER UP!"

Fear whispered its way back into Bailey’s spinning brain, and she whimpered pitifully as she realized she was about to be tied up so the bloated, monstrous cocks of a roomful of criminals could violate all her holes. Her blood ran cold, and her greedy snatch spasmed again around Chloe’s fingers, as the "Tie her up!" chant segued into a new theme: "Break a Whore! Break a Whore! Break a Whore! BREAK A WHORE!"

* * * * *

It was Lockhart’s assistant, Gerald, who began the breaking.

Chloe and Zoe had worked her overheated body to two more massively multiple, humiliatingly squirty orgasms as Lockhart was audible outside, hawking tickets for places in the lineup to use Bailey’s holes and abuse her young flesh. Then they stripped off the belt and shredded remains of her minidress – leaving her clad only in the crippling stilettos and silly, incongruous fox ears – and cruelly tied her arms behind her back, securing them together from elbows to wrists in a posture that forced her to arch her spine and show off her heaving, glistening, excruciatingly vulnerable tits. They secured those bonds by another rope to one of the cell’s overhead pipes, leaving her gasping, shamefully displayed, desperately trying to keep her balance in the heels as the bitches sauntered laughing out of the cell, admitting the first two men in the lineup.

Gerald stepped into the cell accompanied by another one of the Mistress’ shaven-headed thugs, an equally massive black man. The two men regarded her with cold, stoatish, predatory expressions, like something they were about to devour, and a vivid bolt of terror shot through Bailey’s body even as her pussy involuntarily started pulsating and juicing again. As they started forward, her knees trembled and she heard pleading spill unbidden from her lips: "Nonono please don’t do this I’m sure they’ll pay you to get me back just don’t do this I’m a good girl I’m a good girl pleasepleaseplease don’t do this I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry," she whined and babbled pitifully, tears of shame rolling hotly down her cheeks as she heard the laughter and jeers her begging provoked... and then they were on her.

The black man took her by the throat as he walked around behind her, his hand like a band of steel, cutting off her pathetic pleas abruptly as she struggled to breathe. Gerald stood in front of her, looked her coldly, gloatingly up and down, then focussed on her tits. "You really seem to enjoy these," he remarked, hefting them in his hands and playfully rubbing his thumbs over her nipples, sending shivers through her body as his colleague started to rub his free hand all over her ass, making her flesh goosepimple.

Gerald released her tits... and then began to spank them, hard, slashing his hands down over her super-sensitive titflesh over and over. "AGHHHHHHHH!" she choked out the mangled semblance of a wail as her young breasts were punished, sending agonizing bolts of pain and pleasure through her body, almost instantly bringing her hot, wet snatch back to the brink of orgasm. And then Gerald’s compatriot start spanking her firm, round, bootylicious ass just as hard, Crack! Crack! Crack!, alternating between the jiggling globes and sending new jolts of agony and humiliation and hot, lustful sensation through the corrupted Kitt’s body. Her oxygen-starved brain reeled and nectar started to dribble and squirt down her thighs, the hot pool of lust at her centre starting to boil over. "AGGGGHHH! AGGGHHHH! NNNNGAGGGHH! AUGGHHHH! AAUUUGHHHHHH!" She almost blacked out, stars bursting across her vision, completely helpless to stop the ograsm from taking hold of the spasming centre of her being and squirting sweet teen pussy juice once, twice, three times, four, then five, all over the man behind her. God, so wet... her horrified mind babbled. So wet.. I’ve never been so wet... They must think I’m such a slut... I must be making their cocks so hard... and the last thought sent her over the edge again, "AUUUGGGGGGHHH-HHHAUGGGGGGGGHHHHH!" as they punished her tits and ass even harder and her girl-cum squirted, squirted, squirted, over and over again.

"Goddamn, that’s it," the black man rasped, releasing her throat and breaking off his spanking. Her mind froze as she heard the sound of his zipper. "Time this bitch got fucked."

With no more warning than that, an enormous black cock slammed balls-deep into the teen’s excruciatingly tight young snatch. "NNNN-AWWWWWWWWW!" Bailey screamed in utter defeat, utter despair, as her greedy, traitorous little fuckhole immediately started spasming and pulsating around its violator, gripping it, milking it, sending thrills of pleasure down her rapist’s massive, throbbing shaft as he reamed into her like a rutting stag. He bent her forward almost double as he pounded her relentlessly, easily mastering the bound teen’s lust-filled young body as she squealed and helplessly took his cock, his fingers digging cruelly into her soft, yielding flesh. "AWWWWW! AWWWWW! AWWWWW! AWWWWW! AWWWWW!" She was already cumming, spurting copiously around his pounding pole as his big swinging balls slapped against her engorged clit.

"AWWWMMMMMPHHHHHH!" her lust-filled cries were suddenly cut off by Gerald’s big, hot, salty cock pushing its way into her hot mouth, reaming toward the back of her throat, his balls slapping against her chin. Her mind seizing up, her brain spinning, she automatically, almost mindlessly started to lick and suck on the second intruder, bobbing her head up and down to meet his thrusts, her spit dripping off the shaft and drooling off her chin as her face was violently fucked. The relentless multiple orgasms seizing her pussy and slowly breaking her sanity grew even more intense as her mouth-rapist reached down and started to torment her tits again, smacking and mauling and yanking the hanging globes. "NNGAH-NNGAH-NNGAH-NNGAH-NNGAH-NNNNNGAH-NNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGH!" came the teen spy’s gulping cries of helpless, despairing ecstasy around the cock. God, they’re so hard... So hard... Their friends are watching me cum... Watching them go in and out... So hard... "NNNNNNNNGGHHHHHHHHH!"

The wet, desperately sucking mouth and multiply-orgasmic snatch were too much for either man to take for long. After a few more thrusts Gerald shouted, "Fuck this slut’s good with her mouth... I’m gonna cum!" and his colleague hollered, "Damn, me too, FUCK!" and both men unleashed simulatenous, repeated volleys of hot, creamy spunk into either end of their victim, bringing her to an orgasmic crescendo of her own. "NNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGAHHHHHHHHHH!" she wailed as Gerald pulled his cock out of her mouth, splashing her nose and lips and chin with more of his spunk, the bitch almost passing out from the force of her climax, her thighs sticky with her own juices now mingling with hot, dripping spunk.

She stood panting, her head spinning, almost swooning as they released her, desperately hoping she’d have some respite, some chance to come back to herself... but no, they were just standing her up, repositioning her, and Gerald laughingly shouted "Round Two!" as her grabbed her by either thigh, lifted her into the air, and planted the bound, helpless teen’s wet pussy on his cock. "AWWWWWWWW! AWWWWW! AWWWWW!" she wailed as her lust-filled cunt betrayed her again, gripping and gushing juices around the raping, ravishing shaft as Gerald fucked her, looking mockingly into her eyes. Then, with a thrill of horror, she felt a wet finger probing the entrance to her tight, virginal ass, lubing it up... and intuitively, she knew what was coming.

There was still enough of her left to scream desperately "NNNNNUH UHHHH AWWWWW NO NOT MY UHHHH ASS PLEASE NO UHHH AWWW PLEASE UHHH NOT MY ASS UHHHH I CAN’T TAKE UHHHH UHHHH AUUUUUUUGGHHHHHHHH!" She sobbed as the massive black cock pushed mercilessly into her ass, stretching it, violating it, overwhelming her senses with a more intense, bewildering mixture of agony and ecstasy than she’d ever known before, the sheer intensity of it sending her raped snatch almost instantly into another mind-breaking orgasm. "AUUUGGGGH AUGHHHHHH UGHHHHHHHH!" Her anal rapist thrust brutally in tandem with the vicious thug pounding her pussy, the two men dominating her completely, her pussy spasming helplessly, spurting around Gerald’s cock as she sank into hellish bliss. God, both my holes... Hard cocks in both my holes... They’re all watching... They’re all going to fuck me fuck me FUCK me... "UUGGGHHHHHHHH!"

She was almost floating in delirium as the man behind her used his fingers to scoop up the spunk dripping from her face, forcing her to lick them clean, the seaweedy taste of jism thrilling her tastebads. She didn’t think anything could be more intense... and then her anal rapist reached around her chest and grabbed her jugs, lifted them up as Gerald laughed and ducked down to suck a nipple hard into his mouth. "AHHHHHHH!!!!!" her head spun as he licked and sucked and bit on her super-sensitive tits, switching off from one to the other as his partner in violation mauled them cruelly. Another devastating chain of multiple-orgasmic bliss seized hold of her body, her mind whining, God God God I can’t take it ahhhhh as her spit-covered tits turned into hard balls of delicious agony. "AHHHHHH AHHHHHH AHHHHHHHHH AIIIIIIII!!!!!" she screamed, the corrupted Kitt’s mind completely lost in hot lust.

She felt Gerald go back to her left tit, sucking it hard... and then a newly intense sensation seized her whole tit, a sharp tingling spasm that shot through her body. Gerald’s cock gave a twitch of surprise as he came up with a mouthful of something, something warm which he playfully spat into her face, making her mewl in humiliation as it trickled down into her mouth and she tasted it.

Oh my God oh my God it’s milk, she realized, suddenly understanding that she was capable of fresh shame and embarrassment after all,. They’re milking my tits! She suddenly remembered the technician explaining the breast augmentation, "It uses some of the same bodily mechanisms as with lactation," and her mind whirled and whirled with horror as Gerald bent back down to feast on her squirting tits as they sent newly intense ripples of orgasmic bliss through her body, as her snatch came harder, harder, harder. "UGGGGHHHHH! UGGGGGHHHH! UGGGGHHHH!" she squealed as her mind babbled helplessly, taking her back over the edge again and again. They’re all watching the milk squirt out... your pussy juices squirt out... your pussy get fucked... your ass get fucked... you’re the ultimate slut... the ultimate whore... you were made to take cock... made to take cock... dirty little bitch... bad little girl... made to take cock... "UGGGGHHHH! UGGGGHHHH! UGGGGHHHH! UUUUUUGGGGGHHHHHH!"

Her rapists powered into her holes, yelling as they filled her again with hot spunk, and with a final orgasmic scream, "Foxx Girl" passed out, hanging limp and swooning between them as the room erupted in cheers and whistles and catcalls.

The rest of the day passed in a broken, disconnected sequence of fainting spells punctuated with conscious periods of mind-breaking, helplessly orgasmic rape and abuse and humiliation. There were flashes, images, each one carrying an equal freight of horror and shameful delight:

... the Colombian who teased her with his cock, made her beg loudly to be fucked, made her scream out the words "I am a little fuck hole!" before he slammed it home in her tight ass...

... an anonymous hand in her hair, bending the bound slut to the floor and forcing her to lick up a big sweet puddle of her own pussy juice mixed with the nasty spunk of six different men...

... the Crip who dipped a sausage in her wet snatch and fed it to her bite by teasing bite like a begging dog, flavoured with her own juices, before forcing her to wash it down with a mouthful of his spunk...

... begging for the toilet and finding herself leashed, collared, and led over to a drain at the back corner of the cell, made to straddle it and piss in front of the laughing, cheering men like an animal...

... coming out of a swoon to find cocks in her mouth, ass and pussy, pumping hard and making her seize up in orgasmic bliss...

... waking up to find a group of the waitresses around her, Chloe and Zoe leading them, wielding a collection of big vibrators and carrying a little plastic bucket to catch the spurting milk from her tits...

... and on. And on. And on. Too many throbbing cocks, too many orgasms, too many humiliations to count. "Break-a-Whore," they called it, and that was exactly what they did. Bailey Phillips, who had started the day filled with pride as the first Kitt to take her place at Foxx Force Five’s side in the field, ended it as wriggling, spurting, begging teenaged fuck meat, her fractured mind repeating over and over: Your are a dirty, nasty, filthy little slut. You are a dirty, nasty, filthy little slut. You love cock, bitch. You love it. You are a dirty, nasty, flithy little slut.

At last it was over. As Bailey came out of her final swoon, she saw Sabrina Lockhart standing in the cell in front of her – the girl had a vivid flash of a riding crop coming down on her jiggling ass-flesh while a big plastic cock raped her butthole – and she immediately erupted in pleading and sobbing, scuttling forward to kiss and lick the woman’s shiny boots: "Please Mistress please no more Mistress I’ll be a good girl Mistress I can’t take any more please Mistress please no more!"

"Now, now, now, shhhhhh, shhhhh," the dominatrix said soothingly, the cold cruelty of before vanished, replaced with motherly tenderness as the woman gently stroked her hair. "Shush now, that’s a good girl, that’s my good little girl. It’s over now. It’s all over. You did very well."

"I... I did?" asked the girl gratefully, looking up at her in wonder, suddenly realizing that she was clinging to the Mistress’ leg, that her hands were untied.

"I’m very proud of you," Sabrina said with a smile.

Bailey looked up around her in bewilderment, her ass and pussy and tits throbbing and her body tingling in vivid reminder of her ravishment, her debasement. The crowd of thugs was gone... and so was the club! Outside the viewing window of the observation room they were in, there was a gleaming white laboratory, rows of benches replacing the bar tables, banks of computers replacing the bar, a miniature windowed boardroom up where Lockhart’s VIP booth had been, pristine white walls replacing the nightmarish graffiti of before. Standing at one of the benches, twirling the contents of a beaker, was a trim, beautiful blonde girl in a demure lab coat. Chloe! Or was it Zoe? The girl glanced over at her and gave her an impish wink before going back to her task.

The only constants were Bailey, still naked and booted and still, after everything, wearing the ridiculous fox ears... and Lockhart herself, still decked out in her PVC dominatrix gear, still with her riding crop in her hand. The disoriented teen found herself clinging to the Mistress’ leg even tighter, as if she were afloat in a river and it were a spar of driftwood, of reality.

"H-how ...?" she wondered, but the Mistress shushed her, still gently stroking her hair.

"Don’t worry your head about all that, my pet," she said warmly. "You have other things to think about now. You have other things to do."

"I do?"

"Oh, yes." The Mistress put a finger under Bailey’s chin, bringing the teen’s eyes up to meet hers. "They didn’t come for you, did they?" she asked gently, pityingly.

Eyes suddenly brimming with hot tears, the broken teen spy shook her head, unable to speak. No! Her thoughts swam with confusion, hurt, betrayal, abandonment. They didn’t come! Why didn’t they come?

"People who cared about you would have saved you, wouldn’t they?"

The tears spilled down Bailey’s cheeks as she gave an abject nod.

"Do you know why they don’t care about you?" Bailey shook her head miserably, sniffling. "They don’t care, my pet, because they don’t know the real you. They don’t know the you that you gave to me today. They don’t know you like your Mistress does."

"The real me, Mistress?"

"Yes, the real you," Lockhart said with a beatific smile. "You came to me wearing a mask, trying to deceive yourself as you were trying to deceive me. But I saw the true you, the real you. All we did in this room was to let her out, to let you know her, too. Your Mistress cared for you enough to give you that gift, the truest gift of all." A hint of sternness crept into her voice as she gripped the girl’s chin harder, asking: "What are you?"

"A dirty, filthy, nasty little slut who loves cock," Bailey’s mouth answered automatically, picking up the mantra that had begun to percolate through her fogged mind during the long hours of her ordeal.

"And who does this nasty little slut belong to? Who loves you, and who do you serve?"

"My Mistress, Sabrina Lockhart."

"That’s my good girl." Lockhart wiped her tears away, then stroked her hair again. The door to the cell opened, and a girl wearing a lab coat – another one of the waitresses from earlier, now transformed, mundane – left a neat pile of clothing, a cross, a pair of spectacles and a set of sandals by the door. "Your Mistress has wonderful news for you."

Bailey looked up hopefully. "Yes Mistress? Will you let me stay with you, Mistress?"

Sabrina smiled indulgently and shook her head. "Not today, my pet. No, the good news is that you still get to be a spy." She chuckled at the incomprehension in Bailey’s eyes, and said: "I’m sending you back to Operation Freedom, my love. I’m sending you back with the drug samples they sent you here to steal. I’m sending you back to tell them their loyal Kitt has done them proud, that you fooled us all, and that our little Research Centre wants to see much more of the charming and lovely Siobhan O’Connor. I’m sending you back to betray them... as they betrayed you."

A kind of twisted comprehension began to dawn in the abused teen’s confused, disordered mind... and then suddenly, happily, madly, she smiled.

It had been a long, dull day for the extraction team perched on the roof across from and roaming, disguised, around the streets outside the Sabrina Lockhart Sex Research Centre. The only excitement had come when the constantly-fretting Summerset had broken normal protocol to order satellite imaging of the building. It confirmed their intelligence: a few of the staff up in the laboratory on three (and research assistants, including their girl, spending most of her time at a lab bench with occasional trips to an observation room), a large group of university students taking part in a study on two (their charter bus pulled out from the back of the complex around four in the afternoon), various other figures wandering around the complex doing mundane tasks.

Still, the Foxxes’ leader wasn’t satisfied. As the clock turned five, she stopped her incessant pacing to suddenly say: "You know what? She should be out by now. We’re going in now. Now."

"Hang on," the weary sniper who’d spent the day with her said suddenly, "she’s coming down. She’s coming back down to the ground floor now."

After a moment, "Siobhan O’Connor" could be seen walking jauntily out the front of the Research Centre – the very picture of a teenaged girl who’d just gotten exactly what she wanted, and was full of excitement. She stopped, touched her left hand to the rim of her spectacles, and headed south along Island Street at a cheerful clip.

Finally, Summerset sighed with relief. The Kitt’s gestures were the prearranged signal: All is well. Mission Accomplished.

"Signal the rest of team," she said, at last allowing herself a smile and shaking the sniper’s proffered hand. "We’re going home."

The word went out ahead of the extraction team, and the Den was buzzing with it by the time they got back to base: "Bailey Phillips has done it! The first victory for the Kitts!"

Sabrina Lockhart, The Mistress, sat in her office, a glass of scotch by her left hand, her eyes closed meditatively, taking deep calming breaths, letting waves of relief wash over her.

God Almighty! The on-site sessions were risky enough at the best of times, but she’d never dreamed of conducting one with a thirty-person SWAT team, armed to the teeth, waiting in the wings for the subject. Madness! she thought, but there was exhiliration in the thought. We cheated death today!

"What if they don’t trust their satellite images? What if they storm the building on a hunch?" she remembered asking The Boss, who’d replied: "Lay your fears to rest. They don’t think that way. To them, the best kind of answer is the one you’ve spent the most money to know."

And she’d been right. It had worked. Unbelievably, it had worked!

Gerald poked his head in the door. "Anything else before I head out, Doctor Lockhart?"

She didn’t open her eyes. "I don’t think so, thank you Gerald. I’m assuming you’ve made final arrangements for the informants in the ‘Break Room’ crowd?"

He nodded. "Three of them. They didn’t even get off the exit bus."

"Excellent Gerald, that will be all. Good work today." Except for the part where you almost scuttled the whole op right at the outset, she thought a little bitterly. A more experienced agent would have bolted right then without touching that juice. Too bad for little Bailey that she was so eager to do a good job.

She could almost hear the thug grin from ear to ear. "Not the hardest job in the world, I’ve gotta say." She heard him turn away, hesitate, then turn back. "That a new compound we tried out today?"

"The drug you administered the Phillips girl? Yes. This was one of a final few tests before we put it in production. Spectacular, isn’t it?"

"I’ve never seen anything like it," he said with feeling. "That shit’s gonna revolutionize the whole sex trade. Congratulations, Doctor."

She smiled quietly to herself. Revolutionize indeed, my dull-witted friend. You have no idea. "Thank you, Gerald. Go home and get some rest."

"Good night."

With a sigh, Sabrina Lockhart put up her feet, letting her thoughts stray to a future that was looking brighter by the day. And then, she proceeded to get very, very drunk.

to get very, very drunk.