Agency

Camille’s phone buzzed. She blinked and realized she’d drifted off. The stream she’d been watching had paused and asked if she wanted to continue. She lifted the remote and told it to go on, then picked up her phone.

Brenda had sent a text: You up?

Camille replied: More or less. How’s your date?

Brenda: Ugh. Almost over. He’s in the bathroom. Will call when I get home.

Camille smiled: Have fun.

Brenda: Don’t doze off. I don’t want you to miss this.

Camille set the phone down. She leaned on an elbow and returned to her show.

Fifteen minutes passed. Brenda hadn’t called. Camille yawned and checked her phone. Nothing.

Sniffing, she smelled flowers. Floral, like roses or lavender. She hadn’t lit a candle, and as she glanced to the coffee table and saw the unlit candle, she noticed the hissing. She sat up and looked over the back of the couch.

The opening to the kitchen was a dark rectangle. She’d reheated some soup and couldn’t remember turning the stove off. Gas didn’t smell like flowers, though.

She rose and padded over the hardwood towards the kitchen. At her feet, something moved.

A layer of white mist lay over the floor. Swirling as her feet moved through it, the gas flowed away from the front door.

She took a step towards it and stumbled. Bracing against the couch, the room tilted. Catching her balance, the tilting turned to spinning. She held her head still. The tilt remained, but the spin stopped. Easing her gaze in increments, she looked at the floor and traced her eyes towards the front door.

The gas had covered her feet and swirled to her ankles. In addition to flowers, the gas had an earthy scent, like a flower shop that had kept wilted flowers too long and left them damp.

Another step spun the room, and she began to fall. Wincing in anticipation, the thud of her hip against the floor reached her through a pad. It jarred but didn’t hurt. Bracing herself against the ground, the mist flowed over her hand and around her forearm.

Her eyes felt heavy, and when she inhaled, a faint irritation traced along the back of her throat.

She lifted her hand. Mist flowed upwards in tendrils, and her fingers wavered and doubled.

“I’m going to pass out,” she whispered.

She pushed against the ground and tried to rise. Her phone was on the couch. She should call 911.

Blinking and gathering herself, she laid her palm flat on the floor and balanced. Steady upwards pressure lifted her, then she tried to slide a foot to brace. The foot felt like it had fallen asleep, and pushing created a skid which threw her arm off vertical. She tried to react, but too much had gone off kilter at once. Her elbow buckled, and she collapsed to the ground. A second attempt with her arm failed. She tried to flex her fingers, but they’d turn to indistinct pillows extending from the sense-haze of her palm.

She began to slump, her body losing strength. The hissing and flow continued. She half-smiled. She loved lavender.

Sighing, her body stopped answering her instructions, and she eased down and found herself on her side. The gas flowed over her face. Her eyes remained open, and she told herself to try to get up. Nothing happened.

She giggled. Her body should do what she wanted.

In the haze, she told herself that it wasn’t funny. She remembered all the precautions about locking doors, and she had. They hadn’t warned her about knockout gas. That happened in stories.

She giggled again, and her eyes went out of focus. She’d been staring. The front door was dark, and a line of light flickered beneath it. The light highlighted the swirls of gas billowing into her apartment.

The light and its little changes became fascinating, and she watched, unable to move.

They warned me, she thought in the haze. She giggled again.

The current of gas slowed, then stopped. A metallic report replaced the hissing, and the door swung open. They had a key. How?

One figure stepped in. A bright yellow tank, like something she’d seen on her scuba trip, stood in the doorway. A second figure spun the tank’s valve and gathered a hose.

The first wore thick-soled boots. The gas parted and formed a wake as they strode. Stopping, Camille saw a pebble had gotten stuck in the tread pattern. He squatted and examined Camille’s face.

She smiled at the blue eyes hiding behind the gas mask. Two circular filters jutted along his jaw, and when he inhaled, they made a tiny click.

He didn’t return the smile and touched her wrist, held it there, then slid a hand under her cheek, lifting her head off the cool floor.

Scanning her features, he settled on Camille's eyes. He lifted a finger. Her eyes went to it and followed as they went side-to-side. He dropped his finger.

“Now, Ms. Foster, you’re going to be a good girl and give us everything we’re after, yes?”

She giggled again. Good girl. She hated being talked down to.

He eased her head to the ground and pulled his hand away.

Her eyelids drooped as more sounds came from the doorway. The yellow tank had vanished. The first man went to the door. A stretcher came into view, and he grasped a metal handle at the end, pulling it towards her.

The second man’s boots trailed. Both stopped when the stretcher had been arranged parallel to her body.

“She’s pretty,” a voice warbled from above.

Squatting, the second man’s face came into view. His brown eyes looked at her from behind the mask.

“So hot when they’re blank,” he said and watched her. His eyes narrowed as though he was smiling.

His gaze trailed down her body, pausing at her chest and hips. His eyes returned to her face.

“The dossier says you’d hate being a good girl. Docile. Blank. Obedient.”

She did hate it. Stop talking down.

“But I think you secretly love it. Isn’t that right?”

She giggled. Stop it.

He glanced to his companion and nodded.

Moving out of her vision, he rolled her onto her back. Her head lolled, and the ceiling, couch, and part of the television flashed into her vision. Hands slid under her shoulders, then under her feet.

Lifting together, she floated out of the dissipating gas. Sinking into the stretcher, a hand straightened her head so she stared at the ceiling. Straps moved and cinched over her chest, waist, and ankles.

Out of the gas, her vision began to clear. Trying to move her arm, she tested the nylon straps and found slack. The metal of the stretcher rattled.

Both men towered over her and looked to the sound. Brown eyes reached for the strap across her waist. He cinched. The slack vanished. He repeated the gesture across her chest while his partner did the same across her ankles.

“Is she waking up?” Brown eyes asked.

Unable to move, her twilight brain sent a flutter of pleasure over her body. Despite herself, she tested the bonds again. She was helpless. The pleasure returned.

Stop it. This was real.

The stretcher began to move. It trundled over the floor, and the ceiling fan above the couch receded from her vision.

The stretcher stopped in the hallway, and she turned her head to the side. The yellow tank was there. One of the men knelt beside it and laid a smaller bottle on the stretcher. He fumbled with a coil of clear hose.

Blue eyes loomed, then descended. He had a clear mask.

Camille thrashed her head away and jerked against the straps.

“Hold her,” blue eyes said.

Enormous, warm hands found the side of her head. She tried, but too weak, her head couldn’t resist. The mask came closer. Cool plastic touched along her chin and mouth.

“Stop,” she gasped.

Weak and hoarse, the words seemed to go nowhere.

“Hurry up. She’s coming out of it.”

Blue eyes reached to her side, brushing against her ribs where the weight of the bottle had settled. A slight hiss answered.

Flowers again. No. She held her breath. Blue eyes watched.

“Settle down, Camille. Be a good girl.”

She clenched her eyes and opened her mouth to bark a response.

“Sto- Stop-“

“That’s it,” Blue eyes said. “Good girl.”

Stop that. Camille began to giggle.

The hands on her head went away, and blue eyes made an adjustment against her side. Lifting her head, he slid the straps that secured the mask over her head, then he stood and looked down at her from far above.

“All right. Let’s get moving.”

She looked up at him and giggled. He nodded. The stretcher began to move.

The recessed light in the elevator ceiling had a moth shadow behind the glass. When they reached their floor, the elevator stopped and trembled like it was on springs. The view overhead became the apartment lobby, then the exit, and finally, her building’s façade climbed into a hazy sky.

Lifted, the stretcher bumped against something, then rolled before stopping. Metallic sounds, blue eyes leaning over, and an engine started.

She tried to turn her head, and it lolled to one side. Blue eyes sat next to the stretcher. He sat on a little bench, stripped off the gas mask, and rubbed his hair, tousling it into loose curls.

Handsome, his hair was dark, and he had a touch of stubble. He laid a casual hand on the railing of the stretcher.

Resisting a giggle, she pleaded with her eyes, the scent of flowers saturating her nose. He continued to look forward.

Pushing against the restraints did nothing. Her brain reminded her that she liked it, and she closed her eyes as another giggling fit began. When she opened her eyes, he was watching.

Bemused, he tilted his head so their eyes met. He was handsome, and it made the giggling worse.

He smiled and glanced at the bottle before turning something.

“A little loopy?” he asked as he returned to her.

She tried to nod.

“Key,” she croaked.

He looked puzzled and leaned forward.

“What?”

“Key. Where?”

He patted her arm.

“Just relax. We’ll be there soon, then we can get started.”

The van slowed and made a turn. The light coming from behind her darkened. Blue eyes reached over and turned the bottle again. The flow of gas stopped, and he lifted the mask off her head.

Brakes whistled, and the van stopped. Blue eyes pulled the sliding door open and maneuvered the stretcher. A door opened and closed. The two men eased the stretcher out of the van, and the door slammed behind her.

As they wheeled her through a pair of automatic doors, she took a breath. The scent of flowers had gone, and when she tested, her fingers would flex on command. Above her, blocks of fluorescent lights flashed as she was wheeled beneath them.

Another elevator, and they started down.

Brown eyes checked his watch. Blue eyes glanced down.

“Coming around,” he noted.

Brown eyes glanced. “Like ‘em better blank.”

Camille looked to blue eyes. She tried to speak, but it started as a croak. She swallowed and tried again.

“Please, what do you want?”

“In a minute, Camille,” Blue eyes said.

“Please. I’ll-“

“Quiet,” Brown eyes barked.

The two men exchanged a look. Brown eyes shrugged. Blue eyes shook his head.

The elevator stopped. Wheeled again, they passed several sets of metal double doors before turning into one.

Harsh surgical lamps hung above a central chair and sent lances of light through the dark that merged on the metal of the chair. Carts flanked the chair, some with instruments, others with monitors.

A woman in a white lab coat and premature silver hair pulled into a tight bun stepped out of the dark. Both of the men reacted to her appearance, standing straighter and stopping before her.

Her shoes clopped on the tile floor as she came beside the stretcher. She knelt and grasped Camille’s chin. She shone a light into each of Camille’s eyes and frowned.

“Please, help me,” Camille said. Another giggle.

The woman stood, ignoring Camille, and turned to blue eyes.

“How much did you dose her?”

“She got restless on the trip,” blue eyes said.

“Restless?” the woman said and glanced at Camille.

“A little,” blue eyes said.

“We’ll see about that,” the woman said. “She wants to be a good girl. Don’t you, Camille?”

“Stop saying that!” Camille barked.

The woman shared a knowing look with the two men and nodded towards the chair.

As the metallic buckles came free, Camille thought her chance had come. She twisted and jerked herself to a sitting position. The two men reached for her. They tried to grip her arms, but her movement was too quick.

Leaping off the back of the stretcher, it shot away from her and rattled away. Her foot landed on the tile floor. She managed a step.

Being vertical, her equilibrium twisted, and she reeled, accelerating to one side as the floor tilted away from her like she was falling down a steep slope. Chasing the retreating floor, she managed two more lunges before tumbling to the ground.

The cold tile slapped against her palm as she tried to catch herself. Then, her wrist quivered, and she wound up on the floor facing the three kidnappers.

A slow moment followed where the two men came from her, and she scrambled her feet to get away. The woman turned away, and as the two men’s hands closed around Camille’s shoulders, the woman had lifted a syringe. A malignant orange-yellow liquid fed into it, and the woman tapped the side as a tendril shot skyward from the needle’s tip. The woman started towards Camille.

Camille exhaled in panic, wanting to scream, but it became a husky, guttural wheeze.

The men’s grip hardened. Camille tried to kick as the woman approached, but she paused, stepped around, and approached from behind.

Camille’s shirt sleeve rose. Metal pierced her skin, and a dense fluid pumped into her shoulder.

“Please,” she whispered, her lips turning to balloons as a line of drool slipped down her chin.

She couldn’t tell if the grip on her arms went away, or if she retreated from it. All she felt was falling, like her body had become a shell with her a smaller and smaller flicker somewhere in the middle of it.

Sometime later, she woke in a haze and tried to blink. The haze shifted but remained. She blinked again. Harsh light cleared, and white light bored in. She squinted.

Movement and the sound of typing continued behind her.

Opening her eyes a sliver, she tried to pick out what she could from the darkness. Silhouettes seemed to move beyond the light, but it was like facing down high-beam headlights and trying to pick details from the darkness beyond. Something moved, but she couldn’t tell what.

There was no sound. It wasn’t the quiet of a bedroom or the pause in a conversation. She heard nothing, like the absence of sound had become a kind of entity.

Seated, her arms and legs moved only in tiny jerks that were answered with firm pulls that put them back into place. A band across her forehead pressed her head back against a thick, firm padding.

In the darkness, a silhouette moved, and the typing halted.

The woman appeared from Camille’s right. Her lips moved, but the present silence turned it into a pantomime. Her lips moved again, then she nodded and stepped out of view.

“Camille,” her disembodied voice said.

Like a studio recording, only her voice came through. The faint pink noise of everyday life was absent.

The woman appeared. A small microphone had been clipped to the collar of her white coat.

“Camille?”

Camille looked towards her, and the woman touched Camille’s chin, satisfied.

A cart moved in silence from Camille’s left. As it came into view, the woman swung an arm with a computer monitor before her eyes so that it filled most of Camille’s vision. The woman appeared as a sliver just to the right.

The screen flashed, then settled onto an interface. Camille recognized it. Her login ID had been filled out in the top field. The password field remained blank.

“Save us some time, Camille,” the woman’s voice said.

Never give that out. Ever. She blinked through the haze, and she remembered what she’d been instructed.

Camille tried to speak and managed the first two letters, but she couldn’t hear them. Her throat rumbled, and she felt something in her head. But there was no sound. She paused, swallowed, and began again.

“Capital L, ejibed+57,” Camille said into nothing. Three failures, and she’d be locked out. After that, it didn’t matter what they asked.

The woman’s face disappeared.

“Now. Camille,” the woman said. “I know that’s a lie, but it’s a useful one. It lets me demonstrate how this will go.”

The arm holding the screen swung away. The woman came before Camille and slid a pair of goggles over her eyes. Darkness enfolded her, as thick as the silence.

A faint, electronic thump popped in the silence. Then, light rose in the dark.

Abstract mixing of purples and reds formed clouds before transitioning to blues and gold. Her eyes found random transitions and followed them until they disappeared. Other details appeared elsewhere in her vision, and her eyes chose and followed the new ones. Pulses of sound rose and found an easy rhythm which matched the changing of the colors.

Camille followed until drowsiness made her lids feel heavy. She closed her eyes. She shouldn’t watch.

The sound continued, but she held her eyes shut while a heavy drowsiness fell over her mind. Maybe they’d give up if she fell asleep.

Behind her eyes, the abstract light continued. Curious, she peeked, and in the haze of drugs and drowsiness, the colors rolled on. She forgot to fight it. Her jaw went slack.

“Watch, Camille,” the voice said.

Lejibed+57 emerged from the cloud, tenuous and moving. Then, it faded. The false password. The swirl of color continued.

Another phrase began to emerge, foggy and loose. She chased color tendrils until it had formed.

Good Girl.

She smirked, pulling the corners of her mouth back.

“Good Girl,” the woman’s voice said.

A pulse began. Warm and gentle, it swelled from beneath her legs. Good Girl pulsed in time with the sound and sensation, and along her nipples, a swirl in the same rhythm began.

“Stop,” she whispered.

The word grew as did the pulsing, and she reminded herself how much she hated being talked down to.

The pulsing found its peak, continued, then faded. The word vanished as did the sensation. Her vision became a swirl of colors.

Moments passed, then a word began to form. Anticipating, her body waited. Sharper edges emerged from the soup of color until she could read.

Lejibed+57.

No sensation. No sound. No pulse. The word lay as flat, plain text. Her lie.

The word disappeared.

The swirls continued. Her eyes wanted to close, but the colors held her interest, especially the little details that caught her eye and drew them along all by themselves.

A word began to emerge.

Good Girl.

Pulse, throb, pleasure. Good girl moved and had texture, and her eyes traced its shape. A voice whispered. Familiar and trustworthy: “Good Girl”

Don’t. Then, she sighed.

Good girl faded, and her eyes followed the swirl, hoping to find it in the details. She reached for the fading words and pleasure.

Repeating, a word began to form again.

Lejibed+57.

A lie. Nothing.

The goggles were pulled away. The interface appeared. Her login id was filled. The password was empty.

“Try again, Camille,” the woman’s voice spoke into her ear.

Never, she heard.

“Capital J, ofopu&30”

Goggles slid over her eyes. Color and sound.

Good Girl.

Her hips pressed, and she hummed against it. The pulse and warmth grew. The word lingered, teasing and moving. Then, it faded.

“No,” Camille pleaded but heard nothing, only feeling her throat vibrate.

Jofopu&30

A lie. It floated, then vanished.

She pushed against the restraints, her hips reaching for stimulation. The clouds did not respond. She sighed.

Words rose from the haze.

Good Girl.

Her eyes clenched shut as sensation bloomed, sending a wave over her body. The restraints wouldn’t let her move, and she loved the struggle against them as they forced her to feel the pulse, making it impossible to escape.

“Good Girl,” was whispered into her ears. She recognized the voice. Not a stranger.

The pleasure rolled, then faded. She thrust against it, not able to get there and whimpering as it retreated.

The glasses came off. The interface. Her login. Empty password.

“Camille, be a Good Girl,” the woman said.

She panted, hips thrusting.

“I can’t,” she gasped.

“You can. Be a Good Girl.”

Jolting, her body wracked.

“Capital M, ijitus~65.”

“Again.”

“Capital M, ijitus~65.”

Goggles, colors, and sound.

Good Girl.

The pleasure hurt. It rose and took her to a precipice. She stood on the edge, her body writhing. Just beyond, she could fall and fall and fall, and Good Girl faded. The sound faded. The voice telling her Good Girl faded.

In the haze of frustration, she recognized it. Her voice. Her voice called her a good girl.

The words flipped: Mijitus~15.

“Yes, god. Yes. I was a Good Girl.”

The goggles vanished. Waves of pleasure echoed. It hadn’t come from outside. She’d done it to herself.

“Oh no,” she whispered.

The interface appeared. Login. Asterisks in the password box. A swirling circle, and the interface appeared.

She’d given it away, and her body pulsed with the pleasure.

Text began to appear: Camille is a Good Girl.

“Are you, Camille?” the woman’s voice asked.

“Yes. I’m a Good Girl.”

The typed text flashed, folded, and disappeared.

The goggles slid over her eyes.

Good Girl.

Grunting, the sensation doubled. She twisted and thrust, then the words changed

Mijitus~15

Bright light, and her body tensed. One orgasm rolled into a second. She would shatter the restraints with how hard she pushed against them. A dip, then a third erased everything.

She trembled as the colors continued to swirl.

“Sleep, Camille. You’ve done very well,” the woman’s voice said.

She slept, light playing on her closed eyes.

Warm and easy, Camille heard voices. Someone petted her shoulder and hair.

The bed beneath her was soft, and the blanket covering her was heavy and warm.

“She going to be ok?” a voice asked.

“Just talk her down. It was pretty intense.”

The second voice was the woman in the lab coat.

Camille opened her eyes.

It looked like a hotel suite with no windows. She touched the sheets. They smelled of lavender, her favorite, and were lush and smooth against her skin.

She loved the petting and wanted it to continue, but she looked up anyway.

“Hello there,” Brenda said. “I got your email.”

Laughter danced behind her eyes, and Camille frowned.

Brenda retrieved her cellphone and showed Camille the screen. It was an e-mail from Camille’s address. It said: Camille is a Good Girl.

The password? Her e-mail login?

Brenda continued to pet her. “I’m glad you stayed up until they arrived.”

Camille looked up. The woman had taken off her lab coat, and her expression was somewhere between mischievousness and concern.

“My fantasy?” Camille asked.

“As close as we could manage,” the woman said.

Camille began to tremble. The fear and arousal mixed and began shaking out of her.

Her voice shaking, she looked to Brenda.

“What about your date?”

Brenda laughed and closed her arms around Camille. Camille closed her eyes, feeling small and protected.

“No date. Needed to make sure you were home.”

“I’ll get you back,” Camille’s voice vibrated as much as spoke.

“Shhh…,” Brenda said. “Figure that out later.”

Camille would, but the shaking wiped her plans aside.

“It’s scary. We’ll take all the time we need,” Brenda said.

Warm, safe, and trembling, Camille wondered when she might go again.