Parts of Chapter One by Xom
 

Note from Trent Wolf: I want to thank C.T. for writing a spectacular story and adding to the world of Dominoe with imaginative new characters and ideas. Please email any comments to trentwolf@yahoo.com.

Note from JR Parz: Although I can appreciate how crucial the scene is to the story, I still feel compelled to warn the readers that there's a highly graphic violent sex scene involving a male teenager.

Warning!  This story contains adult material and is intended for mature readers.
 
 

CHAPTER ONE
 

Shelia Fox was buried alive under two thousand feet of thick wet. It surrounded her, squeezed her, in its womb-like embrace. She couldn't move . . . not a finger . . .

and she was still sinking . . . deeper and deeper into the dark.

She realized that she would sink until she reached the hot, molten core of the Earth's center. There she would live forever, in thick, comforting, suffocation . . .

and that was good. That is what she wanted.

**********

"She's hot, I'll tell you that," Smash said with appreciation.

"She is a mulatto," Doctor Mendlson replied coldly.

"I understand," the blonde young man nodded. "I wasn't saying that... I mean... I didn't mean to say..."

"Didn't mean what? That you want her? That she is sexually desirable? A half-breed? An abominable mixture of a white blood with that of an inferior race? You find such a genetic horror 'hot?'"

Smash looked down at The Doctor, his gnarled ancient body sunk deep into his chair. The old man was glaring up at him like he was some sort of worm, beneath contempt and Smash could feel himself wilting.

"No," he conceded softly. "I just meant...you know...for a..." He let his concession trail off. He had gone up against big black men twice his own size and not backed down. Sometimes he had stomped them. Sometimes they had stomped him. That's the way it was when you were a race warrior.

One look from this 75 year old, though, and his spine turned to mush. ‘Jesus,’ Smash thought, ‘What must The Doctor have been like back in the old days, when he was in the Holy Struggle? Hardcore, man. Totally hardcore!’

“The idea of any part of my body inside that black animal fills me with disgust!” The Doctor declared. “Never forget, young man, the Jew rejoices every time a white warrior dilutes his bloodline."

"Of course, Doctor. You're right." He turned and leaned on the railing of the catwalk. Below him, his fellow warriors had long since completed the job of stripping the woman of her clothing and were now inserting her still unconscious body into The Doctor's experiment.

‘She WAS hot,’ Smash thought to himself, ‘or would be if she were a white woman. The Doctor’s right. The thought of having sex with her should sicken me! The blood of the white man is already dangerously diluted and corrupted, poisoned by the now completely uncontrolled black beast.’

As was typical for his kind, Smash blamed his “failings” on others. ‘The lust I was feeling just now was the result of my lifetime of exposure to the Jew media. As I continue my transformation into the pure ubermensche, these degraded lusts will fall away like the old mottled skin of a snake.'

He watched with fascination as his buddies, Danny Boy and Buzz secured the naked woman spread-eagled to the circular blue bed of the machine.

"Tauter!" The Doctor screamed down at them. "She must be capable of no movement whatsoever!"

As Smash watched his skinheaded compatriots go about their work, he was reminded of the Sri Lankan girl in Lancaster back in the days of his soccer riots and foreigner stomping. He shook his head and thought about how far he had come in the year since being taken under Mendlson's wing.

Although at the time he had thought of himself as a true believing Nazi, he could now see that he had just been an anarchist. He didn't regret any of the things he had done, but he had to admit that it hadn't accomplished anything.

Back then in Lancaster, Smash, Buzz and Danny Boy had secured the naked Sri Lankan girl to the box spring mattress. After that, the gang rape they had intended to perform turned into a disaster. Smash had barely got his pants undone when Buzz smashed a brick up against the back of his head! Buzz had wanted to go first!
 
Smash then had to get up and beat the living daylights out of him and Danny Boy had joined in because... well, just because! Danny Boy just had to be a part of any butt kicking. Smash smiled at the memory.

By the time they had gotten done beating each other to a pulp, no one felt like raping some foreigner. So Smash just drenched the screaming girl in gasoline and sent her on her way with a flick of the old Zippo.

‘Ah, those care-free days of youth!’ Smash thought, ‘but look at us now!’

Doctor Friedreich Mendlson also was reminiscing to himself as the help prepared his “lab rat.” How different this was from his school days in Berlin! He recalled how his talents had come to the attention of Herr Himmler, head of the Schutzstaffel troops. Then, at the tender age of 15, the blond, blue eyed, boy genius was assigned to assist Dr. Mengele at Auschwitz.

“Uncle Josef,” as Friedreich had called him, had taught Mendlson many things. To the world at large, Mengele was “The Angel of Death,” but to Friedreich, he had been a mentor.

It was a long and twisting path that had brought Friedreich Mendlson from Berlin to the mountains of Colorado. He admitted that the scenery here was nice, but it didn’t compare with his beloved Bavaria . . .

**********

Shelia felt herself beginning to rise . . .

rising up through the viscid, wet, cold ground towards the surface. Yes, it was time to come up.

**********

Smash had never before much cared for science, or for anything relating to school, for that matter.
Mendlson had taught him, however, to function as an adequate lab assistant. He tore off a printout and handed it down to his teacher. "Sir, here are the baseline readings."

"Thank you,” replied Dr. Mendlson. Sometimes the old man would treat Smash like an insect, but, when Smash did something right, The Doctor would reward him by acting almost as if they were equals. Smash lived for those moments.

“Ah, look here, my boy!” The Doctor cried out excitedly. “The subject had an erotic dream! This may turn out to be most interesting!"

"Sir, she's awakening!"

Shelia Fox groggily came to her senses. She discovered that her left eye was being held open! Opening her right eye confirmed that she was literally in the dark. She could feel that something was attached to her face. Her head was restrained, so that she could not move it at all.

Her arms were splayed out over her head, making a Y shape with her torso. The touch of cold metal told her that her wrists were bound, as was her neck. She seemed to be lying at a slight angle, with her head just higher than her feet.

She could feel some sort of restraint around her waist as well. Her feet felt like they were tightly shackled. She then realized that she was spread-eagled in an X position.

Shelia seemed to be lying on a smooth, pliant material. It felt comfortable, almost sensual, against her bare skin. As far as Shelia could tell, she was totally nude.

"All right, Hans. (The Doctor never called him Smash.) Take readings for five minutes. Then bring up the lights and record new baseline data for ten minutes. After that, I'll return and we can begin."

"Yes, sir!"

Five minutes later, as the lights came on, the young African-American Klanwatch attorney became able to take stock of her surroundings. A brace was attached to her forehead. Some sort of device with a nozzle that came to a sharp point ran from the brace and was directed into her left eye.

Above her she could see what appeared to be a clear plastic dome, almost exactly the size of her body. Beyond the dome was huge machinery, with pipes and tubes projecting towards her from every angle. This nightmare of conduit was broken at several places by what appeared to be sheets of glass with their sides turned towards her.

Finally, a harsh voice with a Germanic accent spoke. "You are about to take part in a great experiment. I am sure you will actually enjoy the experience. To start, we begin by gauging your reaction to certain stimuli, one at a time."

Shelia started to speak, when she heard a loud whirring sound. The sheets of glass were pivoting on their axis. She soon realized that they were mirrors!

When they stopped, no matter which way Shelia looked, she was forced to gaze into her own bound reflection. She shut her right eye, but try as she might, her left remained open.

Shelia was properly proud of her body. She admitted to herself that her chocolate black skin over her well-toned muscles was gorgeous. Though she never thought of herself as narcissistic, she had in the past enjoyed looking at herself in a mirror. Now, she had no choice.

She had some very limited experience in self-bondage. Although she was terrified, she was getting excited, viewing herself helplessly bound.

“Why are you doing this? Who are you? What do you want? Let me go, please!” All her questions and pleas were answered only with silence.

Soon, the lights went out again. Shelia began to hear sounds, barely audible at first, but they slowly became louder. She was able to discern what she was hearing. It was the sounds of a couple making wild, passionate love!

First, she was forced to listen to the alternating voices of a man and a woman, groaning and moaning passionately. Then, she heard only the male’s voice, with a few “Oh, baby's” interspersed with his satisfied grunting. Shortly after that, only the woman’s voice was presented, including “Oh, God, oh God!” here and there.

Then came a catalogue of sounds in quick succession: the cracking of a whip, followed by screams of pain; a male voice reading a delicate love poem: a female telling her an explicit tale of lust; and on and on and on.

Some of what she heard aroused her, other parts disgusted her. Every reaction was noted in exquisite detail by the mad Doctor’s machines.

Finally, the voice returned. “Since there is absolutely nothing you can do to prevent it, let me explain exactly what is going to happen to you.” Mendlson watched the digital displays with interest as his captive was forced to listen to his “explanation.” He had postulated that the combination of anticipation and helplessness might, in some subjects, provoke quite a reaction.

“Next, images are going to be displayed on your left pupil. There is no way you can avoid viewing any picture we wish to expose you to, so you might as well relax and enjoy the show.”
The Doctor said this last bit with false cordiality.

“After that, a combination of testosterone and estrogen will be injected into you. The audio that aroused you the most will be played over and over. You will be fed a steady diet of those images that you find most erotic. Then . . . my machine will be activated.

“At first, a delicious rippling sensation will tickle and massaged the entire surface area of your skin. It will begin on your shoulders and then run gently down around the platform of your rib cage, skirting the domes of your breasts. It will move to the broad, washboard plain of your belly, centering on your navel. A sensuous flooding sensation will move over your hips and along the outside of your thighs. My machine is designed to start you off easy, breaking down your resistance with a gentle beginning.”

Mendlson’s voice then became more excited and harsh. “Then, your every erogenous zone will come under unrelenting attack! Your breasts, clitoris, labia minora, vagina, Grafenberg spot, perineum, inner thighs, anus - all will be stimulated again . . . and again . . . AND AGAIN!

“You will experience orgasm after orgasm after orgasm, each being more intense than the one before. You will endure sixty-eight consecutive orgasms! Can you imagine it?!?

“And then . . . utilizing all the data recorded from those sixty-eight climaxes, The Machine will start you towards your 69th orgasm . . . and, that one will, without a doubt, without question, be so intense that it will kill you!”
 
 

CHAPTER TWO
 

Dominoe loved her new home.

It was quite a change from the sterile quarters she had growing up in the Covert Anti-Terrorism Task Force’s Florida Coast Division's facility on the Key West Navy base. There she had been raised since she was born to a surrogate mother some twenty years ago . . . and there she had been trained to be the greatest secret agent of all time.

Partly as a reward for distinguished service, partly to afford her more real-life experiences to aid in her undercover work and partly for her psychological health, she had been provided with a brownstone in Washington, D.C.  Davis, her boss and former Florida Coast Section Chief, had been promoted and now was in charge of C.A.T.T.’s operations worldwide. He had brought his stunning #1 agent with him to the nation’s capital.

Now that he was the head of C.A.T.T., Davis was able to implement his belief that Dominoe deserved to enjoy some of the freedoms other Americans enjoyed, freedoms that Dominoe risked her life to protect on almost a daily basis. He also saw to it that his top agent got a little time off, albeit infrequently.

Dominoe had flown in late that night after another successful administration to one of the world's most powerful leaders of the antiserum to Savan’s virus. Another of the twenty victims of the madman’s plot was now cured. In private celebration, she had enjoyed a late night snack of moussaka at the open-air all-night cafe not two blocks from her home. It was one of the few restaurants open late in the District, a city notorious for rolling up its sidewalks early.

She reveled in the eclectic collection of people on the streets at all hours in her neighborhood: tourists from across the country, ambassadors and their aides from the surrounding embassies, locals of every possible color and creed. Dominoe found the infinite diversity endlessly fascinating.

Her narrow, four-story house was directly across from the Embassy Row Hilton. She had caused quite a stir one day several weeks ago when she sunbathed on the roof of her house, clad in the tiniest of bikinis. At one point, she had happened to glance over at the hotel and noticed that in many of the windows, as well as from the rooftop sundeck, people of both sexes and all ages were gazing down upon her. Dominoe flashed a broad, all-encompassing smile, then turned over on her belly to give her admirers a different view. She had chuckled to herself as a cheer went up. Her tight thong and the loop behind her neck left very little to the imagination.

Although old and unimposing on the outside, her house was immaculate within. Tastefully decorated in the latest style, everything had a place and was in it. Her favorite part of her home was the windowless entertainment center on the top floor.

Dominating this room was a huge flat screen digital TV with four high-grade speakers concealed within the walls. She had a large collection of videotapes and DVD’s, meticulously organized and catalogued, hidden away in built-in cabinets.

One of Dominoe’s favorite forms of relaxation was to watch some TV or movie heroine in action. Not only did she occasionally pick up ideas she could apply in her work, but it was also gratifying to lose herself in a world of black and white, where the heroes were good and the villains were bad. Even though Dominoe was in her early to mid twenties, she had already learned that the real world was not so simple. Her experience with Margaret Bowman, deputy assistant direction of the NSA, had taught her that existence was not so well ordered . . .

. . . and Dominoe craved order, in all things. Whenever she saw a piece of dirt or fuzz on her carpet, she immediately picked it up and threw it away. When she finished in the bathroom, she would take a Kleenex and wipe up any stray strands of her lush brown hair that had fallen into the sink or on the floor. No closet door or dresser drawer in Dominoe’s house ever stayed ajar for very long. Even though she had an almost photographic memory, she had notepads and pencils at strategic locations throughout her home, just in case she wanted to write something down.

She had set her quad-head VCR to tape “Xena: Warrior Princess” while she was away. Not only was Xena fun to watch, but Dominoe found the new-look Gabrielle compelling. Ever since her experience with Sable, Dominoe had come to terms with the fact that she could appreciate and obtain gratification from members of both sexes. She was still a little embarrassed, however, to admit that females just a little younger than herself seemed to hold a special attraction.

Ice clinked against the sides of a glass as Dominoe set a tumbler full of Dr. Pepper on a coaster. She pushed the play button on her universal remote. ‘Ah, an Amazon episode!’ Dominoe thought as she watched the preview. Just then, her beeper on the table vibrated, buzzing on the table like an angry insect.

Dominoe picked it up and looked at the message running across the tiny screen. “COME IN TOMORROW; 11 A.M.” was all it said. Dominoe knew there would be no time for TV tonight. She peeled off her clothes, threw them down the clothes chute and padded down the steps to her luxurious bathroom on the floor below.

**********

It was mid-morning as Dominoe entered the Dupont Circle Metro station. In spite of all the fantastic things she had seen in her many adventures, she was always impressed by the enormity of this public works project. The escalator seemed to descend into the very bowels of the Earth.

Dominoe never failed to turn heads, wherever she went, whatever she was wearing. In fact, she could wear a potato sack and still not go unnoticed. A 43 year old man, a tourist from the Mid West traveling with his wife and 12 year old son, met Dominoe’s gaze as he and his family ascended towards the surface. The man blushed as Dominoe’s large brown eyes seemed to smile at him. He loved his wife . . . deeply . . . but this was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen . . . yet, if he were to be asked to describe her, he would be completely unable to do so.

Dominoe’s beauty was unsurpassed, but also perfectly balanced. Everything about her was so gorgeous, that no one feature stood out in the memory. It made her the perfect secret agent: beguiling, but almost impossible to remember.

Dominoe rode the Red Line two stops towards Glenmont, disembarking at the Metro Center. Since it was a pleasant morning, rather than switch trains, she decided to walk the four blocks to C.A.T.T.’s Washington headquarters. She inserted her Metro Pass into the turnstile, retrieved the plastic card as it was spit out and made her way up to street level.

The bright sun glistened off her long, soft, curly locks, as she walked down 12th Street towards the nondescript buildings of the Interstate Commerce Commission. Imposing, but virtually ignored by visitors, the halls of the ICC made the perfect hiding place for the Washington office of America’s first line of defense against biological terrorism.

At precisely eleven o’clock, Dominoe opened the door to an unremarkable office off a busy corridor. Seated behind a desk facing the door was a lady in her late 50s. This was Mrs. Poggle, the first obstacle for anyone wishing to enter C.A.T.T. HQ.

This woman, along with everyone else who ever occupied the position, had an uncanny memory for faces and voices. If she didn’t recognize you, she would politely inquire if she could help you. If you were lost or had business with the Commerce Commission, she would kindly point you in the right direction. If you asked about C.A.T.T. and she didn’t know who you were, she would just as nicely direct you into a waiting room on the left. She would charmingly offer you a beverage, giving no clue that, once she closed the door, you were trapped until the “powers that be” decided what to do with you.

If, however, she did recognize you, as she recognized Dominoe, you were then shown into a room on the right. Once the door was closed, a panel would slide away, revealing a pad to set your hand upon for a fingerprint scan, a microphone for a voice scan, and an eyepiece for a retinal scan. If the facility was on highest alert, a blood sample would also be required for a DNA test as well as a quick analysis to detect any mind-control drug.

No such precautions were in effect today, so after the three scans, the panel soon swung aside to admit Dominoe into C.A.T.T. headquarters. Her heels clicked on the metal hallway as she advanced toward Davis's office.

She opened the door to reveal Quentin Smythe sitting behind a desk, staring into a computer screen. “Visiting The Grey Archive again, Quentin?” Dominoe asked.

Quentin was rather an effete fellow, but was also one of the smartest people in the world. As Davis’s personal assistant, he played a key role in C.A.T.T. operations. Few people liked Quentin . . . and he liked even fewer . . . but, as were most people, he was smitten with Dominoe. For her part, she respected him and enjoyed the brief repartee they customarily exchanged.

“Ah, my dear Dominoe,” Quentin began in a nasally voice, “right on time, as usual. Go right on in, it’s an emergency.”

Dominoe turned towards the gateway to C.A.T.T.’s inner sanctum, but before she could twist the door handle, Smythe shot back, “Oh, it may be time to increase security on your home computer again. You might not want just everyone to know how often you exercise your membership privileges in the 'Babes in Bondage' on-line club.”

Before Dominoe could think of a reply, she had opened the door. In the office, in one of two chairs facing Davis, was Wesson, head of the new Rocky Mountain Division. Someone had finally figured out that Colorado was not in the Mid-West. Besides, with the 2002 Winter Olympics coming to Salt Lake City, it was evident the area needed its own division.

Her boss didn’t look up from the papers on which he was working as he greeted her with a gruff, “Sit down, Dominoe.” She closed the door behind her and, as always, followed his orders, sitting in the chair next to Wesson.

“Sorry to cut your time off even shorter than usual, but something’s come up . . . something so urgent that, for the moment, I’m pulling you off the Savan 20 assignment.”

Dominoe’s ears picked up at this. The Savan 20 mission had been designated a Top Priority Code Red Operation. She had never heard of anything being given preference over that.

“Look at this.” Davis handed her a photograph.

It was of a beautiful African-American young woman. Completely naked, she was lying on her back, nestled in what appeared to be the floor of a pine forest. There was no mark of violence on her body. Her eyes were wide open and she had the most unusual expression on her face . . . an unfathomable combination of surprise, fear, pain . . . and complete, absolute bliss.

“Is she dead?” Dominoe asked matter of factly.

Davis nodded. “Heart attack, although she was young, healthy and had no history of heart disease in her family.”

“Drug induced?” Dominoe questioned.

“The autopsy revealed nothing that could have caused her death,” Davis replied.

“There also were no signs of electric shock,” Wesson contributed.

‘An intriguing mystery,’ thought Dominoe, but immediately her mind raced ahead. “Who was she?”

“Shelia Fox, a staff attorney for the Klanwatch organization,” C.A.T.T.’s national director answered. “She was investigating reports of Aryan Nation activity in Alabama . . . but her body was found just outside Denver, Colorado.”

Dominoe raised one brown eyebrow as Davis continued. “A couple of FBI agents searched her apartment in Birmingham. They found a hidden notebook that made reference to a plot by the Nation to use biological terrorism domestically. There was also mention that a heretofore unknown assistant to the Nazi butcher Dr. Mengele had been smuggled into the U.S. to work on the project.”

Davis folded his hands on his desk as he looked at Dominoe with his usual mixture of concern and pride. “From FBI informants and other sources, we believe this threat to be quite real . . . and imminent. That’s why I’m assigning you to the case. Here are your briefing papers and a plane ticket.”

Dominoe thought back to the last time she was in the mountains. She loved the snow, skiing and all manner of winter sports. Perhaps this secret hideaway would be on some Colorado mountaintop where there would be snow even this time of year.

She opened up the ticket jacket to see when she’d be leaving. She was stunned, however, when she read the destination: The ticket was from Ronald Reagan National Airport, Washington, D.C., to . . .

Indianapolis!
 
 

CHAPTER THREE
 

Indiana, home of the world's greatest automobile race, a state with more commercial cafeterias per capita than any in the nation, was a study in contrast. It was a place where the voters could elect both a Bayh and a Quayle. It could be both ultra-liberal and archly conservative.

U.S. Highway 31 had once been the main artery leading south out of the state capital. Since the advent of the Interstate, however, much of the roadside along the once proud thoroughfare south of Indianapolis had fallen upon hard times. In certain sections, there was nothing but abandoned buildings, vacant lots and bars.

A man, known simply as "The Boss," pulled his Harley-Davidson into the parking lot of a "dance club" on the west side of the road heading out of town, closely followed by his entourage of five other bikers. The Boss was six foot, three; beefy without being fat. In his mid-30s, his blond hair was crew cut. Clean-shaven, he was dressed all in black, with heavy boots, leather pants and a sleeveless T-shirt, which displayed his massive arms.

It was early afternoon on a hot, dry, Mid-Western summer's day. Few people were in the "club" at this hour. The Boss and his group doubled the audience for the current dancer's performance.

The patrons at this establishment did not come to see the Flamenco, the Charleston or the ballet. They came to see scantily clad, and, they hoped, unclad, women display and gyrate their bodies as provocatively as possible.

The 1960s vintage air conditioning system struggled mightily to keep the place cool, so that the dancers would remain "perky." What the establishment lacked in amenities, it failed to make up for with atmosphere. A single ancient spotlight illuminated the dancer. Blaring, scratchy recorded music filled the room. The club was dark and dingy.

The Boss and the other five took their place at their usual table right up front. A bleached blonde, well past her prime, promptly served them ice cold beer in bottles as they watched the show.

The Boss was in command of the Indiana Division of the Aryan Nation. He controlled the organization in the state everywhere except for suburban Chicago and Gary. He and the national command had expressed high hopes that Indiana would be fertile ground for the Nation. They sought to expand their membership beyond prisoners and ex-cons and into the general population.

Despite the relatively high numbers of John Birchers and Klansmen in the Hoosier State, though, recruiting had not gone particularly well. This point had been driven home to him in a scathing phone call from the national headquarters in Colorado within the past hour. Now The Boss looked forward to letting off some steam at his favorite watering hole.

The woman on stage, a dishwater blonde, superbly built, but with circles under her eyes, concluded her performance. A rumpled, oily man in a cheap suit took the stage as the dancer, wearing nothing more than a G-string and pasties, exited. His pencil thin mustache seemed to vibrate as he introduced the next act.

The Aryan Nation had a great deal of influence in the club, whether because of their loyal patronage, intimidation or actual ownership was hard to say. It was certain that no non-white dancers were ever employed . . . and the master of ceremonies directed his forthcoming comments right to The Boss.

"Gentlemen!" he rasped into the microphone nervously, but with more enthusiasm than The Boss had ever heard him express, "it is with GREAT pleasure we introduce our newest dancer for your entertainment! I'm sure you'll . . ."

"Get the hell on with it!" yelled one of The Boss's men.

"Ah . . . yes," stammered the M. C., as he nervously ran a finger under his too-tight collar. "Then, without any further ado, let me present . . .

"EVA!"

From behind the stained curtain at the end of the runway came a woman, about 5'7", weighing a little more than 135 pounds, clad from head to toe in the shiny black uniform of the Nazi Gestapo!

"Boo! Sssssss!" shouted a couple of World War II vets, buddies who had sought relief from the boredom of their retirements . . . and from their wives . . . by attending the show. A Jewish man in his mid-twenties promptly got up and left in disgust.

The Boss and his men, however, cheered wildly. They had a feeling this might be something very special.

The woman goose-stepped her way to directly in front of The Boss. The stage was high enough that his head was just below the level of her knees. The dancer lifted her right arm, stuck it out and up at a slight angle and shouted "Heil Hitler!"

This proved to be too much for the veterans, who took their leave from the scene, but the Aryan Nation members loved it. The performer then flipped her right wrist around, bent her elbow and brought her hand to the bill of her hat. She whipped it off, revealing her long coppery hair, which now cascaded behind her. The dancer then threw her hat, Frisbee-like, to the Nation member furthest back from the stage.

The woman pivoted 180 degrees and took two goose-steps away from her fans. In one motion she dropped backward to the stage floor, supported by her two arms behind her and by the heels of her boots. Her upside down face smiled up into the beaming countenance of The Boss.

Next she lifted her right foot off the floor and brought her leg so that her black covered ankle hovered above her chin. In a feat of amazing dexterity, she was able to grasp her leather-gloved fingers of her left hand around the heel of her right boot, while balancing only on her opposite heel and hand. Deftly, she yanked off her boot, revealing her bare foot, and tossed the footwear over The Boss's head. While he sat transfixed, his gang went after the abandoned shoe like kids going after a foul ball at an Indianapolis Indians baseball game.

The dancer repeated the process with her left foot. Then, in one smooth motion she lifted both heels off the stage and virtually stood on her arms. Then, with apparent ease, her elbows bent and she sprung back to her feet!

She strutted around the stage on the balls of her feet, giving furtive glances at the other three members of the audience as she seductively peeled off her elbow-length gloves. Up to this point, her performance had been accompanied by the Wagnerian soundtrack from "Triumph of the Will." Now, the music stopped. The padding of her feet as she pranced around the stage and the crinkle of her tight leather costume as she moved were the only accompaniment she had . . . or needed . . . beyond the heavy breathing of the spectators and the wheezing of the building's overworked mechanical systems.

She returned to directly in front of The Boss. Agonizingly slowly, she began unbuttoning her black leather Nazi jacket from the top. After only two or three buttons it became obvious she had nothing on underneath, save an anachronistic gray sports bra. Whoops and hollers filled the room when finally her navel was revealed. Without taking her eyes off The Boss, she removed her jacket, tossing it carelessly behind her.

The dancer's exposed flesh glowed healthily with a perfect tan. Her complexion was free from blemish. Her abs looked rock-hard, yet utterly feminine.

One of the Nation members yelled, "Take it all off!"

He was promptly decked by a backhand blow from The Boss. Their leader was fascinated by the performance and knew it would reach its conclusion in the entertainer's own good time.

With the jacket removed, it became clear just how tight the black leather pants were. They appeared to be painted on the dancer's body. Every curve of her athletic butt was clearly visible. The view whetted the men's appetites to see what was underneath.

The woman undid her gleaming, ebony belt. After she pulled it through the loops on her pants, she snapped the belt in the air like a whip, then tossed it aside. As her ample breasts strained against her brassiere, she slowly wriggled her fingers between her waist and her uniform pants.

The men watched her firm bosoms jiggle as she leisurely removed her trousers. During this process, the performer slowly rotated, so her audience could observe her from every possible angle. Underneath her pants she wore the skimpiest of thongs. From the back, she appeared naked below the waist, while from the front only her sexual organs were obscured. The faintest wisps of fine brown hair could be seen above the material.

Gracefully she reclined on her rump as she pulled the last vestiges of the Nazi uniform over her feet. The entertainer flung the pants back over her head, discarding them onto the stage floor. Now, lying stretched out, her feet pointing at the Aryan Nation gang members, she slowly rolled back and forth across the stage, giving the assemblage an astonishing view.

Suddenly, the dancer sprang to her feet. She stood, hands on hips, in front of The Boss, wearing only the sports bra and G-string.

Her performance had captivated the entire building. Not only were the men in the audience transfixed, but the M. C. and the other two dancers on the premises looked on through the curtain in awe. Never in the history of the tired old club had such a flawless body put on such a fabulous performance.

Now came the moment for which the crowd had been waiting. With a flirtatious grin at The Boss, the dancer slowly moved her fingers under the wide expanse at the bottom of the bra. The audience held its collective breath.

The garment was peeled back to reveal the two most perfect, round breasts any of them had ever seen . . . but that is not why The Boss's jaw flopped open in astonishment.

Tattooed on each breast, designed so that the lines intersected exactly on the nipples, were swastikas.
 
 

CHAPTER FOUR
 

From the expression on The Boss's face, Dominoe knew that the recent adornment to her chest had done the job. There was no doubt he would be visiting her backstage . . . soon. Getting tattooed there had hurt like hell . . . but at least a nearby tattoo artist had done them for free!

Dominoe, topless and wearing only the thong, turned her back to the front of the stage. Coyly, she looked back over her shoulder at The Boss and gave him a playful wink. She then sashayed back towards and through the curtain, her muscular, yet perfectly heart-shaped buttocks leaving an indelible impression on her audience. The men howled with an appreciation tinged with regret that the act was over all too soon.

Dominoe entered what laughingly served as a dressing room. Really an old closet, it featured two chairs facing a pair of lighted mirrors. Half of the 40-watt bulbs surrounding each mirror were burned out. An old cot ran lengthwise behind the chairs opposite the mirrors, with an elliptical, green, plastic wastebasket at the foot of the bed. Gym bags with the women's clothes and costumes rested on the cot, while shoes were strewn across the floor. Dominoe took a blue cotton robe off a metal hall tree, which looked as if it had been picked up at an estate sale.

As Dominoe slipped on the robe, the dancer who preceded "Eva" touched up her makeup in preparation for her next set. "That was quite a performance," said Debbie. Older than most of the other girls, she served as "mother hen" to the club's dancers. She had kept herself in excellent shape and still had a very attractive body. Stringy, yellow hair flowed behind her face as she looked at Eva in the mirror through tired eyes.

Although Deb could have seen her as a rival, the veteran dancer had been unfailingly friendly to her. "Thanks," Dominoe replied.

"You might want to be careful, though, " the older woman advised. "You might attract some unwanted attention-"

At that moment, The Boss, unannounced, squeezed his huge frame through the doorway. He looked at the new girl hungrily.

"Hey! You know the rules!" Deb protested as she got out of her chair. "No men allowed back here!"

"It's all right, Deb," Dominoe said as she reached into her duffel bag, all the time grinning and keeping her eyes on the intruder. The Brown-Haired Bombshell pulled out a hundred-dollar bill and handed it to Debbie. "Give the big guy and me a few minutes alone together, OK?"

The mature woman stood some three inches shorter than Dominoe. She looked up into the new dancer's sultry brown eyes with genuine concern, "Eva, are you sure?"

Dominoe returned Deb's gaze with a reassuring smile showcasing her pearly whites. The secret agent's teeth could have served as an orthodontist's ideal.

Dominoe was touched by the interest Debbie showed towards her sister dancers. For her part, Deb detected something in Eva's manner that told her that this new girl could take care of herself. Debbie gathered up her things, made a "Humph" sound as she wedged by the man, and made her way out the dressing room door, closing it behind her.

The Boss had watched this exchange with rapt attention. Most women in this line of work were in it for the money. Obviously, this Eva was motivated by something else. Perhaps she was the valkyrie for which he had been waiting his entire life.

Although he put on a rough and tumble exterior for the benefit of his men, there was more to The Boss than his brutish manner suggested. A law school graduate, he was denied admission to the Bar when he injudiciously admitted his racist views during the application process. He sensed an unusual intelligence in the bare-foot woman in the robe before him.

"I've been waiting for you . . ." Dominoe cooed as she faced him. She pulled the ends of the belt of the robe and pushed the blue cloth off her shoulders. The robe fell to the floor, once again revealing her breasts, covered only by the black tattooed swastikas, and the rest of her body veiled by just the tiny G-string.

The Boss's breath caught in his throat. "That was the greatest show I've ever seen," he managed to croak. He was unsure how to proceed. Should he just take this woman or should he let her continue to lead? She certainly hadn't disappointed him yet!

Dominoe started to reply, when she happened to look down. ‘Oh, no!' she thought. ‘His right boot is untied!'

Dominoe immediately dropped to her knees. Her head was now even with the bulge at the front of the man's black leather pants.

"Oh, baby!" he rasped.

The nearly naked woman pushed the side of her face against The Boss's groin. As she did so, she was able to tie his undone shoe. The Aryan looked down quizzically at her, but said nothing.

Next Dominoe pressed her forehead against the head in his crotch and purred, "You're just the man I've been waiting for . . ." She then reached between his legs and, through the cowhide, gave his scrotum a hard, but not debilitating, squeeze. The Boss moaned with pleasure.

Suddenly, Dominoe reached once again into her gym bag. She pulled out a hypodermic needle.

"What the hell?" The Boss asked in alarm. Although he was not above directing the sale of illegal drugs, he was smart enough not to use them himself. ‘Is this girl going to try to shoot me up?' he wondered. ‘Or is she a junkie?'

To the biker's astonishment, Dominoe picked up her discarded belt and wrapped it tightly around her own left arm. She made a fist with her left hand and then plunged the needle into a vein.

The Boss's surprise increased when he realized that the dancer was not injecting something into her body. She was drawing a blood sample!

‘Is this some kind of new test for AIDS?' The Boss thought. "What's this all about?" he said.

Dominoe flipped off the needle, capped it, and placed it in a small plastic BIOHAZARD jar in her bag. She then sealed the vial with her blood sample inside as she undid the tourniquet around her arm.

"I know more about you and your organization than you think," Dominoe confessed as she fed the belt back through the robe's loops, "and I have more in common with you and your cause than you can possibly imagine."

"What do you mean?" The Boss said menacingly as he regarded her through narrowed, skeptical eyes.

Dominoe once again put on the robe. "Have your super-scientist run some tests on my blood. He'll discover that not only am I the product of selective breeding, but that I've also been genetically engineered."

For the second time in the past fifteen minutes, The Boss's lower jaw dropped. Dominoe rushed forward and grabbed both of his huge hands in hers. "I know you have something big coming up . . . and I want to be a part of it. All my life I've been kept to do the bidding of this mongrel American government . . . but now I realize where my loyalties belong." She gave The Boss a breath-stealing hug as she lay an ear against his massive chest.

To say The Boss was confused by this sudden turn of events would be a gross understatement. He had come backstage for what he hoped would be, at the very least, a quick conquest, with the possible prospect of acquiring a new girlfriend. Instead, he had discovered a self-proclaimed superwoman who seemed to know all about him and the Aryan Nation's plans. She could be a great asset to the cause . . . or she might be a spy.

The man broke the embrace and coldly regarded the dancer he knew as Eva. He held out his right hand. Dominoe put the vial of her blood in his grasp. "I'll be in touch," was all he said as he left the cramped quarters, his mind swirling with the possibilities.

**********

It was 10 o'clock in the morning, two days later.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

A bleary-eyed booze hound pounded on the front door of the dance club.

"We're closed!" shouted the master of ceremonies through the bolted entrance.

"Your sign says you're ‘Open 24 Hours!'" complained the prospective customer.

"This is not one of those twenty-four hours. Now go away!" the M.C. retorted.

The disappointed pub-crawler turned and went back to his car. He would have to find his entertainment elsewhere.

The club manager sank back into a folding chair. He was stationed in an alcove that served as the entryway to the club. Another set of doors kept the proceedings beyond, private. He had been ordered not to let anyone in and to stay right where he was until he was told otherwise. The nervous, oily man was only too glad to comply. He had no desire to know what was transpiring inside his club at that moment.

The Boss and Dominoe were the only other two people in the building. Eva had been told to arrive at 9:30. She wore a tight, white T-shirt with frayed, faded blue jean shorts and sandals. Dominoe sat on stage, her right leg dangling pendulously while she wrapped her arms around her bent left knee. The Boss, who had just arrived, walked towards her from the dark recesses of the room. The man was wearing, as far as Dominoe could tell, the exact same clothes he had on two days earlier.

"Well?" Dominoe asked, petulantly.

"Your story checks out," The Boss reported. "The Doctor is most anxious to meet you."

"Great!" Dominoe cheered, hopping to her feet on the stage. "Let me get my things and we can get on our way-"

The Boss held up his right hand. "Not so fast. First, there is the little matter of a loyalty test."

"Oh?" Dominoe replied, raising one eyebrow.

She half expected this. Dominoe imagined Eva would have to service The Boss . . . or perhaps the entire local gang at once. She wasn't looking forward to either possibility, but it wasn't anything she couldn't handle. It was part of for what she had been trained.

Just then there was a commotion at the back of the club. Seconds before, a beat-up Volkswagen van had pulled up to the service entrance to the building. The same five Aryan Nation members who were with The Boss a couple of days before poured out of the vehicle and entered the club . . . but this time there was someone else with them.

A boy, somewhere around 14 years old, was being led up to the stage. The youth was not tall, but powerfully built for his age. He had longish, black hair and was wearing a "Jennifer Lopez" T-shirt, dark blue jeans and a pair of Nikes. From his features and complexion, it was obvious the lad was Hispanic.

Two members of the gang picked up the boy and threw him bodily onto the stage. He landed right at Dominoe's feet.

"What's this?" Dominoe asked, concern creeping into her voice.

"This," The Boss explained, "is your loyalty test."

The Boss removed a German Luger pistol from his belt. Grabbing the barrel, he handed the gun up to Dominoe.

"Kill him."
 
 

CHAPTER FIVE
 

Dominoe possessed a license to kill, which she had occasion to exercise . . . often.

Her missions were so crucial to national security, she was even authorized to terminate innocent civilians if necessary, a prerogative she had never been forced to use.

Dominoe stared at the muscular young teen before her. She wasn't going to start murdering the people she had tried to protect . . . not if she could help it.

Her mind raced. ‘Hmmm. I have "carte blanche" to break any other laws, too, if need be.'

That gave her an idea. Her planned course of action was risky, but she was willing to take the chance.

Dominoe pointed the gun carelessly at the youth at her feet. "What's your name, boy?" she spat out.

Terror-stricken, his answer was a barely audible squeak. "Elian."

‘Oh, brother!' Dominoe thought as she rolled her beautiful brown eyes. "O.K., Elian, remove your shoes and socks."

Quickly he did so. When he was finished, he looked up at the Anglo woman with wide brown eyes of his own.

"Now, take off your shirt," Dominoe ordered.

The boy did as he was told, revealing a brown, chiseled, hairless chest. He dropped "Jennifer Lopez" face down onto the floor.

"What's the big idea?" The Boss blurted out.

"I don't believe in wasting good meat," Dominoe answered as she flipped the gun back to him. She then dropped to her knees, leaned in, grabbed the back of the teen's head with her right hand, forced the boy's face forward and gave the youth a violent, open-mouthed kiss!

Elian was stunned, but did not resist. In response to Dominoe's French kiss, he tentatively flicked his tongue around inside the beautiful Anglo woman's mouth.

‘I hope he plays along,' Dominoe wished to herself. She had no idea if the kid was a virgin or promiscuous. Dom didn't want to be the one to deflower the lad. The spy hated to think what this might do to the boy's psyche: being forced to have sex in front of all these witnesses . . . but it was better for him than the alternative - certain death.

The agent broke the kiss and turned to the audience. "I've always wanted a sex slave," she purred. The Boss's gang looked on with wide-eyed anticipation, but their leader simply scowled back at her.

"Strip off your jeans!" Dominoe snapped.

Elian looked hesitantly around at the men below, staring at him. Slowly, he undid his brown belt. He unclasped his pants, and, while still standing, pulled them down to his feet. Then he lifted his feet in turn, right one first, until all he was wearing were his briefs.

Dominoe put her right palm on the boy's chest. He felt smooth, warm . . . unspoiled. Her hand traveled to his right side and then ran down past his hip to the outside of his left leg. Eva's left hand repeated the journey on the opposite side. Everyone in the room seemed to be holding their breath.

Without warning, Dominoe reached up with each hand and tugged the white Jockey shorts down. In one motion, her hands slid to the front of the waistband and ripped the underwear asunder. The woman tossed the rags away, much like she had in her act, as she turned her back on Elian and strutted a few paces away.

Elian was now completely naked. Dominoe pivoted to examine her "prey."

Even though he was a bit young, Dominoe found now that Elian was nude, the boy was even more beguiling. All baby fat was off of him, but his body bore none of the blemishes found on older men. His face was achingly handsome: innocent, yet with a look that suggested a touch of the devil. His expression was one of both fear and excitement.

Despite herself, Dominoe felt attracted to this boy. She observed the patch of black pubic hair sprouting from above his sexual organs. Elian's scrotum appeared still hairless. Already his penis was showing signs of life.

"Turn around - slowly," Dominoe commanded.

In profile, Dominoe noticed the boy's noble, Aztec nose. The teen's butt stuck out from his back, a protrusion that would be lost if he was allowed to grow to manhood.

When Elian's back was to Dominoe, she saw that his ebony locks brushed against the back of the youth's neck. Except for a small tuft at the base of his ass, hair had yet to grow around the youngster's crack. The agent studied his every curve. To Dominoe, the boy's rump looked sheer and inviting.

The prisoner rotated until he once again faced Eva. Dominoe gave him a smile that she hoped was reassuring to Elian, but would look cruel to The Boss and the gang members.

Dominoe kicked off her sandals and undid the buttons on her faded jeans. She pulled them and her panties off as a unit. Her rear seemed to fairly explode from the material as it was liberated from the tight pants.

"Don't worry," Eva announced to the men, "we'll have no genetic monstrosities conceived here. There's no chance I'll get impregnated."

Dominoe looked sideways at The Boss. "The government doctors fixed me so that I can't become pregnant." This was true. Dominoe had been told the procedure could be reversed if she ever wanted to have children.

Dominoe had also been genetically engineered so that she didn't have a menstrual cycle. From what she understood, this was a great advantage over other women . . .

Dressed only in her T-shirt, Dominoe advanced upon the boy. She forced Elian to the floor of the stage and mounted him. The agent felt the youth's member long and hard against her. She slid her right hand down and inserted him inside of her.

Every man there wished he could trade places with Elian. The teen was clumsy. He buried his face in Eva's left shoulder. The youth had no idea what to do with his hands, so he just wrapped them around the woman's back and held on for the ride . . .

. . . and what a ride it was! Dominoe pumped him for all he was worth. In a very short time, she felt his orgasm explode within her.

Dominoe rose off the boy. He raised himself up on his elbows, but Dom put a restraining hand on the middle of his chest. "You're not done yet, muchacho. Turn over and lie still!"

Dominoe had failed to achieve orgasm herself, but that wasn't important. She retrieved her discarded underwear and jeans and put them back on. Shooting an evil smile at The Boss and the other Aryan Nation members, she sat on Elian's back, facing his feet.

The boy grunted as 137 pounds of gorgeousness perched upon him. Then, his eyes opened wide as he felt the woman's fingernails creep slowly between his legs, over his bag and, finally, around his dick. Gradually, his spent organ was pulled out from under his body so that it extended onto the stage, exposed between the back of his slightly spread apart legs.

Dominoe knew the boy's only chance for survival would be if she could convince The Boss that Elian was so humiliated that he had been completely broken. She had to make the Aryans believe the Hispanic youth had become her spiritless plaything.

The C.A.T.T. agent teasingly raked her fingernails over the teen's scrotum. She then put her right index finger on the young man's frenulum. She made small circles with her fingertip as it slid easily over his hot spot, as his skin was still lubricated by semen from the previous climax.

Since the boy was young and healthy, his refractory period was short. In some five minutes he was hard once again. With the middle finger of her left hand, Dominoe applied light pressure to Elian's anus, while continuing to stroke him. The combination soon drove the youth to another round of emission, orgasm and ejaculation.

"That's enough for now," Dominoe pronounced as she got up off the boy, who lay on the stage whimpering. The other gang members hooted their approval, but The Boss realized that Eva had avoided killing the boy.

"I imagine he won't reach his sexual peak for a year or two yet," Dominoe said with a satisfied grin. Already plans swirled in her mind.

Dominoe didn't know if The Boss planned to fly or drive to Colorado. Either way, they could drug Elian with barbiturates to keep him quiet. She'd keep him in a wheelchair. Their cover story could be that he was going to compete in a Special Olympics or-

BANG!

Dominoe's reverie was halted by a single gunshot. She whirled to look at Elian.

A trickle of blood ran down over the boy's broad nose. The source of the red stain was a hole in the middle of his forehead.
 
 

CHAPTER SIX
 

Dominoe wanted to make fists at the ends of the arms hanging limply at her sides. She wanted to scream in anger. She wanted to kill The Boss with her bare hands . . . and she could have, too . . . easily . . . along with the other five men in the room . . .

. . . but that was not her mission. Her mission dictated that she show no more concern for the dead boy she had just made love to than she would over a bug on which The Boss had stepped.

"Get your stuff, Eva," The Boss suggested pleasantly. There was nothing in his manner to suggest that he had just snuffed out a human life that had barely begun. "We've got a plane to catch."

The mission.

Dominoe had to keep matters in perspective. She had to stay focused on her task. There was no room for revenge in C.A.T.T.'s agenda.

Despite all her training, though, the world's best spy promised herself that if the opportunity arose, she would personally kill this blonde bastard.

**********

The trip to the airport was not to be made on The Boss's motorcycle. His car was a Mercedes-Benz diesel from the early 1980s. Eva threw her suitcase in the back seat while The Boss instructed his men on where to dispose of Elian's body.

Minutes later, The Boss, with Eva beside him, eased the car left out of the parking lot and headed north toward the intersection with Interstate 465. The drive to Indianapolis International Airport would not take long.

Once they were on the controlled access highway, The Boss tried to apologize for shooting the woman's boy toy. "Sorry I had to spoil your fun, but believe you me, we couldn't take him with us. The Doctor wouldn't have stood for it."

Dominoe struggled to appear indifferent, even while she was seething inside. "That's okay. I understand. What's one less ‘Spic in the world, anyway?" Dominoe hated herself for saying that, but it was part of the role she was forced to play.

The Boss turned his head quickly and smiled at her remark. As he returned his attention to his driving, Dominoe decided to change the subject, "What's your name, anyway?" With a smirk, she added, "I sure as hell am not going to call you ‘The Boss.'"

The racist smiled again, this time keeping his eyes on the road. "That's all you need to know . . . but, if you're nice, you can call me T. B."

The late morning traffic was light. The exit after crossing Interstate 70 led them into the airport. The pair made their 12:25 p.m. departure without incident.

TWA flight #707 covered the distance between Indianapolis and St. Louis in an hour and five minutes. Virtually all that time was spent climbing and descending. Since central Indiana didn't observe Daylight Savings Time, The Boss's watch remained unchanged.

The Boss and Eva had an hour and a half layover at Lambert International Airport. St. Louis was the hub for Trans World Airlines. There they would change planes before continuing to Denver.

"I'm going for a walk," Eva announced. T.B. grunted his assent as he headed for a lounge to sample the local Anheuser-Busch products.

Dominoe walked past the security checkpoint as she left the concourse. Overhead hung a replica of the Spirit of St. Louis; the single engine plane Charles Lindbergh had flown solo over the Atlantic in 1927.

The agent strolled through a large gift shop, which seemed to feature mainly St. Louis Cardinals souvenirs. Past a rack of red and white Mark McGwire T-shirts, she spotted something which caught her eye. On the far wall, out the other end of the store, was a large mural, depicting the history of flight. The Montgolfier brothers, the Wright brothers, Robert Goddard, Amelia Earhart, Chuck Yeager, James S. McDonnell, Yuri Gagarin and Neil Armstrong were among the aviation pioneers featured.

Lost in thought, Dominoe soon found herself in front of an adjacent mural, this one highlighting the contributions of African-Americans to the conquest of the air. ‘Why do some people hate others just because they have different skin color?' she wondered. Racism had always perplexed her. She relished the opportunity to strike a blow against the Aryan Nation.

Soon she rejoined The Boss and they boarded the Boeing 757 for the flight to Denver. They gained an hour as they flew westward. Dominoe pretended to be asleep for most of the trip. She doubted The Boss would reveal anything about The Doctor, the Aryan Nation's plan or their final destination as long as they were out in public.

She did, however, accept the "snack" a flight attendant offered. The man smiled broadly as he handed a tightly wrapped turkey sandwich to the agent. Dominoe caught his eyes looking at her lap as her jean shorts rode up her upper legs, jammed as they were into the narrow space between Eva's torso and the coach seat in front.

"Can I get you something to drink?" the attendant asked with a smile.

"A Pepsi, please," Eva replied.

"Huh," The Boss interjected, "Don't tell me the little lady doesn't drink."

"Oh, I do," Eva answered. In fact, Dominoe could hold her liquor much better than most people could. "I just want to be at my best when I meet this Doctor of yours."
 
At precisely 4:11 p.m. Mountain Daylight Time, the jet touched down in the Mile-High City. Dominoe collected their luggage on the east side of Terminal Level Five, while The Boss checked in at the Car Rental counter. Before long they had headed out Pena Boulevard and were on the same Interstate 70 they had crossed hours before.

Now, however, it was rush hour and progress was slow. Their ride was comfortable, though, as The Boss had rented a BMW.

"Does the Nation pay for this?" Eva asked.

"I always drive the best," was The Boss's only response.

Since they were finally alone, Dominoe figured it was time to try to get some more information. "Now that we're here, will you please tell me exactly where it is we are going?"

"You'll find out soon enough. I want it to be a surprise." He paused.

"I will give you a clue, though. Have you ever been to French Lick?"

The Boss glanced to his right and saw Eva's furrowed brow. "You know, back in Indiana. Larry Bird's hometown?"

"No, sorry," Eva answered. ‘I never claimed to be a native Hoosier,' Dominoe thought.

"Well, you'll see," T. B. said with a shrug. "For now, just sit back and enjoy-" The Boss hammered at the horn as the car in front of him was slow to get out of his way, "the ride."

They drove west into the Rocky Mountains. Just as the sun was beginning to shine in their eyes, The Boss turned the BMW off the interstate. They drove deeper into the mountains, onto smaller and smaller roads, until finally the vehicle was steered past an arrow on a green sign that said "Spear Institute."

"Is that where we're going?" Eva questioned.

"Yep." Now that they had almost reached their destination, The Boss became a fountain of information. "This place was built in the late 1930s by a man named Ryan Bathurst. He made a fortune in pharmaceuticals back in Indiana.

"His favorite spot had always been the West Baden Springs Hotel, which is right next to French Lick, Indiana. French Lick has a famous resort, too, which, by the way, is still in business.

"The West Baden Springs Hotel as he knew it was built in 1901. Until 1963, when the Astrodome was constructed, the hotel's dome was the largest in the world, 200 feet in diameter and some 130 feet in height. The dome is larger than St. Peter's Basilica and the Pantheon. The hotel had 700 rooms and advertised its mineral springs.

"With the Depression, though, the West Baden Springs Hotel fell upon hard times. As an aside, the original has recently been restored and is now for sale.

"Anyway, although Bathurst loved the hotel, he didn't particularly like the location in Orange County, in the hills of Southern Indiana. So he built an exact duplicate of the place here in the Rocky Mountains!"

As The Boss concluded his story, the automobile stopped beneath a double arched gateway. The Boss spoke to a man who emerged from a small guardhouse, while Dominoe stared ahead in astonishment.

The Boss's words were insufficient preparation for the sight now before her eyes. In the distance, off and to the right of the two-lane divided highway before them, stood the dome. Even in comparison with some of the distant peaks of the Rockies, the dome was truly impressive.

Four towers, whose tops were as high as the apex of the dome, framed Dominoe's view. These were built into the six stories containing the many guest rooms of the edifice. Dish antennas had been built into the cupola at the top of the near left tower.

A golf course ran on both sides of the road. A series of light fixtures with three globes ran down the middle of the greenway between the lanes leading to the front of the building. The dwindling sunshine of the early evening added to the surreal look of the premises.

"What do you do with all this space?" Dominoe asked in wonder. Despite her hatred of the Aryan Nation and all for which they stood, she had to admit she was impressed.

"Our cover story is that the Spear Institute studies architecture, manufacturing techniques and urban planning," The Boss explained as he drove slowly toward the front of the building. "In truth, this is where the leaders of the Fourth Reich are being trained.

"Bathurst believed in our cause," T. B. continued. "He created the Spear Institute to continue the struggle after his death. Now, besides the income from assets hidden in Europe after the war, we receive funding from right-minded individuals."

Visitors approached from the right of the main entrance. The Boss pulled the BMW into a parking space in a lot just before and to the side of the main building. The travelers collected their luggage and made their way around to the front, to the base of wide, concrete stairs leading up to the main entrance.

Dominoe was taken by the grandeur and the majesty of the place. The structure's style owed more to the 19th Century than the 20th, but the size of the effort would definitely be right at home in the new millennium.

Once they ascended the stairs, they passed through a pair of glass double doors and entered a small reception area, the far wall of which was curved away from them. Hallways swept back from each side of what must have been designed as the hotel lobby. The Boss then ushered Eva through an entranceway in the curved wall and into the Atrium.

Dominoe had her breath taken away by the sight! Over 31,000 square feet of space stretched out under the vast ceiling. ‘How is it I never heard of the original?' Dominoe asked herself, as she gazed with open-mouthed wonder at the dome, the prototype of which was nearly 100 years old.

From across the expanse a smartly dressed elderly man strode towards them. At a respectful distance behind tagged a much younger fellow dressed in a white lab coat. This man, who was obviously subservient to his elder, had a full head of yellow hair.

As the senior member of the pair approached, Dominoe could see that his skin had a worn-out look. Despite this, the man's movements were quick and precise. His blue eyes sparkled behind round-framed glasses. Short, white hair covered the top of his head.

The man ignored T. B.. "Guten auben, Fraulein," he greeted Eva with a clipped, Teutonic accent as he extended his blotched hand towards her, palm up. "My name is Doctor Friedreich Mendlson . . ."

Taking her cue, Dominoe placed her right hand in The Doctor's. The back of Eva's hand was brushed by leathery lips.

". . . and what is your name, my dear?"

"I've adopted the name Eva," Dominoe stated matter-of-factly. "I've rejected the name the American government gave to me."

Mendlson's eyes narrowed. "I'm anxious to learn more about you. You must join me for dinner." The Doctor eyed Dominoe's T-shirt and blue jeans critically. "I suggest you might want to change?" It was not a request.

"Oh, I have more formal clothes in here," Eva offered agreeably, indicating her suitcase. The Boss glared at her, as he resented being totally left out of the conversation.

"How stupid of me," Mendlson apologized. He swung upon his assistant. "Hans! Show our guest the way to her room . . . and take her bag!" Turning back to Eva he concluded, "I'll meet you back here in, say, forty-five minutes? It will be my honor to escort you to the dining room."

Dominoe gave the suggestion of a curtsy to The Doctor and a girlish wave goodbye to T. B. as she followed Hans back into the circular corridor, which surrounded the Atrium. She noticed Mendlson and her former traveling companion talking as she left. The Doctor was frowning.

Hans led her to the left and then to an elevator. Evidently, it was built into one of the four towers Dominoe had noticed earlier around the dome. She deduced this tower must be the one with the antennas in the top. ‘That might prove handy,' she thought.

The elevator indicated six floors above, with two subterranean levels. Hans pushed the numeral six.

In moments, Dominoe was taken to her room, not far from the elevator. Her quarters were well appointed and featured a view out from the front of the building. The last rays of sunlight were catching the peaks of the surrounding Rockies.

"Will you be joining us for dinner . . . Hans, is it?" Eva asked in a friendly manner.

"Uh, no. The Doctor wants to talk to you in private," he answered shyly. Hans had no qualms about raping what he considered to be an inferior female, but he was uncomfortable around white women . . . especially beautiful ones. "By the way, only The Doctor calls me Hans. You can call me Smash."

"O.K., Smash," Dominoe replied enthusiastically. She knew it might not hurt to have a friend in this place. "Maybe we can get together later?"

Smash lowered his eyes as he mumbled, "Maybe." He then closed the door and left.

Dominoe went to the luggage that Smash had placed on a suitcase stand. She opened her bag and took out an outfit she had brought along for just such an occasion. "This should make an impression on the ‘good' Doctor," she said to herself quietly as she held it up in front of her. She laid the dress carefully out on the bed, then peeled off her clothes as she made her way to the shower, to wash the grime of travel off her body before her ‘date.'

**********

Forty-four minutes later the click-clack of Eva's high heels heralded her arrival under the Atrium dome. Dr. Friedreich Mendlson, dressed in a black tuxedo, turned at the sound. He regarded the red-clad figure with a look that was far from grandfatherly.

Coming to a stop some six feet in front of him, Dominoe did a graceful pirouette. "How do I look?" she asked as if seeking approval.

The red sheer material of Dominoe's dress clung provocatively to every curve that it covered. As she turned, The Doctor could see that her back was bare, all the way down to the slope of her butt, although her crack was modestly concealed from display.

"Quite nice, my dear," Mendlson complimented, as he offered his elbow to the ravishing young woman. The old Nazi led the secret agent across the Atrium and through a door in the curve of the far wall.

After a short journey down an oak-paneled corridor, Mendlson opened an unassuming door. The Doctor stood aside to let his guest enter first.

Eva walked into the private dining room. An ornate chandelier hung over the middle of a long table. The table was set just for two, with one place setting at an end and the other to its right.

Mendlson scurried ahead and gallantly pulled out the chair to the right. After Eva sat, he took his place at the head of the table. He then rang a crystal bell that was placed next to his serviette.

A hearty German meal was served to the two diners. Jumbo boiled shrimp with a tangy cocktail sauce was followed by an endive salad. Weinershnitzel was the main course, accompanied by creamed spinach and spaetzle. A fine Rhine wine was served with the dinner.

Conversation had quickly turned to Eva's position within the government. Dominoe was playing a most dangerous game. To get something, she had to give something. She had to disclose enough information to gain Mendlson's trust, but not so much as to actually compromise C.A.T.T. operations.

Fortunately, the Covert Anti-Terrorism Task Force had anticipated such an eventuality. The agency had established several front organizations for just this purpose. The Doctor's Aryan Nation contacts would be able to check out and verify every aspect of Eva's story.

As a desert of apple strudel was being served by the silent waiter, Dominoe decided it was time to make her move. "Well, Doctor, enough about me. Please tell me about what you have planned. All I know is that it involves some bold act of biological terrorism."

Mendlson dabbed the napkin at the corners of his mouth. He gazed into Eva's brown, inviting eyes. ‘No harm in telling her,' the racist reasoned. ‘If she's seen the light, she will be a valuable asset to our organization. If her story doesn't check out, she'll be dead by morning.'

The Doctor waited until their server had left the room, then leaned over conspiratorially towards Dominoe. "All right, my dear, I'll tell you.

"Less than forty-eight hours from now, the drug cordrazine will be introduced into the water systems serving areas in some of America's largest cities where high concentrations of inferiors live, for example: Watts, Harlem, the South Side of Chicago, North St. Louis."

"Cordrazine?" Dominoe asked, feigning excitement. "I've never heard of it. What does it do? Does it kill?"

"No, my dear," Mendlson answered condescendingly. "It's much more subtle than that.

"Cordrazine is a biological agent which, whether ingested or merely put in contact with the skin, increases anxiety, paranoia and aggression. If people drink the water, cook in it, bathe in it or brush their teeth with it, they will be effected.

"Soon, mobs of blacks will take to the streets, in civil disturbances that will make the Rodney King riots look like a picnic! Their actions will trigger a race war . . . that only we of the Aryan Nation are prepared to fight. .  . and win!!"
 
 

CHAPTER SEVEN
 

"But, won't some whites living near those areas be effected, too?" Dominoe asked, as the scope of The Doctor's horrific plan began to dawn on her.

"Bah!" Mendlson spat out. "Whites who would live in such close proximity to human vermin don't deserve to live!"

"Yes," agreed Eva, "you're right."

The two finished their dessert in relative silence, with Dominoe intermittently trying to keep the mood light by asking this or that about the building. The Doctor was more than happy to answer her questions, but gave the impression that, for him, the highlight of the evening had passed.

This relieved Dominoe, for she didn't relish the idea of being asked to sleep with the old man. Refusing was out of the question, but, thankfully, the subject never came up. After they finished eating, The Doctor bade Dominoe good night, inviting her to stroll about the premises on her own if she wished before bed.

As she explored the building, Dominoe considered her options. Even though leaving the grounds would be difficult, she was sure she could get away. The problem was, if they discovered she was gone, the Nation would just postpone or change their plans. Dominoe would have accomplished very little.

‘No,' Dominoe decided, ‘getting a message out is the thing to do.' That way, the perpetrators could be caught in the act and the whole organization could be brought down around Mendlson's head. Even though she had originally been led to believe that Dr. Mendlson had been brought into the country by the domestic Aryan Nation, everything she had seen led her to think that he was actually the one in charge of the whole operation.

A phone call struck her as too simple. Even though security seemed to be light, she sincerely doubted she could just pick up a phone and call C.A.T.T.! She guessed that her cellular service would either be monitored, jammed, or blocked by the mountains if she tried to use it.

Those dish antennas, however, had given her an idea. It seemed logical that the Nation had some sort of communications center in the building, probably near the base of that tower. She supposed that Mendlson would have set up some sort of secure wireless system to keep in contact with his forces worldwide. If she could find the radio room, she could send a message on C.A.T.T.'s exclusive frequency.

Dominoe's keen eyes and ears could not detect anyone following her, nor any surveillance cameras. In addition, there didn't seem to be any guards here in the main building. Despite their delusions of grandeur, perhaps the Aryan Nation headquarters was really operated on a shoestring! Although she didn't doubt Mendlson's capability to carry out his plans, maybe the idea of a vast number of people training to become the Fourth Reich was the deluded dream of a madman, passed down to a bigoted thug like The Boss. There really didn't seem to be that many people here.

Dominoe ended up back at the elevator, which could take her to her room. ‘Should I search for the control center now or go back to my room and wait until early in the morning?' Dominoe decided that she would have more deniability now, rather than later, if she ran into someone. After all, hadn't The Doctor himself invited her to look around?

The Brown-Haired Beauty pressed the SL-1 button with a perfectly manicured nail. The elevator descended and stopped. The doors parted.

Dominoe looked out into the gloom. Cautiously, she left the elevator. Before her was a dimly lit corridor. The walls and floor were unfinished cement. A three-inch ledge, six inches high ran along the bottom of the walls. SL-1 looked for all the world like somebody's basement.

Dominoe thought about removing her shoes, so that the sound of her heels wouldn't give her away, but thought better of it. So far, she was still an honored guest. It would be hard to explain why she was creeping around in her stocking feet.

About fifteen feet ahead of her, she spotted a door in the wall to the right. She also noticed conduit running from the ceiling near the elevator, then along the wall before disappearing just before the door. Could it be that easy?

Yes, it was! Conveniently marked on the door were the words "Communications Centre." Calmly, yet with her heart in her throat, Dominoe tried the door. It was locked.

Although it was well within Dominoe's capabilities to break down the wooden door, that would end all pretense of stealth. No, Dominoe had the answer right on the top of her head: a hairpin.

It was a cliché, but in the hands of an expert such as Dominoe, a hairpin could open almost as many locks as a skeleton key. Besides that, a hairpin was much easier for a woman to explain away than a lock picking set!

In seconds, Dominoe was through the door. Examining her new surroundings, she saw no reason not to turn on the light. She did so and then gently closed the door, locking it behind her.

Near the door she saw a large red button built into the wall. Further along that same wall was just what she was looking for: a short wave radio, all set-up and ready to go.

Dominoe sat down in front of the equipment. Expertly she flipped a couple of switches and the radio glowed to life. Dominoe turned the broadcast dial to C.A.T.T.'s exclusive frequency and began her message:

"This is Amice calling. Hydrogen dioxide systems serving A. A. communities in L. A., N. Y., Chi-town, S. T. L. and perhaps others are the target. Action to commence in less than two days. Drug-"

Sometimes, luck triumphs over skill. Tonight, Dominoe's luck turned out to be bad. Hans, after raiding the commissary for some bratwurst, decided to drop by the radio room to get some English soccer scores. At that very moment, he put his key in the lock and opened the door.

"What are you doing in here?!" he demanded to know.

Dominoe had no idea if her message had been heard. She had only been able to broadcast the sketchiest of details and had not had the opportunity to receive a confirming message. If she could keep her cover, the mission might still be successful. Just killing Hans and escaping would still leave the Aryan Nation capable of carrying out Mendlson's scheme.

At the first sound at the door, Dominoe had quickly flipped off the switches and turned the tuner. Now she rose from the chair. "I was just looking around. The door was open and I came in. I've always been fascinated by electronic gizmos."

Smash seemed far from convinced by Eva's story. Flashing her winningest smile, she continued, "Is this a radio? Perhaps you could come over here and show me how it works?"

Hans hesitated. "I . . . don't know. I think I'd better report this to The Doctor."

"Oh, we don't want to bother him. Dr. Mendlson told me at dinner that I had the run of the place." Dominoe slowly walked towards Hans, giving him a "come-hither" gaze. "I'd much rather spend time with you."

Hans was sorely tempted, but his fear of The Doctor outweighed his attraction to this beautiful woman. Before Eva got within reach, his hand snaked out and depressed the red button.

An alarm began to sound. This was Dominoe's moment of decision. She was sure she could still get away, but that would mean she had failed. The young, but experienced agent decided to stay. She would continue to play the innocent.

Within two minutes Dr. Mendlson, still wearing his tuxedo but without the tie, along with two burly guards wearing brown shirts and carrying machine guns, arrived. "What's this all about, Hans?"

"I caught her in here, sir. She says the door was unlocked, but it was locked when I arrived."

Dominoe had learned that protestations of innocence usually had the opposite effect. She simply continued to smile pleasantly, leaning against a wall as far as possible from the radio.

Mendlson squinted his eyes behind his round lenses as he scrutinized Eva. His words did not match his expression. "You were prudent to be cautious, Hans, but I'm sure Eva was just exploring, as I invited her to do. Why don't we all turn in and forget the whole thing? I'm sure our guest is exhausted from her travels."

Smash looked at The Doctor quizzically, but said nothing. Eva spoke up, "Thank you, Doctor. I am quite tired. This has been an exciting day. I'm sorry if I caused all of you any trouble."

With that Dominoe led the way out the door. The Doctor, Hans and the two guards followed in silence and joined her in the elevator.

When the elevator stopped at the main floor and the four men moved to depart, Dominoe said, "Good night Doctor, Hans, gentlemen."

Without turning or breaking stride, The Doctor called, "Good night, Eva. Sleep well."

The doors closed. Dominoe was lifted the six stories to her floor.

Back in her room, Dominoe removed her clothes. She folded her red dress neatly and placed it back in her suitcase. Although she had packed nothing which couldn't be left behind in an emergency, she always had hopes she would be able to take her luggage with her when it was time to go.

Growing up on a naval base, Dominoe was not possessed of excessive modesty. She was quite comfortable walking around her room naked. She understood contemporary customs and standards, but saw no point in dragging clothes back and forth out of the bathroom when she was alone.

Just as in her apartment back in Washington, this bathroom had a separate shower stall. Dominoe preferred that to a shower built into a bathtub. She opened the Plexiglas door and prepared to take her second shower in three hours.

As steaming hot water splashed over her firm body, Dominoe closed her eyes and considered the events of the day. She wondered if C.A.T.T. got her message and how she would ever be able to return to the communications center. If her broadcast had not been heard and if she was unable to repeat it, in less than two days the United States would suffer the worst act of terrorism in its history!

After bathing, Dominoe returned to her bedside and put on a white teddy. Experience had taught her that wearing a chemise was more practical than sleeping in the buff while on a mission.

Dominoe snuggled under a sheet and one blanket. Even in mid-summer, this high in the mountains the nights could become quite cool.

Unbidden, the image of Elian with the bloody hole in the middle of his forehead flashed across her mind. After that, she was dimly aware of being surprised at how quickly and easily she was able to fall asleep . . .

**********

She awoke with a start. Dominoe was no longer in bed, nor in her pajamas. She was in a different room, sitting in a high-backed, straight chair.

Dominoe's forehead, neck, biceps, wrists, waist, thighs and ankles were all bound to the chair!
 
 

CHAPTER EIGHT
 

Someone had dressed Eva in clothes from her suitcase. Dominoe now wore a powder blue, buttoned blouse. Even though she couldn't move her head, Dominoe was able to look down and see that she had on her dark blue jeans with belt. The toes of her pair of New Balance cross-training shoes were just barely visible.

Dominoe tried to take in her surroundings. A bright light shined down on her from above. She was at the center of a circle of light focused on the chair. Other than that, as far as she could tell, the rest of the room was pitch dark.

She could hear nothing. The room had a faintly antiseptic smell, while the air felt cool and dry. Dominoe guessed she was in Sub Level Two.

The agent considered what had happened to her. Obviously, Mendlson had decided she was a spy. Dominoe would try to talk her way out of this, but she was not optimistic.

More puzzling was how they managed to dress and bind the agent without waking her up. ‘They must have pumped knock-out gas into the room,' she realized. ‘No wonder I fell asleep so quickly. Mendlson probably has a lot of experience with gasses.'

The C.A.T.T. operative methodically tested every restraint, one at a time. None was found lacking. Whoever had designed this torture chair had done an excellent job. She was completely helpless, barely able to move . . .

. . . and this was a torture chair. Of that, Dominoe was sure.

That, in itself, did not worry Dominoe very much. If the need arose, she could employ the standard agency anti-interrogation technique. C.A.T.T. field agents had the ability to put themselves into a coma-like state, completely shutting down their senses. Dominoe doubted even Herr Doctor had the drugs on hand to counter the procedure.

No. What haunted Dominoe was the thought that maybe her message was not received by C.A.T.T. . . . and, if she couldn't escape, a race war would soon be raging across America.

Several minutes passed. Then, she heard the sound of a door opening behind her.

"Ah, you're finally awake," said the clipped Germanic tones of The Doctor. "Excellent."

"What's this all about, Doctor?" Eva asked calmly of the voice she couldn't see. "Another test of some sort?"

The Doctor gave a soft chuckle. "No, my dear. Not a test . . . although you could call it an experiment."

His voice turned suddenly cold and harsh. "You showed up unannounced and uninvited at the club in Indianapolis, in possession of knowledge about our organization and our plans. Then you failed to kill the Hispanic boy when ordered to do so. Finally, you were found in a high security area, behind a door which is always locked."

Without a hint of desperation in her voice, Eva tried to refute the charges against her. "First off, I've admitted I was a secret agent. That's no surprise. That's how I knew of your plans. Second, I don't recognize T.B.'s authority to give me orders. I'd always wanted a sex slave, a boy toy. Finally, it's not my fault your security is poor. Perhaps I can help you upgrade it."

The Doctor remained unswayed. "Your American gangsters used to have a saying: ‘Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. The third time it's enemy action.' If you really wish to join us, then I am truly sorry . . . but at least you'll be providing ‘valuable' information to our New World Order."

Dominoe was about to put herself into her trance, when The Doctor walked around to stand before her. He was wearing a white lab coat with black pants and brown, wing-tipped shoes. Dominoe suddenly realized she really had no idea how much time had passed since she had gone to bed. Perhaps the contamination of the water systems was only minutes away!

The cool superspy would never panic, but she did let a sense of urgency creep into her voice as she asked, "What more can I tell you, beyond what I already have?"

The Doctor laughed out loud, a laugh without mirth. "Why, nothing my dear! Your story checked out in every detail.

"No. I only have one question for you. What is your name? . . . the name which you were given?"

"Emma," Dominoe lied.

Mendlson shook his head, clucking his tongue. "No, somehow, I don't think so. Matt!"

From out of the darkness behind her, Dominoe saw, using her peripheral vision, The Boss come into view. ‘Well, at least now I know his name,' she thought, mentally shrugging. Dominoe expected the blonde brute to slug her or something of the sort. She was totally unprepared for what happened next. The agent began the process of shutting her body down, when, to her surprise, Matt reached down in front of her and . . .

untied her right shoe!

Despite herself, this snapped Dominoe to immediate attention. The words ‘Oh, no!' flashed through her mind.

"Very interesting, this condition of yours," Mendlson lectured. "Matt told me about what happened in the dressing room."

Dominoe began to get nervous. She felt her composure starting to melt away. Any hope of putting herself into a trance was now gone.

Mendlson seem enthralled by the sound of his own voice. "I've theorized that such an obsessive compulsive disorder might be a side effect in humans conceived by either selective breeding or genetic engineering.

"This is, how do you say? A two-for-one deal? I also suspect that you might have been trained to resist torture. This should prove an ideal way to break down your mental conditioning, to prepare you for your ultimate fate. Matt!"

The Boss reached towards Dominoe and undid the third button from the top of her blouse.

A fire began to smolder inside Dominoe. Although she couldn't see her untied shoe, she could feel the looseness around her right foot. The unbuttoned shirt, which she could see, nagged at her. She yearned to be able to reach down to tie her shoe, to button her blouse, but the restraints on her wrists remained firm.

Mendlson removed an orthoscope from his coat pocket and examined Dominoe's eyes. He then put a clammy hand on her right wrist, below the leather strap holding it, to take her pulse.

"Hmmm. Yes. I can see we're beginning to get a reaction already: heartbeat accelerated, pupils slightly dilated. Most satisfactory. Matt!"

This time the racist reached a hand down to Dominoe's waist. He pulled the end of her belt through the two double loops and then, after giving the agent an evil smile, jerked the belt to the bound wearer's right. The belt immediately became undone . . .

. . . as did Dominoe. She couldn't stand much more of this. Closing her eyes did no good. She knew her blouse was unbuttoned, her belt was undone, and her shoe was untied. Dominoe didn't have to see them to feel the disorder crashing down all around her.

‘All right,' the C.A.T.T. agent rationalized to herself, 'he just wants the answer to one question. I've got to do something while I still retain a modicum of control.'

"Dominoe," she said flatly.

"Dominoe!" Mendlson cried in triumph. "Yes! That I believe is it!"

The Doctor turned to The Boss, as if explaining something to a small child. "You see, the procedure works much better if I can refer to the subject by name.

"Now, you may continue. Hans and I will get the machinery ready."

The Doctor marched off, without so much as a glance back at his ‘subject.' Dominoe could hear the door open and close. She was alone with this psychopath, a man who had killed a 14-year-old boy without a second thought.

"Well, ‘Dominoe,' you've got to hand it to The Doctor," The Boss crowed. "He knew how to get under your skin."

Matt leaned in on Dominoe, so close she could smell the stale beer still on his breath. "I'm going to enjoy watching you crumble, you nigger lovin' bitch!"

‘Now what?' Dominoe thought. She didn't have long to wait to find out.

T. B. pulled the zipper on the front of Dominoe's blue jeans halfway down. He pulled one of the aglets on the laces of her left shoe. Then he administered the coup de grace.

The bigot walked over to the wall on Dominoe's left and flipped a switch. Suddenly, the entire room became flooded with light.

On the three walls that Dominoe could see were pictures - portraits of the World War II German Nazi Party elite: Martin Bormann, Adolf Eichmann, Joseph Goebbels, Hermann Goering, Heinrich Himmler, Josef Mengele, Albert Speer and, of course, dominating the whole room, with a picture far larger than all the rest - Adolph Hitler.

All the evil men seemed to be staring right at Dominoe, but what was infinitely worse was that . . .

. . . each picture was off-center, hanging crookedly at different angles on the walls!

Dominoe began shivering. The normally unflappable super secret agent bit her lower lip. A guttural moan was heard in the room.

Finally, Dominoe whimpered, "No . . ."
 
 

CHAPTER NINE
 

Dominoe was thankful she had finally passed out, although whether it was from the stress or another dose of The Doctor's knockout gas, she couldn't be sure.

She awoke to find that her left eye was being held open. She looked around with both eyes, but found she was in complete darkness. C.A.T.T.'s best could feel, however, that something was attached to her face. As before, her head was restrained, totally immobilized.

Dominoe could tell instantly she was no longer in the torture chair. For one thing, instead of sitting upright, she was now lying on her back. The agent's head was only slightly higher than her feet. For another, Dominoe was staked out, tightly bound by metal straps at her wrists, neck, under her breasts and at her ankles. Her limbs were stretched so far she couldn't even bend her elbows or knees. She couldn't move her waist, either, but somehow there the restraint felt different.

The beautiful spy took cold comfort in the fact she could tell she was stark naked. ‘At least now they can't half-remove my clothes,' she thought, finding the silver lining in the situation.

Dominoe was unfamiliar with the material on which she was lying. It felt something like a soft, moist, Styrofoam raft against her skin. The sensation was actually pleasant.

Five minutes later, lights came on. Dominoe could now see that a brace was attached from somewhere behind her to her forehead. A pencil thin apparatus, like the tip of a laser pointer, was directed towards her left eye.

Past this contraption, Dominoe observed a clear plastic dome, roughly in the shape and size of her body with the head cut off. It was almost as if this was the top half of a mold that had been made of a woman's form. The far surface of this mold was fed by pipes running from a huge machine that extended in almost every direction as far as Dominoe could see.

Dominoe felt as if she had been placed at the center of some vast, hellish machine. The only exceptions to this impression were several panes of what appeared to be glass turned on end towards her and an area about 45 degrees above and to the right, a rectangular space which extended into darkness. She could imagine pairs of eyes watching her from inside that void.

She cast her eyes downward to complete the survey of her bondage. The metal straps holding her motionless were silver and about an inch wide. Again she tested each one, but found no play in any of them. Around her middle, the metal was almost a foot wide and much thicker, with many tubes running up and into some of the tubes in the dome above her.

Dominoe tried to put herself into the coma-like state. The effect of the recent harrowing experience on her body, however, made it impossible. She would have to face whatever Mendlson had planned fully awake and alert.

"Ah, my dear Dominoe!" The Doctor's voice boomed at her over a top-quality sound system. "Welcome back once again to the land of the living." He paused and then said, as if to himself, ". . . at least for the time being.

"Impressive, isn't it? It took me a good deal of my life to design this machine. I want you to be totally honest with me on how it makes you feel.

"This really has worked out quite well. The first subject of this experiment was of an inferior breed. Now, I'll get to compare those results to what we'll get using an Aryan woman . . . and a selectively bred and genetically enhanced one at that!"

Dominoe thought back to the picture of the Klanwatch attorney she saw back in Washington, what seemed like an eternity ago. With a smirk she mused, ‘Well, at least I'll find out what happened to her!' . . . but Dominoe wondered how this machine could induce a heart attack without leaving a mark on the victim. Was it going to try to frighten her to death?

The Doctor continued. "With the first subject, I explained in exquisite detail what was going to happen. With you, though, my dear, knowing your love of order, I think it will be more effective to let you just find out as we go along."

Mendlson's Teutonic tones were replaced by the sound of gears turning. The panes of glass rotated to reveal they were mirrors. As they moved, Dominoe studied their reflections to see what else she could learn about her surroundings.

She discovered there was another plastic form below, this time of the dorsal side of a woman. Just as above, the machine extended in all directions underneath, except instead of a dark space, there was a round hatch built into it, a little to the right side. Dominoe reasoned this must be how she was brought into the machine.

The auburn haired agent was surprised at how thin the material was on which she was laying. Blue in color, it was supported by a circular frame. It appeared to be less than an inch thick. Dominoe marveled that she didn't just fall through it, into the works of the machine below.

The mirrors finally stopped their travels. No matter in which direction Dominoe looked with her right eye, she couldn't avoid seeing her bound, nude form.

"Doctor!" Hans shouted, after consulting some readouts. "She's having a distinctly negative reaction to seeing herself!"

"Really?" asked The Doctor, genuinely puzzled. "That is unexpect-"

Mendlson snapped his fingers. "Of course! I should have realized! She doesn't like those tattoos on her body! She must have had them put on just for this assignment. Hans, return the mirrors to their original position!"

As the mirrors swung away, Dominoe confirmed her earlier observations. She was glad she wouldn't be forced to stare at the swastikas on her breasts for the duration of whatever lie ahead.

Once the mirrors were back where they started, Dominoe found herself in the dark again. Next, over the speakers, instead of The Doctor's voice, came the same series of sounds to which Shelia Fox was exposed.

Dominoe wondered what the purpose was for this X-rated audio. ‘To soften me up for the horrors to come?'

An ironic smile formed on Hans's lips as he noted that Dominoe had a particularly strong positive reaction to the soundtrack of the Excessive Machine scene from "Barbarella." ‘If she only knew,' Smash thought.

After the last echo of sound had faded away, Dominoe was stunned by a bright light from the apparatus pointed at her defenseless left eye. This was followed by a further surprise. Images were now flashing before her: the brightest, clearest pictures Dominoe had ever seen! Mendlson had discovered a way to project scenes directly into the mind!

Dominoe braced herself. She theorized this was how The Doctor's machine killed its victims, by scaring them to death with images so terrible they were literally heart stopping.

The agent, though, was in for another shock. In her training, she had been conditioned by C.A.T.T. to internalized danger as sexual arousal, instead of the paralyzing fear that had caused the death of many agents. Dominoe truly had a fetish for danger.

This made her uniquely susceptible to The Doctor's machine! Dominoe knew she was in a deathtrap. Her libido had been active since she found herself in the torture chair. Now the effect was reinforced - doubled and redoubled by the pictures she was viewing:

Jason Scott Lee as Mowgli in ‘The Jungle Book;'
A blue-skinned, nude, well-endowed woman in red high-heels on one knee flexing her muscles;
A Huck Finn looking lad with lanky limbs and thick lips, lying next to the river in tall grass, wearing tight blue jean shorts and a two pieces of black, vest like material with a watermelon on it;
A naked African-American girl with eight dreadlocks lying on the beach, her butt prominently on display;
From the controversial Calvin Klein jean ads, a black haired teenage boy sprawled against an oak-paneled wall, wearing only an open jean vest, gray jockey shorts, socks and tennis shoes;
Two female super-models facing each other, shot from just below the breasts, one wearing a pink thong, the other with green strings running into her butt crack;
Stian Smestad from ‘Shipwrecked,' with an open shirt and headband;
A loincloth clad Balthazar Getty from the remake of ‘The Lord of the Flies;'
and more, so many more.

The Doctor's computers quickly discovered that Dominoe didn't care for explicit depictions of sexual organs, male or female. She was aroused by pictures of scantily clad, good looking young people - sex and ethnicity didn't seem to make a difference.

"Huh!" snorted Mendlson to Hans, "She seems to have some lesbian tendencies . . . and likes people of all races! Now I'm convinced she's no race warrior!"

"I wonder how she'll react to -" Hans, while examining a printout, stopped in mid-sentence. "Look at these readings!" He could hardly contain himself. Mendlson came around to look over his assistant's shoulder.

"Fascinating, Hans!" The Doctor praised. "We've barely begun and look at her! She's on the verge of having her first orgasm from just looking at the pictures!"

Dominoe fought to maintain control. ‘I don't want to give these perverts the satisfaction of making me come before-

‘Oh, my!' Dominoe said to herself as a bizarre idea occurred to her. ‘Could it be? No, it's not possible! That's science fiction! A woman couldn't really be killed that way! . . . Could she?'

"Mendlson!" Dominoe yelled. "What ‘is' this thing?"

"You'll soon see, my dear," was all The Doctor would say.

"Damn you!" shouted the spy.

Then Dominoe had an inspiration. "You want me to tell you how your machine makes me feel? Well, I'll bite my tongue off before I say squat unless you tell me what this is all about!"

Mendlson mulled over Dominoe's threat. Of course, she might be lying and refuse to say anything anyway, but The Doctor had come to believe the agent has some sense of honor. ‘Besides,' he reasoned, ‘she's probably guessed the truth by now. She just can't accept it.'

The Doctor flipped a switch. A chemical soup of sex hormones began to drip into Dominoe's femoral artery.

"Ow!" complained the agent as she felt a sting in her right thigh. "What's that?"

"That, my dear Dominoe, is testosterone and estrogen being fed into your bloodstream . . . and here's something else for you." Mendlson toggled another lever.

Dominoe began to smell a sickly-sweet order. "That's a new commercial pheromone called Athena, developed by a Dr. Cutler," Mendlson explained. "Three out of four people who tested it reported an increase in sexual desire. Now can you guess how my machine is going to kill you?"

Dominoe fought her way past the erotic images streaming through her mind to demand, "Tell me!"

"Simply put, you are going to be pleasured to death," The Doctor revealed.

"You want me to believe that?" Dominoe said incredulously. "That's impossible!"

"Oh, I think you know better than that," Mendlson retorted. "In fact, I think you're only here because you followed the trail left by the half-breed who proved it ‘was' possible!"

The Nazi continued, "It may interest you to know that The Machine itself hasn't even been activated yet. These are just the preliminaries, the data collecting phase."

The Doctor clicked off the microphone and turned to his assistant. "Hans, how long until we're ready to turn on The Machine?"

"A few more minutes, Doctor," Smash answered respectfully. "The computer is still trying to determine which images she finds most erotic."

Mendlson flipped the mike switch. "Enjoy the show, my dear Dominoe. I'll turn my machine . . . and you . . . on soon, very soon."

More images were projected directly into the agent's brain:

Aborigine David Gumpili, his naked body painted for ceremonial dancing, holding clap sticks;
An androgynous-looking American Indian with perfect abs, dressed in ceremonial adornments and loincloth;
Christopher Atkins and Brooke Shields from ‘The Blue Lagoon,' wearing little more than diapers;
A smiling, brown-haired boy in a shower;
Callisto from ‘Xena: Warrior Princess' bound in a chair [‘Hey! I thought that was familiar!' thought Dominoe.]
The drawn black and white ad for ‘Butcher, Baker, Nightmare Maker' with a seemingly naked Jimmy McNichol being grabbed from behind by a nude, malevolent, short-haired woman;
A side shot of Felipe Rose from the Village People;
An image of French Olympian Marie-Jose Perec's butt;
Atkins again, in his birthday suit, laying face down in the sand;
Leonard Whiting lying nude face down on a bed next to Olivia Hussey in ‘Romeo and Juliet;'
and on, and on, and on . . .

Finally, Dominoe heard a sound like a giant engine being started. She noticed that the plastic dome above her was descending!

Lower and lower the form came, until finally it nestled itself directly on her body! The plastic was pliant and not uncomfortable. The dome contoured itself to hug tightly against her. She also felt the same sensation from below, as the blue pad now pressed hard against her skin.

Dominoe let out a little yelp of surprise as, suddenly, the material encasing her body seemed to come alive! Except for her head and those areas restrained by the metal, every inch of her skin was delightfully massaged.

The spy guessed this was to break down her resistance for what was to come. Damnably, it was doing a very good job.

The vibrations intensified on her shoulders, while still continuing everywhere else. The area of intensity then ran down her sides, avoiding her breasts for the time being. Next, ripples of sensation ran away from her navel in concentric circles, stimulating her abs.

A warm, flooding feeling began underneath the metal around her hips. It almost felt as if she had wet herself. Dominoe could almost imagine the blood rushing through her thighs.

Momentarily, her attention was drawn to her perfect, round breasts. After first clinging tightly to her areolas, the plastic backed off a bit to leave a small air pocket. These parts of the plastic were two of the many connected by tubing to the machine. In a rhythmic pattern, the machine began taking turns sucking at Dominoe's erect nipples and then vibrating against them.

Soon, her areolas began to swell, so much so that it almost appeared as if she'd lost her tit erection. Before long, the breasts themselves also began to grow, becoming some twenty-five percent larger than their already impressive original size.

The sensations on her chest, though, were pushed into the background by what happened next. Dominoe's eyebrows shot up as she felt herself being penetrated from behind!

A smooth, slick, warm point forced its way into her anus, past her sphincter and then began to explore her large intestine. Dominoe gasped as she felt every inch of the intruder violate her.

To Dominoe it felt as if something a foot or more in length had been rammed up her butt. Then the invader began to vibrate, slowly at first, but with the promise of greater frenzied movement in the near future. Dominoe felt full already, but there was much more to come.

The ultimate vaginal vibrator, the IC-9, entered the helpless woman from the front. No ordinary dildo, it featured plastic pearls that began to tumble around the middle of its shaft, delivering the ultimate in vaginal stimulation. The device's large head bent to fill every recess of Dominoe's insides. A small tickler on the vibrator's back rubbed against her sensitive anal area, which was already being delightfully tormented from the other side. Dominoe was inexorably being driven wild.

The Machine continuously added its own synthetic lubrication to Dominoe's natural juices. There would be no chance that she would dry out. Pain was not the machine's objective. More pleasure than human physiology could bear was.

The Doctor's machine now delivered its piece de resistance. All that came before was a mere prelude, foreplay. The device that allowed The Machine to be a means of execution came to life.

A tube with a suction cup at the end snaked out of The Machine. Making its way through a portal in the plastic dome, it sought out the target: Dominoe's clitoris.

The soft suction cup placed itself over the victim's clit. A vacuum then activated, drawing blood into the area. Dominoe's clitoris became engorged.  Its oxygen content was increased, triggering all the available sensory receptors. Next, soft, pliable jelly snuggled around her hot spot. The goo sucked itself right up against her erogenous zone and hovered there for maximum stimulative effect. Finally, powerful, vibrating, micro eggs buzzed to life, along with a dual tongue tickler, driving Dominoe mad with lust.

Dominoe did her best to resist. She tried to build an impregnable fortress in her mind. The agent figured the longer she could hold off that first orgasm, the better. Once her defenses were breached, she realized defeat would be inevitable.

The input from her four senses, though, was overwhelming. The castle walls in her mind came tumbling down. The relentless sensations were too much, even for her iron will. The moment of inevitability had arrived: the time just before the climax, when she knew there was no way to stop it. The first orgasm broke through and washed over her.

‘Not bad,' Dominoe thought, ‘but I've had better . . .

‘. . . but . . . what's this?' Dominoe was aghast to realize that she had obtained very little relief from her climax. In fact, she could feel the tension beginning to build up within her again already!

"Congratulations, my dear!" Mendlson crowed." I can tell from the readings that you've achieved your first orgasm. Tell me. Be honest. How was it?"

While her mind was still relatively clear, Dominoe asked, "How long will this go on?"

"No," replied The Doctor. "You answer my question first. Then I'll tell you."

Dominoe decided to give the Nazi this small victory. It was the only way she might be able to gain enough information to formulate a plan of action.

"All right," she began. "It was weird, unlike any orgasm I've ever had before. At first, it felt kind of icky."

"Icky?" said Smash.

"Quiet!" growled Mendlson. Not only was he video and audio taping the proceedings, he also wrote Dominoe's remarks down in a small notebook.

Dominoe continued, "Then, it was sort of OK and then . . . Oh! . . . Then it was sort of nice, then I started getting really hot and then I started shaking. Then it felt like an explosion . . . but a good one.

Now, tell me!" Her breath caught in her throat as she felt the vacuum around her clit disengage. She was primed for action once again. "How long will this last?"

Mendlson reached over and hit a button on a keyboard. "Look in the lower right hand corner of the picture the computer is currently sending you. Do you see a number one?"

Dominoe concentrated on the image of an unclothed, blonde, male model posing for an art class. Her "Yes," came in the midst of a passionate sigh.

"The number displayed there will keep track of how many orgasms you have had," Mendlson explained. "The interesting feature of my machine is that it collects the data from each climax, computes what stimulated you the most and uses that information as it drives you towards the subsequent event.

"The effect is: each orgasm will be more intense than the previous one! And I've designed it so, no matter how strong you are, your 69th orgasm will inevitably be fatal!"

"Sixty-ninth! How witty!" Dominoe said sarcastically. Just then, her back arched and her toes curled as she surrendered to the second orgasm.

"We'll see how witty you are over the next hour or two, my dear Dominoe," The Doctor snarled. "How long this will take is hard to predict. In the first subject, there was no discernible pattern of time between consummations."

‘Rook always said they'd just fuck me to death,' Dominoe thought wryly, before the clitoris pump kicked off again.

Dominoe tried various strategies to try to fend off the machine. She thought of the most repugnant things possible.

Nevertheless, the third orgasm promptly came.

She decided to give in totally to the machine.

The fourth orgasm piled on top of the third.

Every erogenous zone of Dominoe's body was subjected to relentless attack. Her vagina, labia minor, and Grafenberg spot were engaged by the IC-9. The plastic vibrated against her perineum and inner thighs. The anal vibrator ebbed and flowed unpredictably.

To her horror she could detect that The Doctor was telling the truth. Whenever a particular level of vibration or movement gave her maximum arousal, the machine returned to it again and again. Not so much that she would become bored or jaded, but only at the crucial times, to push her over the top into ecstasy.

Dominoe felt as if her blood and her lungs were on fire. Her heart pounded inside her chest. She tried to focus on one sense at a time, or concentrate her mind on a less sensitive area of her body. . but found the machine to be undeniable, relentless, and unstoppable.

The number ten popped up in a black and white picture of a naked female tied into a Human Knot.

"Your tenth orgasm - tell me about it," The Doctor ordered clinically.

Dominoe was already too tired to even consider refusing to answer The Doctor's questions, "It started as a tremor in my vaginal area. It was like an earthquake, developing in intensity . . . Mmmmmm . . . There was an internal shudder than intensified, an incredible internal sensation . . . a tightening in my breasts and in my vagina . . . that suddenly let go. AHHHhhhhhh . . ."

Orgasm number eleven arrived.

*********

Nine orgasms later, Dominoe exploded in anger.

"Mendlson!! You Nazi mother-fucker! Did you invent this damn machine because you could never satisfy a woman?!"

"Excellent, Dominoe. I compliment you. Do you know my first subject was sobbing uncontrollably at this point?"

The Doctor neither expected nor received a reply. "It's so gratifying. I'm so fortunate to have had a couple of excellent specimens to work with. I've learned a great deal!"

Dominoe lost all track of time. Her existence was reduced to an unending series of build ups and unsatisfying releases. The machine was beating her, taking her apart piece by piece and there didn't seem to be a thing in the world she could do about it.

The images and sounds made it almost impossible to think of anything but trying to have, not prevent, her next orgasm. Although she could no longer smell the sweet scent of the Athena, she knew it was still effecting her, as were the hormones being pumped into her body.

She had hoped that her breasts, her anus and her sexual organs would have become sore by now, turning her off somewhat. Unfortunately, The Doctor had designed his device too well. Through the nature of the plastic, the use of lubricants and the inherent gentleness of the machine, she felt no pain . . . just an endless cycle of mind-numbing bliss.

Orgasm number 30 -

"Dominoe? Can you still hear me?"

"*Moan* What do you want?"

"Amazing! The Negress was totally uncommunicative by this point. Very good.

"How do you feel?"

Dominoe was now existing on series of deep breaths. "Tired . . . so very tired. My leg muscles hurt. I . . . ah, ah, oh, OH! AAAAAAA . . ."

"Poor Dominoe. I doubt that you will be able to talk again. Goodbye, my dear." Mendlson switched off the microphone.

Dominoe thought of the man with the family who had blushed at her back in Washington. Although she never really had a choice in what her line of work would be, it was for people like him that she continued to do what she did. She was a spy so most people in America could lead normal lives and not worry about madmen like Savan and Matrix and Stanislav . . . and Mendlson . . .

. . . but now, for all she knew, America was engulfed in a race war. A race war that the Aryan Nation and Mendlson would take advantage of . . . and which she could have prevented!

Enraged, she gave one more mighty flex of every limb . . .

. . . and was astonished when she felt the bond on her right wrist start to give!

This wisp of freedom enabled her to, for the first time in ages, ignore what was being done to her body. With all the force she could muster, she pushed her right arm upward and the latch came free! The cocoon-like plastic fell away like the molting skin of a snake, wherever she was able to move. In seconds, with one hand, she was able to undo the latches around her throat and forehead and detach the image projector from over her eye. The bonds were not complicated and quickly relented to an expert such as herself.

Once her left arm was released, she undid the strap below her breasts. Although all the sensations produced by the machine had been unbearably pleasurable, it was heaven to release her breasts from the constant combination of message and sucking. Next, she bent forward and expeditiously, but carefully, removed the chastity belt-like device that was anything but! She breathed a sigh of relief as she pulled out the vaginal vibrator and disengaged the clitoris pump.

When she had freed her ankles, she gingerly lifted herself off the anal dildo. It satisfied a primal urge to get that plug out of her body.

Dominoe swung herself off the material that had served as her "bed" and dropped down the several feet to the surface of the machine. To her chagrin, her legs immediately gave way!

All strength had been drained from her legs by thirty-one orgasms. Try as she might, Dominoe couldn't stand. If she were going to get away, she would have to do it on her hands and knees.

The determined secret agent crawled over to the hatch. Fortunately, her arms and hands didn't suffer the same deleterious effects as had her legs. She was able to twist open the handle, pull open the hatch and lower herself by her arms down the ladder.

The fifteen steps of the ladder became fifteen handholds, but Dominoe's upper body strength was exceptional for anyone, let alone a woman. Soon she dropped to her knees in a room directly under the machine.

No one else was in the room, but one wall was covered by TV monitors, with a control panel protruding towards her. All five screens showed news broadcasts. Some of the pictures showed scenes of rioting and of firemen fighting conflagrations, while others used the images of destruction as background for news people holding microphones.

Dominoe's heart sank. Like a baby, she crawled over to the panel below the monitors. She located the volume control and raised the sound level on each screen in turn, starting at her far left:

"This is Peter Jennings. Rioting in Harlem is completely out of control. Mayor Giuliani -"

Dominoe recognized the voice of Dan Rather, " - although Mayor Daley has pledged that the rioters will be dealt with sternly, the Chicago Police Department seems unable to cope with the extent of the disturbances."

Tom Brokaw was on camera. "Reports are coming in from Watts that a vigilante group calling itself the American Nationals has moved in to help police restore order. Extremely well armed, their arrival has been cheered by many residents."

The Fox News Channel and CNN told much the same story. The Aryan Nation's race war had begun.

Suddenly, an all-too-familiar voice rang out:

"Hello, Dominoe."

Mendlson, Danny Boy and Buzz were standing in a doorway.

"My dear Dominoe, don't you see? I wanted you to know you had completely failed to accomplish, what I suppose was, your mission. Now that you are in possession of that knowledge, we will return you to the tender mercies of my machine, so that we may begin again . . .

". . . and let me assure you, this time, we will finish the experiment . . . and you! Franz! Otto!"

As Danny Boy and Buzz approached, Dominoe collapsed into utter subjection, reduced to a jelly-like mass of helpless . . . quivering . . . compliant . . . shuddering flesh. For the first time she could remember, tears began to fall from her eyes.
 
 

CHAPTER TEN
 

Dominoe floated into the vagina. It was like a scene out of ‘Fantastic Voyage.' She was tiny and the female sexual organs surrounding her were huge.

She drifted towards the clitoris. There it was! The special spot, the secret place Dominoe had discovered when she was twelve years old.

Unlike most children, Dominoe had felt no shame, no guilt when she discovered it - just wonder, happiness and joy. She regretted that some kids were taught to be ashamed of their bodies, rather than to revel in them.

The cloud passed. Dominoe giggled as a wiggling oval brushed up against the clit. ‘Someone's having a good time now!' she thought. ‘What would Quentin say if he could see me here?' The idea made her smile. Her colleague was always making some remark about her libido.

Intruding upon her revelry was an image of two bikini-clad women, one a redhead, the other a brunette, bound together by the interlocking Lotuses of their legs. In the lower right hand corner of the picture flashed the number 22.

Dominoe was so worn out by her exertions, that so far she had spent most of this second turn in The Doctor's machine in a sort of waking dream-like state. As she had been carried up the ladder and strapped back to the bed, Mendlson had explained that his computers had been re-set. Although The Machine would utilize all the data collected from her first thirty-one orgasms, the device would re-calibrate itself so that she would not die until she endured a sixty-ninth additional climax.

One of the skinheads made a point of telling her that last time; the latch on her right wrist had been loosened by remote control. In a moment of rare loquaciousness, he promised Dominoe that it wouldn't come off again until she was a spent, lifeless corpse. The circular frame holding the round, blue bed on which she was stretched had then risen into the air, returning Dominoe to the center of The Machine from Hell.

As soon as one orgasm ended, the clitoral pump sprang into action, immediately rushing Dominoe through the excitation stage. Once that pump shut off, the beautiful victim had reached a plateau. The shivering buildup of tension continued, while her heart rate and respiration increased. Dominoe's perfect skin flushed while the outer third of her vagina began to swell dramatically.

The Doctor's device kept Dominoe at this level of delicious torment for varying lengths of time. Finally, an orgasm would come . . .

"OOOOAAAAHHHH!!!!"

. . . and then the cycle would immediately begin again.

Dominoe's head strained against the forehead brace. The plastic vibrated in an endless variety of ways - stroking her, massaging her, rubbing her. Amazingly, the machine was still able to provoke even greater and greater passion in the super spy. The most sensitive areas of her body were continuously caressed, tapped, tickled and sucked, driving her to heights of sensual delight far beyond anything she had ever imagined.

Delicate fluttering against her clitoris was followed by stunning vibration, while all the time the machine stimulated her labia minora and the entrance to her vagina. Previously the computer discovered that Dominoe did indeed have a Grafenberg spot. The processor was therefore programmed to turn its attention to her G-point again and again. Over and over, Dominoe was brought to the pinnacle of rapture.

As part of her training, Dominoe had been subjected to both mind-altering drugs and sensory deprivation. As she analyzed the sensations from all over her body, but especially those in her clit and vagina, she realized she was taking a trip very similar to those experiences. Some would say she was exploring a higher state of consciousness. Time and space seemed to warp, as tremendous discharges of electrical energy took place in her limbic cortex - the brain's pleasure center. Periodically, awareness faded as her thoughts succumbed to the endless, crackling firestorm in her mind.

Dominoe was shown a woman in a skin-tight black leather catsuit. Laying on her tummy, she was belted to the floor, while her hands were cuffed to her ankles. A cowl was attached to a leather strap around her elbows. The number 32 came into view.

Dominoe was now, for her, in new territory. Every time she thought the machine must have been doing everything possible to her, the stimulation somehow increased. The machine vibrated and thrust faster and faster. The Brown Haired Beauty was stuck in an upward spiral of sexual emotion. The desire within was continuously ratcheted to higher and higher levels. Dominoe's eroticism mounted as she found it completely impossible to keep from getting more and more excited.

Primal lust surged through her defenseless body. Dominoe began to vocalize. "Ohhhhhh......Ahhhhhhhhhh...." she groaned.  She was building to the most fantastic orgasm yet.

"UGGGHHHHH.........OHHHHHHHHHH." All inhibitions melted away.

"UUUUMMMMPPPPPPPPHHHHHH...........AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
HHHHHHH..........YEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSS............" Her body was ripped by what she was sure was the ultimate orgasm. The number 39 blinked into her left eye . . . and the process started over once again.

To Dominoe, it felt like every nerve in her body was aflame. Orgasms, generated by her loins, her rectum, her breasts and her mind, now piled onto each other so quickly that, if not for the counter, she wouldn't have been sure when one ended and the next one started.

The knowledge that the race war had begun added to her duress. She had failed in her mission. Dominoe was devastated. She felt defeated and helpless. Despair competed with ecstasy in her mind.

Images continued to flash into her left eye, so quickly she wondered if she was seeing some of them for the first time:

Sam Bottoms, wearing a sarong in ‘Apocalypse Now;'
Tyra Banks on the cover of a swimsuit issue of Sports Illustrated;
A woman, blindfolded and gagged, bound by seven coils of rope, facing a pole while a dominatrix stands behind her with a riding crop;
Vanessa Williams in the ‘Penthouse' pictures that lost her the Miss America crown;
A woman in tight bondage, doubled over with her hands crossed behind her back;
The Robin Givens ‘Playboy' spread;
An Asian man pinned to a wall, hands bound at his side, with two Oriental women handling his erection, obvious even through his garment, while two other Far Eastern women whipped him;
Grace Jones, snarling, nipples erect, naked inside a tiger cage;
One woman administering an enema to another;
A beautiful, nude, brown-haired woman, who looked something like Dominoe herself, with 14 hands wearing large silver vibrators, touching all over her body. A woman's hand was strategically positioned over her crotch.

This last was followed by what Dominoe thought were the first moving images she'd seen. ‘Or are they?' By this point, the spy could be sure of very little.

Exploiting Dominoe's reaction to the soundtrack, her executioners now showed her the Excessive Machine scene from ‘Barbarella.'

Dominoe mentally complimented the actress. ‘Jane Fonda did a nice job conveying what this is like . . .' but The Doctor had a surprise in store for his victim.

Instead of continuing the footage to where Barbarella burned out Durand Durand's Excessive Machine, Mendlson's Machine now replayed Shelia Fox's death struggles! Dominoe watched with horrid fascination as the lithe black woman suffered the fate that lie before the C.A.T.T. agent.

Watching the woman's death sent Dominoe straight into her own private world. She started to hallucinate about her recent sexual encounters:

. . . Dominoe couldn't wait any longer. Her desire had completely taken over, and now she was desperate to have him inside her. With both hands she quickly opened his pants and pulled out his full erection. She gave him a few gentle pumps with her fist and then spread herself wide over the tip and slowly impaled herself on his shaft.
 
"Aaaaaaah!" Dominoe gasped as she slid herself down completely on Savan. As she was already wet inside, Savan slipped easily into her and soon Dominoe began to roll her hips back and forth until she found a comfortable rhythm.

Savan groaned and reached up to place his palms on her thin waist as she worked on top of him. Dominoe's head was thrown back, her eyes closed and lips parted as she gasped and moaned with pleasure . . .

. . . Dominoe slowly stood and left the den. She heard some giggling from her bedroom and felt a compulsion to go to them. As soon as Dominoe entered her bedroom, she was met with the most beautifully erotic sight she'd ever seen. Stephanie and Trina...on the bed...stark naked...licking each other. Dominoe's body felt a potent rush of sexual desire...and more than the air she breathed, she wanted to join them.
.
"Hi," Stephanie said with a smile.

Dominoe felt great warmth and love for Stephanie...and walked straight to the bed...openly gazing at Stephanie's nude form. More than anything in her life, she wanted to make love to Stephanie...and she found Trina an added treat.
 
Dominoe climbed onto the bed and positioned her naked beauty right between Stephanie's legs...Trina repositioned Trina's body between Dominoe's legs. Stephanie's aroma was like no aroma Dominoe had ever inhaled, and she lowered her mouth down to Stephanie's sweet smelling pussy. Dominoe felt Trina's tongue enter her own folds at the same time. Dominoe moaned...

. . . and then, Dominoe's favorite masturbatory fantasy came to life . . .

. . . Dominoe was in a jungle at night, wearing camouflage fatigues and crouched in the crook of a thick tree. She raised her rifle slowly and uncapped the long-range scope.
 
Peering through the lens, she spied her target, a rebel officer in fatigues of some sort.

She fired and took him out with a clean headshot. Suddenly, a faint sound came from behind her and a knife was held at her throat.

A muffled voice told her to freeze and to not make a sound. She was trapped.

Then the voice ordered her to place her hands above her head. When she placed her rifle aside and did so, her wrists were quickly bound. Then she was pushed forward roughly onto her stomach over a thick horizontal limb of the tree while her rifle was kicked away.

Her attacker was on her now, holding her head down by the hair while he cut away the fabric of her fatigues. Dominoe was scared and excited all at once. She heard him breathing heavily above her. When she felt her backside exposed, her nipples hardened.
 
Then she felt him, touching her, his hands roaming and fondling, and then she heard the unmistakable sound of a zipper being opened. Dominoe felt a hard hand holding her down firmly against the tree and then the head of what she knew was a cock roaming the crevice of her quivering ass.

When she started to open her mouth to protest, a hand was clamped tightly over her mouth, and then, all at once, her attacker entered her from behind, filling her opening deep with one hard thrust.

Dominoe tried to scream, but nothing came out of her mouth. The attacker began to ram into her with slow deliberate strokes. She tried to squirm away, but was impaled and held firm by her captor. As one hand held her mouth shut tight, another grabbed her hair and pulled her upward painfully, arching her back as the assault continued with increasing force.

Knowing this was her own private dream and not reality, she could not help but become aroused from the invasion of her tight slit, as her hips involuntarily began to respond by thrusting back to meet his slapping hips.
 
His grunts were loud and his warm breath made her tingle with a strange sensation. When his thrusts became more vigorous, his waist pounding furiously while his cock rolled in and out of her, Dominoe began to shudder with the intense force of her first orgasm.
 
She felt her captor now responding in kind to her climax, as he picked up the pace, groaning louder as he pumped away, oblivious to the surroundings. With animalistic intensity, Dominoe's attacker now began to heave and tense as he spilt his thick load deep inside her. His shuddering climax caused Dominoe to orgasm again and again, until the two are finally out of breath, hearts pounding and perfectly still as the jungle became quiet.

Then he pulled out . . .

. . . but this time, unlike ever before, her attacker turned back to look at her. For the first time, she saw his face.

It was Matt! T.B.!! The Boss!!! The Butcher who killed Elian!!!!

This shook Dominoe out of her stupor. The number 68 swirled before her. Even though she was completely exhausted, she was not going to die in a semi-conscious fog!

In one last supreme effort, she summoned all her remaining strength and strained against her bonds. The effort was futile. They held fast. Dominoe knew she was doomed.

Using all the information it had gathered, the pitiless machine went about its business of inducing the ultimate orgasm. It began the process of building the tension within her so high, that the release would be fatal. Slowly, without any compassion whatsoever, the machine continued the diabolical task of driving Dominoe to her last orgasm . . . ever.

Dominoe was not a religious person. She was determined to live these last few moments on her own terms. Dominoe faced the end of her existence bravely, with as much dignity as the situation allowed.

Dominoe's pulse raced. Her blood pressure was sky-high. Even Dominoe's magnificent physique couldn't tolerate this. Any second her heart, a pump that had been driven beyond its limit, pushed far too fast for far too long, would seize and stop.

Death was only an instant away. It hurtled at her like a runaway express train . . . and there was nothing in the world Dominoe could do to stop it.
 
 

CHAPTER ELEVEN
 

The demise was sudden . . . and unexpected.

The Machine, not Dominoe's heart, stopped.

Dominoe's right eye was closed. All she could see out of her left eye were dark spots swimming in front of her. She didn't know if she welcomed this reprieve or not. Dominoe couldn't stand the thought of going through this a third time. If Mendlson was standing over her, waiting to tell the agent that he had sixty-nine more orgasms in store for her, she was sure she would go mad . . .

"You want to take this thing back home with ‘ya?"

‘That voice! Could it be?' Dominoe opened her right eye.

It was Rook!

The black haired man wore the standard glossy black costume of a C.A.T.T. field agent. His namesake, a blood-red rook on a light yellow background, was on a shoulder patch. He had a machine gun slung over his back, with pistols in holsters at each side. Around Dominoe he tended to act like a moonstruck adolescent, but Rook could fight his way through twenty enemy agents if necessary.

The experienced operative had no problem releasing Dominoe from the machine, taking care to free her delicate parts. As Rook did, he quipped, "It looked like you were having a pretty good time in there. Maybe I should give it a try?"

"Sorry," Dominoe managed to rasp. "No boys allowed."

Rook could tell by instinct that Dominoe would need his help to stand, but was surprised when his comrade had to put all her weight on him. Dominoe's legs had been turned to jelly by their exertions in the machine. It would be some time before she would be able to walk on her own.

"What's going on outside?" Dominoe asked as they maneuvered themselves down the ladder.

"We've got a team cleaning up. Surprisingly, there's only been token resistance. There can't have been more than thirty Nation members on the premises."

This wasn't what Dominoe meant. She had complete faith in her fellow C.A.T.T. agents . . . but she wondered what was happening in America's cities . . . and she dreaded finding out.

Rook led Dominoe through the TV monitor room where her previous escape attempt had ended. Dominoe's vision cleared. They picked their way through bodies as they shuffled down a corridor towards the elevator. Among the bullet-ridden corpses were Danny Boy and Buzz.

Inside the elevator, Dominoe's belief that she had been on SL-2 was confirmed. She resolved to restate her question, to learn the full measure of the disaster caused by her failure.

"Rook?"

"Yea, Dom?"

"What about the race war?"

"What?" Rook asked. He seemed genuinely puzzled.

Dominoe was as somber as Rook had ever seen the beautiful woman. She took a deep breath and continued, "What's going on in the cities? Have the police-"

A knowing smirk appeared on Rook's face. Dominoe was surprised to hear a couple of soft chuckles.

"What the hell is so funny?" Dominoe, perturbed, demanded of her cohort. She failed to see the humor in race riots.

Rook looked like someone who had just put a big joke over on a best friend. He helped Dominoe out of the elevator as he explained, "Can't you guess? Thanks to your message, not only were we able to locate this place by triangulation, we caught all the Aryan Nation cells in the act of sabotage! We stopped them from contaminating any water supplies!"

Dominoe was confused. In her state of exhaustion, it took a while for the truth of what had happened to sink in. "But, those news reports! I saw the network anchormen . . ."

"All faked broadcasts, my dear Dom. My, my . . . I thought you would have caught on! Smythe beamed them directly into the satellite dishes here at this compound. We figured if the Aryan Nation thought their plans had succeeded, they would be easier to round up . . . and it would be simpler to extricate you."

A huge smile broke across Dominoe's face, the first heartfelt smile she had worn since she left Washington. Once again, she had succeeded in her mission!

One thing, though, still puzzled her, "How did you ever get the networks to go along?"

Rook gave her one of his boyish smiles as he flicked a strand of dark hair out of an eye with a shake of his head. "Some of the networks' brass bitched, but we told them we could always arrange a visit by the I.R.S. if they didn't want to cooperate."

By this time, the pair were at the glass double doors. In seconds they would be outside and Dominoe could leave this Nazi hotel behind her . . .

Dominoe glimpsed a reflection in the door. Years of training overruled the almost total lack of energy in her body. In one motion, she removed her arm from Rook's shoulder, grabbed the pistol from his near holster, dropped to one knee, spun and fired.

A trickle of blood ran down over The Boss's pug nose. The source of the red stain was a hole in the middle of his forehead.

Dominoe had acted so quickly he never knew what hit him. Matt, the man who called himself T.B., had died in exactly the same manner as the last person he had murdered: the innocent, fourteen-year-old boy named Elian.

Dominoe collapsed to the floor. Rook helped her back up, complimenting, "Nice placement."

He looked at Dominoe's breasts, as if noticing for the first time that she was completely naked. "Can't say I think much of your skin art, though . . ."

The world's greatest secret agent smiled at her best friend. She toyed with the idea of asking Rook to take her up to her room so she could get some clothes and collect her things, but decided against it. "Let's go home. I can't wait to get these things lasered off by C.A.T.T. medical . . ."

Then she muttered under her breath, ". . . and it's probably going to hurt more to get the damn things off than it did to put them on."

**********

Meanwhile, two and a half miles away, a tunnel opened up into a cave. Sitting in the cave was a brand new Volkswagen Beetle. A man in his early twenties entered the cave, calling to a much older man, struggling to make his way out of the tunnel.

"Doctor, we made it!" Hans cried.

Doctor Friedreich Mendlson did not share his assistant's joy at their escape. Enraged by the failure of his grand scheme, his mind was already making plans for an attack against Jews all over the world!

…and for revenge against a certain American female secret agent!