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"Agent Kane, report," Malory said, wondering if it showed that she'd just come from imagining Lana fucking Pam on Cyril's desk (on one hand, she hoped they broke it - on the other hand, she'd prefer for Pam to not be en route to the hospital right now with wood splinters in some interesting places and Lana's phone number for when she'd be feeling a bit better again).
Lana looked slightly flushed, just the way Malory liked it. Not like she'd just had sex - more like she wanted it, needed it, even. Self-control had never been Lana's strong suit, although Malory figured that having dated Sterling without killing him had to count for something, at least.
"Wait," Malory said. "Cheryl, would you please come over here?"
Silly girl'd changed her name to 'Carol' again this week, and Malory knew it (she's a mother, not an idiot, although God knew the distinction between the two was hard to make on some days). Knowing and caring wasn't the same thing though - and Malory's agenda clearly had this coming hour blocked off for 'sexual intercourse with Lana and Cheryl'; nothing about any Carol.
Cheryl came walking - not running - the better to strut the stuff Lana'd got quite a bit more of, which was not to say Malory couldn't appreciate the view all the same, as could Lana. It would have been wasted on Sterling, Malory knew - a man with boobs would never have made much of a secret agent.
Women with boobs were a different matter altogether, of course. Malory thought it may well be time for some changes around ISIS, a bit more of a frank evaluation of people's abilities. Lana could be quite skilled at her job, too; that ought to keep people from talking too much.
Cheryl halted in front of Malory's desk. She'd have been standing just a few inches closer to it than Lana, if Lana's boobs hadn't been just a little bit bigger. Lana didn't look sideways; her gaze was firmly on Malory's face. It would have been a bit depressing - Malory's more than a pretty face, surely? except that Malory's next hour of being depressed over having given birth to some idiot man's male child wasn't scheduled until tomorrow.
"Some things should be shown rather than told, I think," Malory said.
Lana was quick; she'd got Cheryl spread out on Malory's desk before Malory could get her files out of the way, or log off on her computer the way you were supposed to, by waiting ten minutes for the thing to finally get done shutting down (it regularly reminded her of the last time she'd had sex with a man; it made you feel like you couldn't simply get up and leave just yet, no matter how uncomfortable or bored you were, or how badly you needed to make a trip to the bathroom).
Cheryl squeaked in a way almost completely but not entirely unlike Pam.
Lana growled as she nuzzled and then licked Cheryl's neck. Malory wondered if she should investigate the matter of Lana never having displayed any kitten-ish tendencies before during sex, aside from an interest in pussycats. It might simply be that Pam was a cat person, and Lana a secret agent, after all; she'd taken classes on how to best approach a target.
Cheryl's hands stopped trying to find something to hold on to after a while, reaching up to try and get Lana's shirt off instead. Privately, Malory doubted if Pam would have been that forward, but one never knew; perhaps the option of adding a fourth member to their little threesome should be given a certain amount of consideration.
Lana made no move to stop Cheryl, although one hand slipped under Cheryl's shirt, presumably to get her bra off and to 'accidentally' throw it at Malory's face. Cheryl made that squeaky sound again, although this time, it sounded like something halfway a giggle.
Malory concluded Cheryl probably wasn't wearing any panties. The absence of a bra would have been too noticeable, even if it would have explained the giggle.
She rose from her chair slowly. Lana looked at her but was smart enough not to point out there hadn't been a third participant when it'd been her and Pam (or had there been? Malory wondered); Cheryl was probably too far gone to notice a second pair of hands on her, hands that were not at all manly.
Things were going quite well, really, until her desk started to creak.